What's Past_ The Future Begins (Book 2) - Michael Schuster [22]
“And the office?” he asked.
“Is closed until further notice. Rank hath its privileges, you should know that by now. It’s not like I’m actually responsible for running the place—Yerbi does that, even if everything would fall apart without me. And after all I’ve done for him, he can’t deny an old fart like me a little pleasure. Look at me, I’m older’n Sarek was when I met him for the first time. Every day I am surprised that I’m still alive. I take it you know the feeling?”
Scotty only nodded.
“The Krung Thep office, which you tried to contact without success, is closed because I took my staff with me. They’re hard workers, and they deserve to have some fun now and then.”
“But—”
“But me no buts, Scotty. I’m an admiral; I can damned well do as I please.”
Admiral. The rank that Jim Kirk had never wanted to have—because it brought power with it, both political and military, and, as everybody knew, power corrupted. Even McCoy wasn’t immune to its effects.
“So, hurry up, old-timer. What is it that you want from me?”
Scotty pretended not to have heard the bit about the “old-timer.” “I just wanted to have a nice, quiet conversation with an old friend of mine, but I realize this is a bad moment…”
“That’s right. I’ve only got a few more minutes before they drag me onto the stage. I really have no time to talk now. Later, maybe, but not now.”
“I understand, Len. Have a nice day.”
“I’ll make sure that I do. Good-bye, Scotty, and behave yourself. That’s an order.”
“Aye, Admiral.” As the line was cut, Scotty leaned back in his chair and sighed. McCoy was much too busy for his own good. A man his age—and McCoy had aged the old-fashioned way, without tricking Time—should slow down a bit. Relax. Enjoy life. Not necessarily sit on his bum all day long, but at the same time not ask more of himself than his body was willing to give.
It hurt Scotty to look at his fragile friend, his extremities supported by a duritanium and plasteel framework, not dissimilar to those worn by members of species native to low-grav planets. The seventy-five years that had been taken from the engineer had not been overly kind to McCoy, even though the doctor had made use of any and all medical innovations and advantages that had become available to him.
McCoy was probably the best friend Scotty had left—certainly the one he’d spent the most time with since he’d been revived on the Jenolen. Sure, some of his other old shipmates were still around, but most of them kept busy. Uhura still had her Intelligence job, but that meant that she had a lot on her plate, with little time for old shipmates. She was working with others at shaping the fate of the known galaxy, although she herself would most likely never have put it quite so dramatically. Some years ago, he’d even got a call from Chekov, who’d wanted to say hello. Now a desk-jockey admiral, the former security officer had an enormous amount of work, but he’d made some time.
Scotty would contact any of them if he was sure enough that they’d be able to spare an hour for him. Unfortunately, he wasn’t. Not at all.
Grumbling, he switched off the computer terminal and stood up. The truth was, McCoy’s lack of time for him, regardless of his reasons for it, hurt the former engineer. He’d awaited—expected—a jovial talk about the past, some friendly advice, maybe even the promise of an inquiry into the legality of the Kropasar mission. Yet he had received none of this.
So perhaps it’s time I bloody well took matters into my own hands. Why rely on the possiblity of McCoy looking into things—or asking Uhura or Chekov to—when he could do it his own self? He needed to know what he’d done, what he’d caused to come to be, and there was no reason why he couldn’t have a look into the Federation’s xenosociological and xenohistorical databases himself.
Standing there, staring at the display, he was clueless