Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [6]
McCoy harrumphed in satisfaction.
“Of course,” Gibbs continued, “in other situations, initiating interpersonal contact breaks a strong taboo and has serious social repercussions.”
McCoy cursed under his breath, realizing where the conversation would soon be going. Megipanthos was the first to speak.
“We could develop a computer program,” the director suggested. “Then try to extrapolate from our existing data base of Stugg interpersonal social conventions.”
“Allowing us to project possible outcomes of initiating contact,” Carmen added.
“Exactly,” Megipanthos told her. “Of course, the findings would not be conclusive, but they would give us a clearly defined set of options—something to talk about, at least.”
Just what we need, thought McCoy. Something to talk about.
This time he groaned out loud. How much more of this could he take? How much, in fact, could anyone take?
The next twenty minutes of the meeting focused on how to formulate the computer program, with a digression into the issue of whether the creation of the Stugg cultural data base would constitute a breach of the Stugg’s privacy—considering that they may or may not have invoked the Prime Directive. Everyone at the meeting finally agreed that privacy was probably not an issue, but the legal affairs and cultural anthropology people agreed to assign staff to research the issue anyway.
McCoy couldn’t be sure where the conversation went from there, because when steep threatened to take him a third time, he didn’t fight it. He embraced it with open arms.
A light tap was all that was required to rouse the admiral from his nap. When he opened his eyes, he saw Captain Drake’s slightly embarrassed face hovering over him.
McCoy was used to the look, but didn’t feel any embarrassment himself. If he needed or wanted to sleep, he’d damned well do it. At his age, he had learned to listen carefully to his body’s whims.
“Admiral,” said Drake, “there’s a Priority One message for you from Starfleet Command.”
McCoy felt a chill. Someone’s died, he thought.
“You can take it in my ready room,” Drake offered.
“Thanks,” McCoy grunted automatically.
As he got up, he noticed for the first time how painfully silent the room had become. No one was talking—they were too busy looking at him.
“As you were,” he told them. “Don’t stop on my account.”
Exiting the conference room, the admiral couldn’t shake his sense of dread. One of the few regrets he had on reaching 145 was that he’d lived to see so many friends kick the bucket.
Through the years, he’d received “the call” more times than he wanted to remember. He had developed a peculiar sixth sense about it—an ability to recognize it with uncanny accuracy.
Now, as he crossed the bridge escorted by Captain Drake, he didn’t permit himself to think about who it might be. Still, the feeling of horror was stronger than it had been in the past.
Whatever the message was about, he didn’t want to hear it. Yet, at the same time, he couldn’t turn away.
Entering the captain’s ready room, he allowed himself to be guided around Drake’s desk.
“Please sit down, Admiral,” the captain said softly.
“No,” McCoy said simply. “Thanks,” he added as an afterthought. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stand.”
Drake nodded. “If you need me, I’ll be on the bridge,” he said. Then he left the room.
McCoy paused only for a moment to put his hands down on the desk in front of him. He could feel the familiar tremor in his arms as they helped to support his weight.
“Computer,” he said, “please relay message for McCoy, Leonard H., Admiral, to this station.”
Without delay, the small screen in front of him produced an image of Admiral Keaton. Keaton was highly placed in Starfleet security and posted to Command headquarters on Earth. The fact that she was relaying the information personally told McCoy that whatever the message was, it was important,
“Admiral McCoy,” she said curtly.
McCoy responded with a nod. “Admiral Keaton.