Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [72]
Before Kirk could answer, if he was even going to, the door slid open and Leonard McCoy strode boldly in, without beeping for permission. Kirk didn’t seem to mind.
“I thought you’d be down here, Captain,” McCoy said. “When they told me you’d left the bridge under these conditions, I didn’t believe it.”
“It’s better for the crew,” Kirk told him. “They already feel as if they’re wearing anchors. Nine hours … why doesn’t he move?”
“Maybe he’s not out there at all,” the doctor offered, leaning back against the doorframe. “Maybe you’ve destroyed him without even knowing it. Or he might’ve gotten away. In which case, Captain, we’re sitting here in violation of the treaty.”
James T. Kirk, the legendary rakehell of Starfleet, the man most revered and also most mocked by cadets, the shipmaster’s shipmaster, now sat here in a puddle of sorrow, looking about as spirited as a wet rug. Anyone who thought James Kirk could not be wearied, would never be parried by turbulence, had never seen him like this. For Picard this was a kind of revelation. The man was simply completely different than he had been on the bridge.
Kirk’s airbrushed brows were flat now, drawn. His eyes were rounded with hurt, not at all like the slim weapons they had been on the bridge. As Picard watched, he saw before him a man who was his own tragic flaw.
“Why me …” the young captain murmured. He looked up beseechingly at Doctor McCoy. “I look around that bridge … and I see the men are waiting for me to make the next move … and, Bones … what if I’m wrong?”
Silence dropped instantly over those words like a muffler, for there was no good answer, certainly no right one.
Boxed in, McCoy licked his lips and began, “Captain, I—”
Kirk stood up abruptly. “No—I don’t really expect an answer.”
But the doctor caught him by the shoulder as Kirk tried to slip past. “Well, I’ve got one. Something I rarely say to a ‘customer,’ Jim. In this galaxy, there’s a mathematical probability of three million Earth-type planets. In all the universe, three million million galaxies like this. And in all of that, and perhaps more, only one of each of us.”
Now the doctor turned his head but didn’t quite look directly at his captain.
“Don’t destroy the one named ‘Kirk,’ ” he added solemnly.
In silent appreciation, Kirk did not answer. He gave a small grin of thanks, slipped out from under the doctor’s hand, and disappeared into the corridor.
Even though Kirk had gone, Picard remained here in the captain’s quarters, and found himself gazing thoughtfully at McCoy. The ship’s surgeon didn’t leave right away, but instead leaned on the doorframe another few moments, seeming to wish there’d been a better thing to say. His expression was still troubled, though he’d done all he could be expected to do under the circumstances. There really wasn’t an answer.
“I wonder what you meant by that,” Picard said, stepping to the doctor’s side, in almost the same spot Kirk had stood. “Did you mean ‘destroy’ as in not letting himself be killed? No, there must be more to it. You must mean destroying his inner resolve with those doubts. That’s what I would’ve meant if I’d said that to him at this moment …”
Leonard McCoy made no response, no acknowledgement that Picard was here. He merely gazed at nothing, his eyes full of regret that he had no bandages for the soul. Of course, Leonard McCoy hadn’t participated in the creation of these holodeck programs, so no one knew his particular thoughts. That was just as well—something had to be left to the imagination, didn’t it?
McCoy sighed, almost as though agreeing, blinked sadly, looked at the deck carpet, then pushed off the wall and turned out of the quarters.
Picard almost sat down, almost stayed here, as if he instead of Kirk were the captain today. Strange how at home he felt here. Very strange. Was there another universe somewhere? Were there Cardassians and MIA’s and Rikers and Datas?