McCoy found T'Phol in the alcove, wrapped in a cloak and perched on one of the three narrow viewport ledges staring into warp space. Cassady was seated at the desk working on his tablet, periodically checking something on the terminal. McCoy peered over his shoulder. Cassady leaned aside.
"Mister Scott installed the air filter late last night," he said. "So far it's working great. See? No particle escape at all. But just in case, there's a vapor barrier on his door and negative flow, too."
McCoy rocked back on his heels. "Has either one been out today?"
"No, Sir. Quiet as can be. The new protocol is each duty shift will call by intercom to make sure they are still alive or if anything is needed." He looked up at McCoy in mock alarm. "You're not planning to check on them yourself are you, Doc?"
McCoy cursed, causing Cassady to laugh and T'Phol to look in his direction, eyebrow raised.
"Seriously, it's good to see you're recovering," Cassady added. "It was not funny at all."
"No, it wasn't," McCoy agreed. "I never expected to engage in chemical warfare on the guest deck. But it appears I will survive to fight another day."
He walked over to the long narrow viewing port, leaning against the frame. The view was mostly black, with occasional bursts and streaks of light.
"I think the view's prettier when we're out of warp drive," he said. "Then you can see the stars."
"It looks surreal," T'Phol said. She rested her fingers against the transparent aluminum. "I thought it would be cold. But it is only cool."
"There are lots of insulating layers between us and the cold. But it's out there."
"I am not sure I like it. But it is oddly compelling." She shivered, turning away from the window. "You do look better."
"I had another treatment," he admitted. "It helped quite a bit. Are you ready for our tour?"
'Yes. Cass says Mister Scott is expecting us any time. He has forwarded the stage schematics to engineering already." She pointed at the monitor still on his wrist. "Is there still some concern?"
"No, just an over-abundance of caution. Chapel is making me carry the epi, too. Plus they pumped me full of drugs. They are getting entirely too much satisfaction out of this."
"Nurse Chapel said you are a horrible patient. So did Captain Kirk."
"They are exaggerating. Shall we go? You'll be glad you're wrapped up, engineering is cold."
Scott met them as they entered the tall and spacious main engineering deck. He took McCoy's hand in both of his and shook it fervidly. "Glad to see yer out and about, Len. I saw the final toxicology report a bit ago. Some foul buggers in that stew for sure. But the nasty things will nae bother us again, the filter will take care of that." Then he turned to T'Phol. "Welcome to my department, Miss Grayson. Let me show you around, and then we'll have a look at yer plans."
Scott showed off his immaculate department, the engineering core and the dilithium crystal array, pointing out various features and improvements as they walked around the deck area.
The low hum of the warp drive permeated every plate. T'Phol could feel it through the soles of her feet and almost see it in the air. They concluded their tour at Scott's office. She turned to him. "Your ship sings to you, Mister Scott," she said. "I am sure you can hear her."
"Aye, Lassie. That I can," he said, his eyes growing a little misty. "Yer able to hear it, too?"
"Yes, I feel it. Right now the underlying note is a low B flat on a piano key. Does it change with speed?"
'Aye, and with intermix ratio. But no one has ever put a name on it. I think of it as being pipes rather than piano."
"Do you play the bagpipes?"
Scott blushed. "Just as a hobby. I have a Highland set that belonged to my Great Granda Scott."
"Music as a hobby is a laudable endeavor, Mister Scott. Do not apologize for it," T'Phol replied. "Uhura plays lyre. Spock lyre and piano. You do bagpipes. Doctor McCoy sings. I am sure there are many others with musical talent on board. Someone should organize a show so the crew members can share these abilities."
Scott glanced at McCoy, a little puzzled. "Have ye been singing?"
"I just sing in the shower. Uhura sings for real," McCoy said. "She has a crazy range."
Scott waved them into his office and pulled up the stage plans. He and T'Phol bent over the screen for a few minutes, adjusting a few things to fit either aesthetics or physical dimensions of the space.
"How long will the modifications take to complete?" T'Phol asked, straightening from the monitor.
"Three hours, tops. I can have it ready any time. We already have the baffles replicated."
"We are three days out from Nu Aminta II. Do you think we could plan the concert for tomorrow evening? And can the piano be in place by early afternoon?"
"Aye, that we can. Pending word from the captain, I can have it ready before lunch tomorrow. I have something else to show you." Scott opened a drawer and removed a small object. It was about the size of a golf ball, black with small protrusions that looked almost like fins.
"Is that a radi-drone?" McCoy asked. "It looks different."
"Aye, it is, and it is different. I modified this one to hold a camera instead of a sensor. Watch."
Scott pushed an almost hidden button. A door slid back, revealing a tiny lens. He turned to T'Phol. "Here, Lassie, hold out yer hand." He placed it on her outstretched palm, reaching for the PADD on his desk. He made a few adjustments with the stylus and nodded to her. "All right, here we go."
The sphere rose silently, turned on its axis, and then circled the three of them before rising above their heads and skirting the circumference of the room. It then descended and hovered in front of Scott, who gently plucked it from the air and turned it off.
"Amazing, Mister Scott," T'Phol said. "How does it work?"
"Call me Scotty, girl. New and old technology. Nano anti-grav and ion propulsion on a micro scale. It is programmed by remote control. Here is the result." He turned the screen toward them, and played back the flight video. "We use these things to take close sensor readings or obtain samples where it is too dangerous for a person to go. I thought we could use it in yer concert. I just input this flight a minute ago, so it was crudely done. The result will be much better in actual use with decent programming."
"I have appeared in front of many cameras, but this will be my first experience with floating video."
"We will also have the deck recorders, but they are nae too exciting. Yer show will be broadcast ship-wide on speakers and monitor screens."
"A captive audience." T'Phol's eyes glinted.
"Aye, but a willing one."
"Thank you, Scotty, for spending a great deal of time and effort on this project."
"My pleasure," Scott beamed. "But we are thanking you. We dinnae often get live entertainment on board."
"I shall check with you tomorrow morning."
"That should be fine. We'll start building the stage after first mess."
"We are on the way to the bridge," McCoy said. "I'll remind Jim to give you a call to get things in motion."
"Aye," Scott replied. "Tomorrow then."
The bridge was calm when they stepped from the lift doors. Uhura greeted them and Kirk swung around in his center seat.
"Bones. Good to see you." He nodded to T'Phol. "Miss Grayson. I see Doctor McCoy is giving you the tour. Welcome to the bridge."
"Thank you, Captain. The Enterprise is remarkable."
"Yes, she is," Kirk said. "The finest ship and crew in the Fleet. I hope you are having a pleasant journey." He looked at McCoy. "How are you, Bones? Recovering?"
"Yeah. Almost like new." He stepped down and stood beside Kirk's chair in his customary place. Uhura smiled and motioned T'Phol over to her communications console, removing the receiver from her ear.
"Did Scotty show you the plans?" she asked.
"Yes. We just came from engineering. He hopes to install in the morning with the concert tomorrow evening, pending executive approval. If you are free later, perhaps you can come to my quarters and we can discuss the program. If you will bring your lyre we can also make time for a lesson."
"That's a date. I'll see you after seventeen hundred hours."
T'Phol looked at the viewscreen, stars flying by. "The view is spectacular."
Kirk heard her and swiveled, a sudden smile on display. "I never get tired of it myself, even if it is computer generated." He rose and walked over to the rail. "Bones says you want to do the concert tomorrow. I'll give Scotty the word. You and Uhura work out the details and I'll have them posted for the crew."
T'Phol nodded. "We will have that ready for you this evening."
Kirk leaned on the railing toward T'Phol and jerked a thumb toward McCoy. "Thank you for looking out for him," he said quietly. "He needs that sometimes. He won't admit it."
"He's also not deaf," McCoy said, resting a hand on Kirk's shoulder. "Enough of that." The captain caught a glimpse of a smile and knew he was good despite his grousing. McCoy's real smile had been less than frequent lately, so it also made Kirk feel good to see one. He grinned back at McCoy.
"I guess we have plenty to do, so maybe we should be at it. See ya, Jim." McCoy moved toward the turbolift, followed by T'Phol. She turned and bowed slightly to Kirk. He nodded back.
"Miss Grayson, Bones. I'll catch you later." McCoy tossed him a small wave as the lift doors closed.
T'Phol looked at McCoy with some amusement. "The captain calls you Bones?"
He rolled his eyes. "He's done that since we met. He's the only one allowed, though. It's short for Sawbones, which is what the job of surgeon used to be several hundred years ago. Cutting off gangrenous limbs and hoping the patient survived. Occasionally they did."
"Gruesome."
"Yes." McCoy sighed. "I have some work to finish in my office. Would you like to come with me? I shouldn't be long. Nurse Chapel is on Alpha shift today. You can keep her distracted from poking me with hypos."
T'Phol hesitated a second, then shook her head. "If you will excuse me, I feel the need for some practice time. Would it be all right if we meet later? Would you like to have supper again?"
"All right. Supper is fine. Let me escort you back to your quarters." The lift deposited them near the guest wing alcove and McCoy walked her to her room. Cass looked up briefly, then back at his tablet, evidently used to seeing them come and go together.
"I'll be back later," he said. "Let Cass know if you need me before then."
"Thank you." She palmed the door and it slid open. He watched the door close behind her, then retreated down the corridor.
Chapel was nowhere to be seen and M'Benga was in the treatment room when McCoy arrived at Sickbay. McCoy tried to slip unobtrusively into his office, but M'Benga heard him and intercepted, scanner in hand.
"How are you feeling, Leonard?" The scanner whirred into life.
"I'm sure you're gonna tell me," McCoy grumbled.
M'Benga laughed, a deep breathy chortle as he studied the readings. He looked at McCoy and nodded. "Actually, things have improved a great deal since this morning. Edema is almost resolved. Assuming you continue to improve, we might just need one more breathing treatment either tonight or tomorrow."
"Good," McCoy huffed. "I've had a headache most of the day."
M'Benga slipped the scanner in his lab coat pocket. "Why didn't you take something and sleep it off?"
"I have things to do. We are getting ready for the concert tomorrow."
"Ah. While you were supposed to be resting. In fact, why are you here now? I seem to recall taking you off duty for today."
"I'm better. I thought I'd finish some paperwork."
"It can wait until tomorrow." M'Benga folded his arms.
McCoy glared ineffectively. M'Benga was like a still, immovable, calm surface, one where unwarranted dissension simply slid off without adhering. His ordered and quiet personality was in sharp contrast to his chief's irascible and gruff exterior. Balanced by Sanchez's unflagging good humor, McCoy was certain they comprised three parts of the best medical crew anywhere, in Starfleet or out. He sighed. Geoff M'Benga would not be intimidated.
M'Benga realized he had won, so he redirected the conversation.
"You say there will be a concert tomorrow?"
"That's what we're working up now," McCoy said. "Tomorrow evening in the main mess. Scotty is building a stage. T'Phol and Uhura are planning the particulars tonight."
M'Benga studied McCoy's face impassively. 'I am glad to see your enthusiasm for the project," he said carefully. " How are you and T'Phol getting on? I hope I wasn't remiss in suggesting she might sit with you for a while last night."
"No. It was all right. It worked out fine." McCoy was also careful in his reply.
"Good. I'll look forward to the concert." M'Benga paused. Finally he said, "If you feel wheezy, come by before bed and get another treatment. Otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow."
McCoy had an idea that was not what M'Benga had started to say at all, but he let it drop. So instead of working in his office he went back to his quarters. He stretched out on his bed, thinking he might have a quick nap. His mind refused to cooperate with his intentions, and the headache that had hung on the fringes all day was threatening to emerge with potency. He found himself mulling over the nature of compulsion, and how closely it could be tied with obsession. He thought about a child being constrained toward a goal through pernicious design. As a physician, he had seen all sorts of injuries that people afflicted upon one another, both physical and mental. It seemed to him the most horrifying and evil of all must be the betrayal of a child by a parent.
His own childhood seemed quaint and uneventful by comparison. He had grown up in an extended family near Conyers, Georgia. David and Ellen McCoy had been quiet, hard working people, and although neither was particularly demonstrative they were both proud of their only child, who came to them late in life. McCoy thought his parents were often puzzled by the son who was so unlike either of them. The three of them shared the family farmhouse with his father's grandpa, John McCoy, and David's mother, Lydie Casey McCoy. Lydie's husband, John Junior, had been killed in an accident before Leonard was born, but he remembered his Great-Grandpa very well. John Senior was an Old Southern Baptist preacher cut from ancient cloth, a purveyor of Hellfire and Brimstone, a relic in a time of much more refined and subtle spiritual leanings. McCoy had been both frightened and fascinated by Grandpa John. They shared the same startling blue eyes and thick brown hair that offered hints of red in the sunshine, and they both blushed easily, but the preacher had been a stout, burly man in his youth and his great-grandson had always been small and thin. Common coloring and the tendency toward dissension were the only things they shared. Leonard was an early reader, intellectually advanced beyond his age, a dreamer, thoughtful, questioning, and somewhat argumentative as well. Neither the old man nor the young boy refrained from expressing their respective opinions, resulting in disagreements which often turned into arguments ending with declarations of despotism and tyranny, blasphemy and eternal damnation. These outbursts were often accompanied by tears from both the participants and bystanders. John insisted the family attend church on Sundays, a requirement that Leonard resented mightily. Their ongoing conflict resulted in Sunday mornings that were filled with rebellion, discord, and strife. Grandpa John died when McCoy was nine. He remembered being torn over how he should have felt about that, so his undeniable feeling of relief was heavily colored by guilt. His life became less combative and more tranquil, and he could skip the dreaded weekly church ordeal, but in some perverse way he missed their animated and angry confrontations.
His father was a quiet, reserved man who yearned for simplicity and tended to be distant and introspective. He was a wood worker and furniture maker, a good one whose work was constantly in demand. He had a workshop, large, well ordered, and staffed with several assistants where he turned out pieces with beautifully rendered craftsmanship. David McCoy marveled at his precocious and outspoken son who could read by age three and who observed, questioned and formed opinions on everything. Not particularly well read himself, he made sure there were plenty of books in the home to feed his son's thirst. He was much more at home being outdoors, so he took Leonard fishing, hiking, and camping, and they bonded over frying fish and wood smoke. He would have taken the boy bow hunting as well but Leonard flatly refused to harm another creature, a view bolstered by his mother's opposition to hunting.
Ellen McCoy was gentle and soft spoken, a shy woman, almost withdrawn, who eschewed social gatherings and never discussed her personal feelings aloud. McCoy could not remember hearing her voice ever raised in anger, even when her husband brought wild game to the table. Her great passion was animals. A veterinarian herself, she worked with a local clinic and helped with rehabilitating wild things. There was a constant parade of creatures through their home, motherless babies to hand feed and birds and various beasts who needed mending. By the time he was ten, Leonard could splint broken wings, clean wounds, and apply dressings with skill. She also kept pets of her own. They always had a dog or two, and a chicken coop. The barn had a small colony of rescued semi-feral cats, spayed and neutered, housed and fed, but not too approachable. The house had a portly tuxedo cat named Grady who lived to ancient old age. The barn also housed two paint riding horses, Rhett and Scarlett, Annabelle Lee, the bay mule who thought she was a dog, and Shadowfax, a fat, dappled grey pony.
He loved his parents, but his special person was always Grandma Lydie. Descended distantly from the Cherokee Tribe, she was a product of rural Appalachia, strong and steady like the mountains she always considered her home, grounded in who she was, as outgoing and loquacious as his parents were reticent and quiet. He had her build, they were both thin and wiry but deceptively strong. She had sparkling grey eyes, a shock of silver hair shot with black, and a throaty voice. She laughed often. Plain spoken, sharp witted, and quick tempered, especially when confronted with injustice, cruelty, or oppression, she was the only one of the family excused from the compulsory church attendance. He could not imagine the battles she must have waged against her father-in-law to achieve her religious autonomy. An avowed humanist, she protected Leonard from the bulk of Grandpa John's pious wrath. He learned to read sitting on her lap. They often spent time at her childhood home, an isolated and self-sufficient cabin in the North Carolina mountains, learning and celebrating the diversity of the region. She knew which mushrooms were edible, and which plants had medicinal properties. Lydie was a fine artist who taught him to draw and helped collect and categorize rocks, leaves, and bugs. They both kept a sketchbook of their mountain outings. At home they worked in the garden tending vegetables, flowers, and her favorite roses. Grandma cleaned and prepared the game that her son brought in from time to time. She taught Leonard how to cook, insisting a good man should know his way around the kitchen. She poked holes in jar lids for collecting lightning bugs and lay on blankets under the stars watching meteor showers with her grandson. They took the tram into Atlanta and visited museums, saw concerts and plays, and did city things. She encouraged his interest in science and biology and advocated for his parents' approval to attend the University of Mississippi as a pre-med student when he was barely sixteen.
Grandma Lydie saw him graduate from college and knew he had been accepted to medical school at Ole Miss, Johns Hopkins, and Emory. She died before he made the decision to attend Johns Hopkins. She fell in her garden, dead before she hit the ground, the victim of an massive brain aneurysm. She was a hundred and four.
He realized he was twisting the ring he wore on his left hand little finger as he thought about Grandma Lydie. She wore it as a wedding ring. The blue stone was the same color as his eyes. During life, he never saw her hand without it. After she passed, his Daddy handed him a package with a few mementos, a couple of her sketchbooks, her favorite cookbook, and her ring. He had bawled like a baby, but in private. He wore her ring. Her other things were packed in his bedroom at the farm.
McCoy had not considered his childhood as being either Arcadian or difficult. In the rural South things could move at a slower pace, and the moderateness suited the dreamer in him. Although precocious and smart, he was not a prodigy. Learning came easily, he did not have to put in a lot of effort through elementary and high school. After skipping a couple of grades, he was always the youngest in his class. In his school of about two hundred students, he was neither ostracized nor in the wildly popular group. His teachers liked him because he was polite and well behaved, a good pupil, and although he could be disputatious his arguments were well thought out, reasoned and never vindictive. The debate team was a natural fit, and he served as its captain for three years in high school. With his quick reflexes and lean, unforced athleticism, he played shortstop on the school's baseball team. He sang in the chorus, learned guitar, had a couple of good friends, Aaron and Robby, and plenty of time to do nothing and everything. He spent a lot of time working and playing with the animals and exploring in the woods. He read a lot, practiced guitar, and kept a sketchbook, all solitary pastimes. He supposed he had grown up largely alone, but never thought of himself as being lonely until he reached adulthood and experienced grown-up betrayal, sorrow, and loss. T'Phol's dispassionate account of a displaced and forfeited childhood disturbed him on many levels and made him ache with a deprivation that wasn't his own. He resolved anew never to forget the value of simple things which seemed ordinary and unexceptional until they weren't there.
