Innocent Bystander By: M. C. Pehrson

He could feel the hair prickling on the back of his neck as the phaser nudged his spine a bit harder. Of all the rotten situations in which to find himself, this one took the prize.

The menacing voice at his ear said, "Now when I say 'jump', you better the hell jump."

McCoy stood a mere foot from the ever-shifting images displayed in the Guardian's portal of living history. Last time through that thing, he had been out of his head from an accidental overdose of cordrazine. But now he was in his right mind, and slipping into the past with a maniac did not seem at all appealing.

How had it come down to this? Someone involved with the project must have opened his or her big mouth, and he'd like to get his hands on that individual. A barfly with too much to drink? Surely no one in their right mind would deliberately break security with so much at stake, but somehow this determined, phaser-wielding fellow had learned about the recent happenings here and snatched McCoy from shore leave. Next thing he knew, they were whizzing along in one of those little diplomatic couriers—only this was no diplomat behind him, even if Morgan (so he called himself) looked like a paper-pusher with his buffed nails and meticulously trimmed goatee.

McCoy had been chosen for this delightful privilege mainly because of his security clearance. Having already been through the time portal, he was one of the select few people allowed anywhere near this desolate planet. Once they arrived, cleverly forged orders had helped Morgan beam down, as well, whereupon he promptly phaser-stunned his way through security and disabled the portal's force field. Yes siree, he certainly knew his business.

The wind howled eerily as McCoy gripped his medikit's shoulder strap. He felt overdressed in the greenish uniform Morgan had provided for him. They were both clothed as United States Army officers from the bygone era that was their intended destination. McCoy knew where they were going and he knew what Morgan wanted from him—to save the life of someone who, in the natural order of things, had died of cancer. But why?

"Look," McCoy said, on the verge of panic, "if you're such a student of history, you ought to know how dangerous it is to try and change it. Something like this could affect millions. And for the record, that also includes you and me."

"Selfish attitude," Morgan snapped. "Now get ready…set…go!"

A violent shove sent McCoy tripping straight through the lopsided portal. He landed face-down on a stretch of very hot pavement and picked himself up in a hurry. They were standing in a parking lot on a sunny day, and judging by the abundance of antique combustion-engine automobiles, they had arrived as planned in the mid-1950's, Gregorian calendar.

Fort McPherson, East Point, read a sign across the way. McCoy had never heard of the base, but he knew that East Point was on the southwest edge of Atlanta, Georgia. His old stomping grounds had never looked quite so old. It made him very homesick for that distant future where he belonged. Right now, the starship Enterprise was nothing more than some science fiction writer's dream. And if Morgan had his way, that ship and the friends aboard it might never exist.

"It's not too late," McCoy said to him. "If we go back right now…"

"No!" Morgan slipped the phaser into the pocket of his uniform coat, but kept a cautionary hand on it. "One false move," he warned. "Come on, we'll need transportation."

They found something called a Ford Fairlane with antique keys in the ignition, and just like that, they were heading to the base hospital with only a minimum of lurching. Obviously Morgan knew something about these old clutches and he knew his way around Fort McPherson, too. In a matter of minutes they were riding an elevator to a second floor room where a deathly ill patient lay with tubes running in and out of her body.

McCoy looked at the needle planted in her bruised wrist, and his nervous stomach nearly gave up its last meal. Then his physician's instinct kicked in and he drew out a medscanner to diagnose the poor woman.

"Widespread cancer. Terminal, in this time period."

"She's the one," Morgan said. "Fix her." The phaser came out in full view and he set it to killing force.

Now, McCoy had been prepared to sacrifice his life rather than interfere with all of history, but in the eleventh hour he had come up with a more agreeable solution. But before he could carry out his plan, the door opened and Morgan's phaser whipped out of sight. A white-clad woman entered the room. Judging by her boxy traditional cap, McCoy figured that she was a nurse.

Morgan casually said to her, "This is Doctor McCoy. He's here as a consulting physician."

The nurse looked them over and nodded. "Doctor. Have you seen her chart?"

"Yes," McCoy lied. "A most unfortunate case."

The nurse checked a bottle containing intravenous fluids, then another one collecting the patient's urine. Input and output. Twentieth century medicine at its best.

With a brief smile, the nurse left them.

"Now," Morgan said.

Slowly McCoy reached into his pouch and drew out a sprayhypo. Aboard ship, Morgan had made absolutely sure that it contained only the proper drug—red as beets and deadly to every known cancer cell. But in the brief confusion at the Guardian base, McCoy had secretly expelled it and reloaded the ampule with his own O-negative blood, which could be safely donated to any human. By looking close, one would notice the difference in viscosity, but Morgan's attention was divided between McCoy and the door.

As McCoy placed the sprayhypo to the patient's wasted arm, her eyes briefly opened—blue as the Georgia sky and weary with suffering. His heart twisted with regret. Had the ampule been properly loaded, he would have been tempted to restore her health. But at what price? Steeling himself, he pressed the trigger and the fluid drained from the ampule with a hiss.

"I hope you're satisfied," he said with a convincing glare at his captor.

Morgan looked as if a great weight had just lifted from his shoulders. "Thank you, Doctor. This woman's research was hot on the trail of that wonder drug you just injected. Everyone called her a fool and they crowed even louder when she died of cancer. Well, they won't be crowing now. Once she finds that cure, they'll be beating a path to her door."

My God, McCoy thought as he slipped the sprayhypo back into his pouch. That bit of information certainly put things in a different light—but now was not the time to ponder it. The Guardian of Forever sensed when a journey was at an end. Its portal would appear as soon as they verbalized their intention. One fateful step and they would be back in the future. Perhaps Morgan would then phaser McCoy out of existence, but he did not seem to be the killing sort. To the contrary, he was absolutely obsessed with saving lives—at least when it came to cancer.

They were about to summon the Guardian when the door opened for a second time. A frowning physician in a white smock entered with two MP's bearing holstered sidearms.

McCoy's heart rate promptly doubled.

"Captain McCoy," he read from their nameplates, "Captain Morgan. There's been no request for a consultation on this case. In fact, the patient's family specifically ordered only palliative care."

McCoy glanced at Morgan and saw his hand inching toward the pocket where his phaser was hidden. Set to kill.

Clearing his throat, McCoy assumed his best southern drawl. "Then, suh, there must be some mistake…but nevahmind, we were just leavin'." And he pleasantly added, "Nice hospital you have heah. Real nice."

Fully expecting to be detained, he headed for the door, but the three men made way. The sharp-eyed MP's escorted them to the parking lot, where one of the dedicated fellows jotted the Ford's rear license number on a pad of paper. With a sense of impending doom, McCoy sank into the passenger side of the car's bench seat and closed the door.

Morgan started the engine. With only a slight grinding of gears, he backed out of the parking space and said, "This might get interesting now."

"Now?" McCoy sputtered. Personally, the whole damn week had been plenty interesting already, and here they were, driving off in a stolen vehicle. "I hope to God no one's reported this thing missing."

They had barely hit the street when a siren rang out. Sure enough, there was a patrol car in the rear view mirror, heading their way—fast.

Morgan whipped around a truck and pressed the accelerator pedal until the engine roared. There were no safety belts in that old Ford. McCoy braced himself as best he could, legs splayed against the floorboard, white-knuckled hands gripping anything available as Morgan ran red lights and skidded those rubbery tires around the corners. They survived a dozen close calls and were steadily distancing themselves from the police when Morgan yanked the steering wheel, hurtling them straight down an alley. Morgan stomped on the gas. They were a Detroit-steel torpedo streaking toward their doom.

McCoy glimpsed some cross-traffic on the street ahead—closer, closer, and Morgan seemed to have no intention of slowing as the alley came to an abrupt end. Once again Morgan jerked at the steering and they skidded sideways onto the road. Horns blasted. Horrified, McCoy saw a male pedestrian in the car's path. The impact knocked him to the pavement and he went under the wheels – twice. Morgan hit the brake, but the damage was already done. Fearing what he would find, McCoy opened the car door and rushed over to the fallen soldier.

The pitifully young, dark-haired sergeant lay twisted and broken. He was not bleeding much and McCoy did not need a medscanner to tell him why, but he used it on the boy anyway.

Morgan came running up and said, "Do something for him!"

"What do you suggest?" McCoy lashed out. "There's nothing of use in this pouch of yours, and I couldn't save him, regardless. He's gone, do you understand? An innocent bystander—dead!"

The car's impact had knocked the soldier's I.D. tags into view. McCoy leaned down, and reading the name, knew he would never forget it for as long as he lived.

A shrieking police siren got him to his feet. People were starting to gather.

"This way," Morgan said, tugging him into the relative concealment of the alleyway.

If anyone saw the Guardian's portal, it was not visible for long. McCoy needed no one to push him as he leaped back into his own era. He was relieved to find the portal guards still lying about, stunned. They had not disappeared from existence—a very good sign.

"You're on your own," Morgan said, and drawing out a communicator, beamed straight up to his ship.

McCoy went limp with relief; so he would survive, after all. In the barren twilight world he went from body to body, waving his medscanner over the limp forms. They would also live to talk about this, unlike that young soldier Morgan ran down. How strange it all seemed. Only moments earlier, McCoy had watched him die—yet from this perspective he had been dead for centuries.

The relentless wind moaned as he went in search of the compound's subspace radio.

oooo

"Bones, quit fretting," Kirk said, stretching his legs out in front of him.

It was after hours in the captain's quarters and they were relaxing over a drink. Spock was there, too—although even off-duty, the unemotional Vulcan never seemed very relaxed, and his beverage of choice was Altair water.

"You foiled Morgan's plans," Kirk pointed out, "and he's already been arrested. As the saying goes, 'all's well that ends well'."

Quietly Spock said, "A man was killed. No life is inconsequential."

For once McCoy agreed with him, though he was not about to admit it.

"Yes," Kirk said, "the loss of life was unfortunate, but it doesn't seem to have made any difference to our timeframe…at least not that we can tell."

McCoy leaned forward in his chair. "Exactly. How would you know? How would any of us recognize the changes if we're an integral part of that change?"

"The doctor's point is quite valid," Spock remarked.

Now this was getting downright peculiar. Since when had the two of them found common ground on even one issue, let alone two? Perhaps there had been a change, after all.

Gazing into his bourbon, McCoy softly said, "I can't get that young sergeant out of my mind. He was wearing some kind of military I.D. tags, and I read them." His eyes rose to his friends. "It's downright weird, but that kid had my name."

Spock's eyebrow climbed. "McCoy?"

"No, not McCoy, though it had the same sort of ending. It was his first name. It read 'Nimoy, Leonard S'."

ooooooo

5