Space is a small town with very long streets. The saying (coined by a Terran, probably--it has that facile, offhand quality so typical of the species) is nothing more than a worn-out platitude. Which doesn't, of course, alter its fundamental truth. Though interstellar distances are vast, inhabited systems are relatively few; and by the time a spacefarer eliminates worlds populated by pre-FTL civilizations and those inside her own territory or an enemy's, she is left with only a virtual handful of planets, stations, and other natural and artificial habitats worth the energy needed to get there.
In the village that is known space, the neutral world called Argo is a favorite destination of travelers from many sectors. Unlike the other so-called pleasure planets, it offers a tasteful and genteel brand of recreation, and visitors often bring their young children and aged parents to the resorts that dot the planet's major land masses. The prevailing decorum is rigorously enforced: once, when a Federation Starfleet crew, brimming with pent-up energy and accumulated pay, beamed down in search of the usual shore-leave pastimes, their behavior so offended locals and visitors alike that they were banned from Argo for life. Someone even wrote a bawdy song about the incident; I first heard it in a bar on Ennan VI, sung by a drunken Jarad whose accompanying gestures reduced his listeners to spluttering, backslapping hilarity. Though the scandal occurred many decades ago, the story is still told, the song is still sung, and the ban is still in effect. No one, including the former members of the notorious starship's crew, has ever disputed that last fact.
* * *
I had deliberately come to Argo in the off-season for the saunas and hot springs that were most pleasant in the cool, cloudy weather. The hotel I'd chosen was small and rather modest in its amenities, and I was enjoying a tenday of solitary relaxation.
On the fifth night of my vacation I sat in the hotel's lobby, whiling away the half-hour until the dining-room should begin serving dinner. One side-effect of mineral baths, regular sleep, and an absence of responsibility was a sharpened appetite, and I was usually first in the queue at mealtimes.
New guests had been arriving at the hotel all evening--most of them Terrans, most of them old, all of them eccentric in their dress and manner. I supposed that they were residents of some retirement world, in search of a therapeutic holiday. As a group, they seemed cranky and demanding; already several had complained loudly to the concierge about their accommodations. So I wasn't especially surprised to hear a male voice raised in outraged protest from somewhere near the transporter platform behind me.
"And I'm telling you," it rasped in Federation Standard, "my reservation was confirmed! Confirmed, sir! I've got a receipt! I don't care what your records show! That was last century, for godsake! Even your tight-ass governor's gotta forgive and forget sometime--"
The shock of recognition hit me like a physical blow. Time might have roughened Leonard McCoy's vocal cords, but the regional inflection of his Terran upbringing would never change.
I sat perfectly still, willing myself calm. This was exactly what I'd come here to avoid: I'd been certain that on Argo, if nowhere else, history would not rise up to confront me. The Enterprise's crew was banned for life. McCoy will surely be sent away-- The concierge rushed past me, his crown-fin flattened with embarrassment and annoyance. I dared not look over my shoulder to see what was happening; instead, I got up and walked directly to the lift, hoping that the three-way argument between the transporter clerk, the concierge, and McCoy would continue long enough for me to escape unnoticed.
Just as I summoned the lift, however, I heard McCoy's voice rise above the trilling tones of the Argoites. "Commander!" he shouted. "My god! Commander! Wait a second! It's me! Commander!"
Feel nothing. Reveal nothing. I drew in a breath, suppressed an irrational urge to run as fast and as far as I could, and turned towards him.
He hurried over, limping slightly, with the concierge at his heels. For a moment I was sure that I was looking at a stranger. Intellectually, I knew that Terrans aged more quickly than Romulans and other vulcanoid races; after all, their lifespan was little more than half of ours, and their metabolic patterns were dramatically different. But the sight of Leonard McCoy as an old man was something I could never have imagined. The McCoy I had known in the full vigor of his early middle years had become a frail, stooping, white-haired creature who looked older than my own grandfather had when he'd died at the age of two hundred fifty-two. Only the bright blue eyes were as I remembered them.
Evidently I presented an equally astonishing picture. McCoy stared open-mouthed at me for a few seconds. "God help me," he said finally. "It really is you. I knew it was you--" He looked stricken, as if he might faint or be sick.
"It is I," I said gently. Perhaps I can still manage this situation with some grace ...
"Madam, I regret very much the intrusion." The concierge contemplated us from his nearly three-meter height, holding out his webbed hands to me in a gesture of apology. "I will ensure that this unacceptable person is removed at once from you!"
"It's all right," I said. "I know Doctor McCoy."
"Damn straight," said McCoy, regaining some of his composure. "I've known this lady since--well, since one hell of a long time." He narrowed his eyes and stuck out his chin as if to intimidate the Argoite. "And you'd best keep a civil tongue in your scaly head, sir, or I'll badmouth this sorry mudhole from here to Achernar!"
"It's all right," I repeated to the concierge. Looking unconvinced, he bowed reluctantly and glided away. "Come, Doctor," I said. "Let's go to my suite. We're attracting attention." Some of McCoy's cronies, anticipating an all-out row between the human and the Argoite, had gathered around us and were now peering curiously at me.
"Don't pay any attention to 'em," McCoy muttered. "Old farts act like they never saw a good-looking woman before." But he came along willingly enough. When we entered the lift, he touched my arm, as if testing my reality. "God almighty, my heart's poundin' like a Tauran kettledrum. I can't believe it's you. I can't goddamn believe it--"
He continued in that fashion for the few moments it took us to arrive at my suite. After I had managed to settle him more or less comfortably into a chair, he looked up at me hopefully: "Think you could get that finny friend of yours to send down some drinks? I'm feelin' a little green around the gills. So to speak."
"Of course," I said; I was beginning to want a drink myself. I ordered two double brandies, and forestalled the concierge's objections to serving McCoy by instructing him to retain the surplus from a full credit chit. In seconds the drinks appeared in the old-fashioned food dispenser.
McCoy didn't bother to offer any kind of toast; he took a swallow of brandy that half-drained the glass.
"Are you unwell, Doctor?" I asked with genuine concern. His skin was pale and filmed with sweat, and his hands were shaking.
"Oh, I'm just peachy," he muttered. "Seein' a ghost isn't much of a strain on an old man's nervous system."
"I assure you, I'm still present in this plane of existence," I said, smiling a little.
"So you say. Hell, you look real enough, I'll give you that. Matter of fact, you look just like you did when you--well, just like you did then. Better, maybe. Like you've grown up or something."
"It's most kind of you to say so." I think.
"Unbelievable. Vulcanoid metabolism--it's just not fair."
I pushed my hair back from my temple, showing him the streaks of silver. "As you see, Doctor, middle age comes to us all. In my culture, the whitening of hair signifies the gaining of wisdom."
"Then I guess I must be a goddamn genius." He held out an unsteady hand; I hesitated, then took it in mine. His skin was as cool and papery and prominently veined as a trana leaf. I feared that if I exerted even the slightest pressure, I might shatter the fragile bones of his fingers. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with emotion: "I thought I'd never see you again."
"I thought the same."
"After all this time--what are the chances of us running into each other here?"
"Vanishingly small, I should think." I'd been counting on that.
"After they took you away, we thought you'd been--gods, we all thought you were dead!" At my look he added defensively, "What else were we supposed to think? We heard stories about suicides, trials, riots, martial law--we wouldn't have known that much if refugees from the colonies hadn't made it across the Line. That goddamn treaty--all our operatives were kicked out! Nobody could get any information!"
"I know, Doctor. I remember. Please don't distress yourself."
He released my hand and reached for his glass. "Then we started to hear wild stuff. You broke out of prison with a gang of terrorists. You were dealing arms to revolutionaries. You'd hijacked a battlecruiser and were hiding out in the Congeries. Things like that." He paused expectantly, as if hoping that I might confirm at least one of those lurid rumors. When I didn't reply, he went on: "We tried every way we knew to find out what happened to you. Jim called in about a million markers. And Nyota--well, she was pretty much beside herself. Scared shitless for you, for what was gonna happen."
"Believe me, I would have communicated with you and her if I had been able." And with one other ... "Tell me about Professor Uhura and Doctor Chapel," I said, hoping to maintain control of the conversation. "Are they well? Even in the Empire we see their journal articles from time to time."
"They're fine," he said, frowning at me. "Fine. Ny's still teaching at the academy. And now she's heading up the selection committee for the James T. Kirk Memorial Bursary in Command Studies." He spoke the title with grave precision. "Chris just retired from Johns Hopkins last year. Gods, they'd like to know you're alive and safe! Can I tell 'em I've seen you?"
"I'm not in hiding, Doctor." Not literally, at least. "Please greet them for me, and say that I think of them."
"We talk about those old days sometimes," he said. "All the friends we've lost ... Ny and Chris never forgot about you, you know. Nobody ever forgot about you."
We looked at each other in silence for a moment. From the expression on McCoy's face, I judged it best to concentrate on banalities. "Are you here on vacation?" I asked politely.
"Hah." The sound was closer to a breathy wheeze than a laugh. "Rest cure, according to my so-called doctor. My right hip is only a week old. Got talked into comin' here with those geezers from Proxima. Sitz baths, mudpacks, s'posed to be good for what ails you. Didn't think anybody on Argo would remember me after all this time. Gives me an excuse to leave early, anyway."
"Do you live on Proxima now?"
He looked at me as if considering how to reply to that simple question. Finally he set the brandy glass down and leaned forward in his chair: "We haven't seen each for a hundred years, near as dammit. Now, I can believe you want to hear about Ny and Chris. I can even believe you might want to hear about the state of my health. But tryin' to make me believe that you give a flyin' --that you care about where I live is a pretty poor diversionary tactic for a soldier."
"Nonsense. Why should I try to divert you?"
"And there's another one."
"Doctor--"
"You get to be my age, you know what's important and what isn't. I'm a hundred and thirty-seven years old, Commander. For you that'll be the prime of life, but for me it's time to tie up danglin' ends. You're one of the very last of 'em, and I never thought I'd get the chance. Now, don't look at me like that. You know what I'm sayin'."
Reveal nothing. "I haven't a clue."
"Bullshit. Give me some credit, for chrissakes! I may be ancient, but I'm not senile! I'm talkin' about the one and only thing that matters between you and me, and you know damn well what it is. Tenth of February, 2285, Terran calendar. You fill in the Romulan date."
"That was a long time ago, Doctor," I said quietly. "A lifetime ago."
"Tenth of February, 2285." he repeated, as if I hadn't spoken. "Just around the time of Starfleet's famous little press release. Remember? Uh-huh, you bet you do. Klingons sighted in the Mutara sector, major security threat, crisis, panic, blah, blah, blah? Admiral Kirk charging off to rescue the Grissom's science team, which just happens to suddenly include Captain Spock? Oh, and by the way, those reports of his death aboard the Enterprise were just an oversight, a clerical error, sorry, our mistake?"
"Doctor--"
"Hell, you all wouldn't have bought that crap for a minute. Romulan intelligence was everywhere back then, even on Vulcan. Especially on Vulcan. I'll lay better than square odds that one of your people saw the whole thing and wrote home about it. You know the truth about what happened to Spock--and to me."
I considered a number of responses. Then, finding that I lacked the will to dissemble, I discarded them all. "Believe me, Doctor, this isn't going to help."
"Maybe not. Then again, maybe I'm selfish enough that all I care about is helpin' myself."
"Never. No one can change to that degree."
"Oh, you'd be surprised."
"Doctor, please don't--"
He held up his hand to silence me. "If it makes you feel any better, think of it as my chance to do a friend a favor."
"I'm honored that you think of me as a friend, but--"
"Well, as it happens, I do. Always did. But I wasn't referrin' to you."
I kept silent, waiting.
"I thought I knew him real well, back then," McCoy said. "Knew just how to get a rise out of him, how to piss him off, how to make him--well, whatever Vulcans do instead of laugh. But you know what? I knew sweet bugger all. And I screwed up, Commander. I screwed up royally. But I didn't realize it until a long time later. You followin' me?"
"Not precisely."
"You ever hear of a Federation scientist called Halasz? Peter Halasz? Specialized in artificial intelligence?"
"Of course. Noonien Soong's mentor."
"Well, we--Jim and Spock and I--we knew him by another name."
McCoy's tale began straightforwardly enough. A sudden outbreak of Rigelian fever had swept through Enterprise. The ship's sensors had located a world rich in ryetalyn--in those days, the only known cure for the highly contagious disease. The science officer and the chief medical officer had quickly transported planetside--along with the captain himself, in direct violation of Starfleet regulations. As McCoy said, Kirk never could stand to be left out of the fun.
They had planned to beam up quantities of unrefined ryetalyn for the Enterprise technicians to process into an antitoxin. But the single human resident of the planet had intercepted them, threatened them with death, and then relented and agreed to have one of his servos--"robots," in McCoy's terminology--gather and refine the ryetalyn for them. The man, who called himself Flint, proceeded to invite the three Starfleet officers to dinner.
"His house was incredible," said McCoy. "Turrets, golden domes, antiques, something you'd see in a fantasy vid. We stood around gawking like a bunch of tourists, drinking his brandy, trying to figure out what the hell the setup was. And then he introduced us to Rayna."
"Rayna? His wife?"
"No. I thought she was his daughter at first. He said she was his ward, that he'd become her guardian when her parents died." McCoy frowned into his glass. "There was lots more to the story. But the point is that Jim--well, Jim took one look at her and fell in love."
I allowed myself a skeptical smile. Kirk's sexual adventures had been legendary throughout two quadrants, and probably beyond.
"Oh, I know what you're thinkin'," McCoy said. "I thought so too at first. But he really went ass over teakettle for her. The thing is, she wasn't human. She was--well, it happened that she died while we were there. Jim took it awful hard." He fell silent for a moment. "Anyway, we got the ryetalyn and made up the antitoxin in time to stop the epidemic. Flint decided to travel with us as far as Alphacent. He stayed there for a while, then changed his name and moved to the research colony at Omicron Theta. I guess that's how he hooked up with Soong."
"Is that all?" I asked, mystified. None of this was what I'd expected to hear.
"There's more. That night, back on the ship, after everyone'd been inoculated, I went to make my report to Jim. When I came into the office, I saw that he'd fallen asleep at his desk. He was exhausted ... from grieving, I guess. Spock was there, so I reported to him instead. I should've left right then, but I didn't. I said something else to Spock--something mean, something really shitty."
"Why?"
"'Cause I never know when to shut up. As you probably remember."
I had to smile at that, too. "I remember."
"It was just that--well, he used to get to me. It's hard to explain. I can't even remember why I was so pissed off. Maybe because he'd stood there when Rayna died and made a speech about love and pain and emotions. As if he knew anything about it! I looked him right in the eye, and I told him how sorry I was for him, because love wasn't written in his book. How it was too bad that he'd never know the ecstasy and misery, the broken rules, the desperate chances ... some bullshit like that. And then all those years later, when he ... after Mutara ... after he went and ..." McCoy swallowed hard. "He did know! He knew it a hell of a lot better than any of the rest of us did!"
"You don't have to do this," I said, hoping to calm him. "It isn't necessary--"
"His mind, his intellect--his katra--it was like an avalanche, Commander. A goddamn psychic avalanche. See, I--we--couldn't control, couldn't integrate. We were messed up because I wasn't Vulcan. All the things he knew, the things he'd cared about, the people he'd loved ... oh, it was all there, right up front, raw and bleeding. Sarek, Amanda, Sybok, Jim, even me. And you, looking just about the way you do right now. Your face, your spirit. Everywhere, every minute. Worse than anything. Damn near killed me. Can't figure out why it didn't kill him when you left us." His eyes were suddenly bright with tears. "I never knew it was like that for Vulcans."
Feel nothing. But no control mechanism was proof against this, not for a Romulan--or at least not for me. I felt my own tears tremble and spill. I ignored them.
"Don't misunderstand me," said McCoy, looking embarrassed. "I never saw--well, it wasn't like watching a vid, if you take my meaning. Every detail of his life didn't flash before my eyes. If I'd been a Vulcan, maybe it would've been different, more linear, more logical--but for me it was like a mixed-up dream that wouldn't end. Everything was scrambled, disjointed. Feelings, images, memories ... bits of him that kept surfacing. Things he'd been able to hide from us. From himself." McCoy shook his head, remembering. "I didn't know how to help him or me. I didn't even know what was happening until Jim explained it to me. I thought I'd lost my mind. Never guessed I'd just latched onto an extra one." He chuckled softly to himself. "And Sarek told Jim I was having an allergic reaction. Hell, he was right about that. Spock always did manage to get under my skin."
Not trusting my voice, I said nothing. After a while, McCoy went on: "When it was over, I tried to tell Spock I was sorry for what I'd said in Jim's office all those years ago. I tried to explain, but he wouldn't listen. 'Self-reproach is not logical.' Tighter'n a shellmouth, and controlling like crazy." He sighed, then scowled at me like the McCoy of old. "Dammit, the two of you--I just can't believe I never even suspected."
* * *
When the concierge called to inform me that McCoy was still persona non grata on Argo, and that if he did not remove himself from the hotel's premises the consequences would be dire indeed, I pacified him with a promise that the doctor would be aboard the next outbound shuttle, scheduled to lift off shortly from the local airpark.
"Guess I'll get goin' in a little while," said McCoy, as if the decision were his to make. "You know, I'm gonna see Ny and Chris at the academy commencement next month. Think I'll save the news about you till then, just so we can crack open a bottle of bubbly. Nyota's a mighty dignified and important lady now, but she still likes a good party. Why, I remember when she bribed the musicians at Spock's wedding--" He stumbled on the last word and looked at me in apparent confusion. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to--"
Didn't you? "No apologies are necessary," I said, attempting nonchalance. I unsealed the cuff of my tunic and showed him the linked bands of emerald and gold and silver that encircled my wrist. "What is that Standard saying? 'Life goes on'?"
He studied the bracelet. "Your wedding-ring, right? Just like the Andorians and Rigelians wear. Stupid of me. I should've guessed that you were--well, that you were with someone."
"Nonsense. How would you have known? My private life isn't broadcast across the quadrants." Unlike Spock's. "And if you know the Rigelian custom, then you know that the silver strand in the lifebond signifies bereavement--widowhood."
"No," he said, his eyes widening slightly. "I didn't know. You wanna talk about it?"
I weighed the question, then deflected it. "Did you ever marry again, Doctor?"
"Marry," he said, as if he did not quite comprehend the word's meaning. "No, I never did. Never found the right ... the right opportunity."
His tone of voice suggested otherwise. "But there was someone in your life," I said gently. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Nothin' much to say. We loved each other. But she was a spiritual leader on her world--a hierophant, you'd call her--and that responsibility came first. I'd planned to meet up with her after she'd resettled her people on a new planet, but ... well, it just didn't happen. I knew I didn't really belong there, and she couldn't abandon her people to live with me." He was silent for a while. "Her name was Natira," he said finally, quietly. "She was so kind, so loving. And smart and strong and brave and beautiful, and everything I'd ever wanted in my whole life. But she had other obligations, and I thought I did too. So we lost each other, because she had a duty to her people and because I was an idiot. Sound like a story you heard before?"
"Is it too late?"
"For me and Natira?"
"Yes, of course. Who else?"
"I don't know, Commander. You tell me."
"For you and Natira," I said, meeting his steady gaze.
"Yeah," he said. "It's too late. The planetoid they settled on was about half a lightyear out from Setlik Three."
"Setlik Three--" The name conjured up barbarisms and atrocities of a sort I'd thought only the Klingons capable of, until events had proved otherwise.
"The colonists didn't stand a chance. They had nothing but a half-assed defense grid. Figured they'd never need anything more with the Federation outpost on Three so close. The Cardassians destroyed their world for no reason--just because it was on the way to Three, I guess. They seeded a biocide in the atmosphere. Not a bug left, not a weed. Nothing." McCoy picked up his empty glass, looked at it, set it down. "Nothing left alive."
I pushed my own half-full glass towards him. "I'm sorry," I said, marveling at the inadequacy of the Standard phrase. "I share your sorrow." I repeated the words in Romulan, hoping the nuances of meaning would reach him somehow.
"I told myself that someday I'd be finished with Starfleet, finished with Jim and Spock and the Enterprise, that someday I'd pack it all in and go to Natira. I told myself we were gonna live out our lives together. We were gonna find what we had before, be there for each other the rest of our days. But I left it too late. You understand what I'm sayin'? I left it too late! It never crossed my mind that she'd be married to somebody else, or that she wouldn't want me any more, or that--that she wouldn't be there at all. I was so sure I could do everything I had to do, and it would still be all right because we belonged together!"
We belong together, beloved. Do you doubt that? I pushed the memory away. "You're trying to draw a false parallel," I said. "Believe me, I grieve your loss. But your situation and mine are not in the least--"
"You familiar with the Vulcan privacy laws, Commander?"
I stared at him, puzzled by the sudden change of subject. "I know of their existence--"
"Vulcan planetary databases are open to anybody. Science, politics, culture--you name it. Give 'em the keyword and you can have the information. Except when it comes to ... well, remember when I told you how the privacy safeguards locked me out of the medical databases when I was tryin' to get some information about the pon farr? It turns out that some other things aren't accessible to anybody. Stuff about genealogy and clan histories and personal vital statistics, for instance."
"I'm not following you."
"Look, you must have heard about Spock's marriage on the news nets. Everybody was there--councillors, ambassadors, Starfleet honor guard. Because why?"
"I don't know," I said untruthfully. "Why?"
"Well, mostly because Sarek had a political agenda, but also because the marriage took place on Earth. If it'd been on Vulcan, if they'd done it in the traditional way, nobody but their closest friends and family would've known unless the bride and groom told 'em. The ceremony would've been classified under the privacy laws. You with me?"
"I suppose so. But I don't see--"
"Now, strange as it may seem, I like to think of myself as one of Spock's close friends. Pretty weird, eh?"
"Not so weird," I said with a reluctant smile. "In view of everything."
"Damn right. That means I know what I know because he wanted me to know it." McCoy touched my wrist briefly, running a bony finger along the silver strand of the lifebond. "Spock's second wife wasn't orthodox like T'Pring. The marriage was dissolved by mutual consent. No ahn-woon, no lirpa, no blood spilled all over the sand. Just nice and quiet and civilized, in a healer's office in Shanai'kahr, twenty-one years and twenty-four days after the wedding. They never had any children, and he never remarried. He lives by himself now. You hear me, Commander? He's all alone."
It was easy to see what McCoy hoped for--indeed, what he expected. Like all humans, and despite personal experiences to the contrary, he dreamed of happy endings. Part of me wished that I could make that dream come true for him, and not only for him. But the other part insisted that there could be no happy ending for any of us. I chose my words as cautiously as I could, for I had no desire to distress an infirm old man.
"You are aware, Doctor, that there has been no formal contact between my government and yours since the Tomed incident."
"Of course I'm aware! So what? Just because our governments are in a snit doesn't mean ordinary people don't talk to each other. Hell, there's probably just as much trade and whatnot goin' on under the table now as there was when we actually had diplomatic relations."
"Perhaps. But there is more to it than you know ... more than you can understand. My situation is not--"
"Look, I'm not tellin' you to drop everything and try to pick up where you left off a hundred years ago." He hesitated, then chuckled. "Well, I am, actually. But I figure that probably won't happen, not right away." When I drew in a breath to protest that it could never happen, he raised his hand to silence me. "I'm just tellin' you the way things are, so you can do whatever you have to do. Just don't wait too long like I did. That's all I got to say."
"I appreciate your concern, Doctor. I'm sure everything will be all right." I had no idea what I meant by that, since it was plainly untrue, but it seemed to satisfy him.
He glanced at the wall chrono. "I better get out of here. How 'bout you walk me over to the airpark? Otherwise that eight-foot flounder at the front desk might try to filet me. Never thought these folks'd hold a grudge so long." He looked deeply put out at the injustice of it all. "Hell, we didn't mean any harm. We were just havin' a little fun."
* * *
McCoy and I sat side by side in the airpark terminal, waiting for the boarding process to begin.
"Where will you go now?" I asked him. "Home to Proxima?"
"Snore World? Yeah, I guess. At least until Academy commencement next month. My turn to give the keynote speech on behalf of Starfleet Command."
"You're still on active duty?"
Grinning, he made a mock half-bow and pulled a Starfleet identity card from the pocket of his sweater. "Admiral Leonard H. McCoy at your service, ma'am. Unretired."
"Forgive me, Admiral. I didn't realize--"
"Hmph. If you didn't, then Romulan intelligence sure ain't what it used to be. Anyway, don't take this" --he pointed to the identity card-- "too seriously. Starfleet trots me out for ceremonies 'cause everybody thinks crusty is cute. And I'd rather you called me 'Doctor,' just like you always did."
"As you wish. But ..." I removed a blue and green ribbon rosette from my pocket and held it in the palm of my hand. "It seems that Federation intelligence too has grown careless in its work."
He gaped at me for a moment, then grinned. "Well, I'll be damned. Touché, Ambassador. But didn't we agree a long time ago that neither one of us was cut out for diplomacy?"
"Circumstances alter cases, Doctor. And I prefer 'Commander,' since I still hold that rank."
"Where the heck are you posted, anyway? It's been a long time since we've seen a Romulan diplomat within hollerin' distance of Federation space."
"I'm sorry," I said, meaning it. "That information is classified."
"Yeah, all right. I just wish--" McCoy was interrupted by the sudden blaring of the public-address system; the shuttle was ready to begin boarding. When I picked up his hand luggage, he made no protest. His fatigue was evident.
"Soon you'll be home," I said. "Perhaps you can arrange for a relaxing holiday elsewhere."
"Maybe," he said, looking thoughtful. "When my doctor ordered me to take a rest cure here, I turned down a chance to tour the new starbase at Farpoint. Think I'll call Bob DeSoto and see if I can still hitch a ride with him on the Hood. Then I won't have to go back to Proxima right away."
"A vacation on a starbase? Surely there's nothing of interest there."
"As a matter of fact--" he began, then broke off, as if he'd thought better of it. "Line's movin'," he said quickly. "Let's go."
* * *
The doors to the departure ramp slid open, and we took our place in the boarding queue. I stayed with McCoy until the last moment, when the Argoite customs officer politely informed me that unless I desired to purchase a ticket I could not cross the blue line.
"Goodbye, Doctor," I said. "I wish you a safe journey."
"There's a lot we didn't get to talk about," he said. "Too much to catch up on in one night. Maybe we'll see each other again pretty soon."
"I hope so," I said, knowing as well as he did that we would not. Impulsively, I kissed him on both cheeks in Terran fashion. His skin was cool and dry under my lips.
"Commander--" He clasped my hand with a surprising strength. "Is there any message I could deliver? You know what I mean. Anything you want me to ... well, to say?"
Say that I love him as I've loved no other. Say that I ache for him still, day and night, in body and mind. Say that I would come to him if I could, that I would never in this lifetime leave him again--
"No," I answered with utter conviction. "I have nothing to say."
* * *
It did not occur to me then or at any other time during the next four and a half years that McCoy might not have taken me strictly at my word.
© 1999, 2000 Kathleen Dailey. All rights reserved.