He didn’t move. His beard grew shaggy. His fingernails ragged.
He wondered idly how long it would take for his body to just stop.
He could open the airlock, he knew. At his age, in ten seconds it would be over.
He could jump out the airlock and be the first human to experience continuum-distortion propulsion without benefit of a spaceship. For about one nanosecond.
He could plot a course to a star and be drawn into its endless gravity well, or drop to impulse and drive into it at half the speed of light, creating a nova that all the human worlds would see.
But all those deaths required willful action. And he who had never believed that life would run out of challenges to inspire him, was spent, without the will even to die.
It seemed to Zefram Cochrane that he had faced life’s challenges, but life had won.
He was old, he was sick, he was ready to die.
And life’s final challenge to him was that it would not let him go.
Five weeks passed.
He knew they would be searching for him now. But the knowledge meant nothing to him. Not only had he succeeded in blanking his mind to his past, he was beginning to hallucinate, to create new images for his future.
In spite of himself, he found this development wildly funny. Deprived of stimuli, the brain created its own diversions.
He wondered when his fantastic mirages would begin talking to him.
They began at the end of the fifth week.
He awoke, distraught that he still lived, his body clamoring for sustenance, stinging from the sores on his skin where restraining straps kept him from floating in the cabin. His mouth was parched. His lips cracked and dry. A squeeze bottle of water was hooked to his chair, but he merely watched it swing back and forth on its tether, the water thick weightless globs within it.
The aurora was back.
He had seen it before. Three times now. Maybe four.
Gold-flecked and shimmering, it would rush up beside his ship, swirl around it, then rush away.
The first time he had seen it, it had reminded him strongly of dolphins following the wake of a ship, playing and splashing in the free ride.
The second time he had seen it, he had wondered how a phenomenon like it could travel at faster-than-light velocities.
The third and fourth times, he had decided it was a hallucination like all the others.
Except he liked this one.
It was pretty.
Now, instead of swirling all around his ship, the glowing cloud hung on the viewports, obscuring the streaking stars beyond. Its shifting, shining patterns pressed against the transparent aluminum panels, and through some trick of the lighting or his failing eyesight, Cochrane was almost convinced that he saw tendrils of the thing push through the window to reach inside the cabin.
He tried to speak. To say, Careful there, you’ll make a breeze if you open the window. But he had not spoken for many weeks and no sound came from him.
Yet the tendril withdrew. Or it seemed to, at least. And the cloud remained against the viewport, as if it were looking in. As if it wanted something.
Wanted something.
Cochrane squinted, trying to see it more clearly. The absurd question expanded in his mind. What could an energy cloud capable of traveling faster than light want?
His thoughts seemed to clear as he focused on the cloud. It was interesting to have a problem again.
After an hour or so, he figured it out.
He forced his stiff fingers to reach out and grab the floating water bottle, then close around it. You’re thirsty, aren’t you? he asked, though he couldn’t speak the words, only think them.
He was fairly certain the answer had been, Yes.
He studied the problem even longer. Then he pulled out the straw and slipped it between his raw lips. He drank for the first time in days.
How’s that? he asked, still without words.
The answer seemed to be that drinking water had been exactly the right thing to do.
But the cloud didn’t leave.
Cochrane almost smiled. You want more, do you?
Shimmering reflections danced in the viewports, answering again.
Okay, Cochrane said in his mind. Okay, I get you.
He fumbled with the seat webs until he floated free and pushed himself back to the food dispenser. He hung there, exhausted, until he could ask another wordless question. Soup? he asked, and soup it was.
Then he set up the shower tube and washed himself.
His scalp felt strange when he used the shampoo. As if there were hair growing on the top of his head again. In his dreams.
He dried off, nibbed ointment on his strap sores, put on a fresh jumpsuit, then strapped himself loosely to his seat and slept.
When he awoke, he was disappointed to discover that the cloud wasn’t at the window anymore. It had been an interesting game he had played with the hallucination.
Then Cochrane realized the stars were no longer streaking by. They were still. He was traveling at sublight. But the impulse engines were switched off. He had disabled them himself.
He peered through the viewports. A string of glowing dots were laid out before him. Planetoids, he guessed. Too many of them to be planets. Too big to be asteroids.
He found himself hoping he wouldn’t crash into one of the planetoids, for then the cloud would come looking for him and wouldn’t be able to find him. He wondered if not finding him would upset the cloud, if it would miss him. He didn’t like that thought.
But that was exactly what was going to happen, he realized about an hour later, when he saw a planetoid looming before him.
Sorry, he said to the cloud wherever it was. I won’t be here to feed and water you.
The window sparkled at him.
Cochrane released his straps, and his fingers moved so quickly and so easily that he looked down at them in surprise.
There were no age spots on the back of his hands. His fingers weren’t gaunt as they had been. They were strong, well fleshed. But he couldn’t stop to think about that now. He pushed himself to the window. He put his hand to it.
From the other side, a tendril of the glowing cloud pushed through and wrapped gently around his fingers.
Cochrane had spent forty days alone in space preparing to die. The sensation of the cloud’s touch felt like the most natural thing of all.
He wiggled his hand inside the cloud, as if he were scratching the ear of a dog. You don’t like it up here, do you? he said. You want to find a home.
Cochrane knew he had figured it out. Poor thing, he said. How about that planetoid right down there?
The cloud let him know that was a magnificent idea.
He went through a list of questions for the cloud, finding out all the things it would need to be content on the planetoid—the right kind of shelter, the temperature range, the force of gravity, food and water.
Amazingly, what the cloud needed was exactly what was conducive to human health and growth. And it could all be found on the planetoid beneath them.
Cochrane landed his ship without touching the controls or using the engines. After forty days in space, why not?
He stepped outside and breathed the air. It tasted just as he remembered the air had been on Centauri B II. He was also surprised by how deeply he could inhale without coughing. He was surprised by how his legs didn’t ache. How he felt he could run right around the planetoid if he wanted to. It was almost as if he were young again. If only that could be true.
The cloud, he decided, was fortunate to have found such a perfect place for itself.
The cloud, right beside him, agreed. He liked the way it swept around him, carefully, tentatively, not enveloping him all at once.
Poor thing, Cochrane said. All alone down here. You need a friend, don’t you?
The cloud needed a friend.
Do you want me to take care of you? Cochrane asked.
The cloud thought that would be fine.
Well, I don’t seem to have anything on my agenda, Cochrane said. Why don’t you let me stay here and help you?
The cloud thought it over for about half a second. The cloud thought it was the best idea ever in the history of the universe.
Cochrane spent the next few weeks using the supplies from his ship to build a shelter for the cloud, plant some seeds, and make things right. During that time, as he threw off the mental lethargy of the past forty days, he figured out what the cloud had done. It was more than just a dolphin or a lonely dog looking for company. It had been quite shrewd. Its agenda had included him.
At another time in his life, Cochrane might have resented the manipulation. But that life was over. He had left so much that was old and unnecessary behind.
The planetoid seemed like an interesting place. The cloud was an interesting companion. And it felt good to have someone—or something—to care for. It was as if he had never felt that way before.
Because for all that the cloud took care of him, Cochrane had no illusions about what he was doing when the cloud embraced him.
He was taking care of the cloud, as well.
It seemed a fair bargain.
He decided his life might have room for one more challenge. Once again, Zefram Cochrane realized he was looking forward to finding out what would happen next.
TWO
U.S.S.Enterprise NCC-1701 RENDEZVOUS WITH THE CITY OF UTOPIA PLANITIA
Stardate 3854.8
Earth Standard: ≈ November 2267
On the main viewer, the Klingon’s dark face was distorted by his forced smile. It twisted his stringy beard into an unnatural angle.
“Greetings, Captain Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise.”
“Save it,” Kirk shot back. “Drop your shields and let us beam in the poor bastard you blew out the airlock.”
The Klingon widened his eyes insincerely. “Ah, you noticed that, did you?”
“Drop your shields now!”
“And put myself at your fabled terran ’mercy’? Come now, Captain. I may be Klingon, but that doesn’t make me stupid. We have other matters to discuss.”
Kirk stood up from his chair. As far as he was concerned, there was only one thing Klingons understood, and the Enterprise was the ship to deliver it. “Drop your shields now! Then we can discuss anything you want.”
The Klingon turned to the side and spat out some commands in his own guttural language.
“Keptin, their shields are weakening by the open airlock.”
The Klingon smiled broadly. “You have five seconds, Captain Kirk. Any treachery will result in the deaths of even more of—”
“Spock! Now!” Kirk shouted.
Over the bridge speakers, Spock acknowledged from the transporter room. “Transporter locked, and energizing.”
Chekov confirmed that the body had vanished from the side or the liner. A moment later Spock announced recovery and called for a medical team.
“Shields restored,” Chekov said.
“Spock here. The recovered human is dead, Captain. From his uniform, he was one of the crew members of the Planitia.”
Kirk was enraged. “You killed him!”
But the Klingon on the screen shook his head. “Not I, Captain Kirk. Au contraire, it was your unfortunate and unprovoked attack which caused such … unpleasantness.”
“Your hijacked liner is no match for this ship,” Kirk said.
“But my hostages are more than a match for your conscience, Captain Kirk.” The Klingon settled back into his own command chair, an ornate, high-backed style popular on human civilian ships. “Now, I believe you said that once I dropped my shields to allow recovery of the body of the man you killed, we could talk. And I would like to talk, Captain Kirk. About so many things.”
Kirk had never run across a Klingon who liked to talk. “Shut him down, Uhura.” The screen jumped back to a view of the liner.
“Aren’t you going to negotiate with him?” The question came from Admiral Kabreigny. McCoy had positioned her at an unused navigation station on the upper level. Her color was better and she appeared to have recovered her composure. Just in case, McCoy hovered close by, a medical kit at his side. At Spock’s science station, the Companion sat hunched over, silent and still, face in her hands, breathing almost back to normal. The two security officers remained at ease by the turbolift doors.
“Klingons don’t negotiate,” Kirk said. “He’s just stalling for time.”
“Why?” Kabreigny asked. The bridge crew braced themselves for a repeat of the earlier clash of wills.
But Kirk found it easier to answer, now that the command chair was his again. “He’d never make it back to the Empire in that liner. He must be heading for a rendezvous point.”
“No Klingon ship could get this far into Federation territory to meet him.”
Kirk tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, working out his options. “Admiral, he doesn’t need to rendezvous with a Klingon ship. The ship that attacked us was an Orion. It was fast enough to get him back home in a month and not even the Enterprise could have caught him.”
McCoy leaned forward on the rail circling the upper level. “Do you think that ship we destroyed was his ride home?”
“Possibly,” Kirk said. “But he’s bound to have a backup plan. The question is, when does it go into effect?” He turned his chair around to face the Companion. “Companion, is the man near?”
She sighed and spoke into her hands. “The man continues.” She looked up. Her one, unbandaged eye was full of pain. “Part of us wishes to tell you he is in the ship before us.”
“Can you tell us where in the ship he is?” Kirk asked.
But the Companion shook her head. “We cannot,” she said sadly. “We only know that he is near.”
Kirk stared at the liner on the screen. A clock was ticking. He had no idea what schedule it was on, but sooner or later another ship would be arriving to rendezvous with the Planitia. Cochrane had been kidnapped by Orions, but then brought to a hijacked liner under the command of a Klingon. Kirk wouldn’t put it past the Orions to work with the Klingons—they specialized in playing both ends against the middle in any conflict. But what did the Klingon Empire want with Zefram Cochrane? Their level of warp technology was at least the equal of the Federation’s. Cochrane would be a century and a half behind the times in the Empire, as well.
Then there was the matter of Admiral Kabreigny’s conspiracy. What or who it involved, Kirk didn’t know. Only that Kabreigny still thought that he might be part of it, just as Kirk was still worried that she was a part of another conspiracy. He bounced his fist on the arm of his chair. The only connection to all of this was Cochrane. Whatever else was going to happen, Zefram Cochrane had to come first.
But how could Kirk save one person from a ship filled with hostages and a bloodthirsty Klingon who wouldn’t balk at killing everyone? Kirk didn’t need Spock to tell him that the answer was that it couldn’t be done. Which meant, Kirk knew, he had to find another approach, he had to come up with a different question. One that did have an answer.
Change the rules. Do the unthinkable.
The question came to him. The answer was outrageous. As outrageous as a commercial liner armed only with navigational phasers being able to keep a Constitution-class starship at bay.
“Admiral Kabreigny,” Kirk said as pleasantly as he could as he stepped down from his chair, “do you feel up to negotiating with a Klingon?”
Kabreigny eyed him warily. “I thought you said Klingons don’t negotiate.”
“They don’t,” Kirk agreed. “But then, you won’t be negotiating either. You’ll just be buying time.”
“For what?”
“So I can follow my orders and rescue Mr. Cochrane.” Kirk looked over at Uhura. “Lieutenant, cancel Red Alert. All hands stand down.”
McCoy put his hands behind his back. “This is going to be good, isn’t it?”
Kirk shrugged. Spectacular was a better
word. Good or bad, win or lose, what he was planning was definitely going to be spectacular.
“Admiral, I’d like you to take the chair again. I’d like you to identify yourself to the Klingon and tell him that you have relieved me of duty because … I wanted to blow the liner out of space.” He guided the perplexed admiral to the chair. “Play it straight with him. You want to get those hostages back. But don’t let on in any way that you know about Cochrane. Give him that edge. It will make him feel in control.”
Kabreigny settled back in the command chair. “And what will you be doing during all this?”
“I’ll be in the Auxiliary Control Center.” He turned to the command console. “Mr. Chekov, Mr. Sulu, report to me there as soon as your replacements arrive.”
The helmsman and navigator acknowledged their orders.
“Dr. McCoy, Companion, please accompany me.” Then Kirk ducked down to Uhura and whispered. “Lieutenant, monitor every word the admiral and the Klingon say. If you detect any hint of a code, or if the admiral says anything that could endanger the ship, close the channel and contact me at once.”
Uhura nodded. “Aye-aye, Captain.”
Kirk ushered the Companion and McCoy onto the turbolift. “Admiral Kabreigny, you have the conn.”
The doors swept closed and the lift began to descend. McCoy studied Kirk closely. “ Now can you tell me what you’re planning?”
“Spock and Scott had better hear it, too,” Kirk said. If he was going to have all of his senior officers think he was crazy, he wanted to get it over with at once.
Buried deep within the decks of the Enterprise, the Auxiliary Command Center was the ship’s backup command facility. From it, all basic command functions could be controlled in the event the main bridge was damaged or lost. But in this case, the main bridge was serving as the backdrop of a diversion carried out for the Klingon commander of the hijacked liner. As the Klingon conducted his negotiations with Kabreigny, Kirk and his officers prepared behind the scenes for the moment they would take control of the situation.
Just over an hour after Kirk had left the bridge, he was minutes away from enacting his plan. Spock gave it a thirty-three percent chance of success, much higher than Mr. Scott allowed. McCoy thought it was just plain impossible. But Kirk knew his crew and his ship. He was confident, and that confidence was contagious.
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