Kirk’s attention shifted back and forth between his friend’s frenetic searching and the bustle of men and machines on the other side of the translucent shielding curtain. “Bones, what are we doing here? What’re you after?”
“I’m looking for a solution to a problem in a solution. I couldn’t just leave you there, looking all pitiful. Ah—this’ll do!” Pulling a cartridge out of the container he had opened, he gripped it between his teeth as he ripped the packaging off a hypospray and shoved the tiny cylinder into the open breech. The delivery mechanism automatically activated the contents of the cartridge—which he promptly jammed against his friend’s neck.
“OW!—what the hell was that?” Kirk grabbed at the hypo but McCoy had already pulled it back and was in the process of disposing of it.
“You’re gonna start to lose vision in your left eye.”
Almost before the doctor finished the explanation, Kirk found himself leaning forward and repeatedly blinking the indicated orb. “Yeah, I already am—have.” Abruptly he stood up straight, arched his back, and then bent forward anew. “What’d you do to me?”
“You’re gonna get a really bad headache,” McCoy informed him.
On cue Kirk grabbed at his head with both hands and cringed, closing his eyes tight. “God, what’s happening!” Straightening, he tried to turn and nearly fell. Anticipating his friend’s loss of balance—along with the loss of sight in one eye, fading cerebral capacity, and a delightfully varied assortment of other incapacitating ailments—McCoy grabbed him to keep him from falling.
“I just shot you with a vaccine designed to prevent the viral infection caused by the bite of the Melvarian mud flea. The fact that there aren’t any Melvarian mud fleas within a hundred light-years of here is irrelevant. It’s the side effects that are important. Since the vaccine is derived from an emulsion made from the internal organs of the flea itself, a mild but easily treatable case of the infection is the unavoidable result. Without getting further into the xenobiological specifics, the short version is that you’ll be feeling the symptoms of the disease for about an hour.”
Consciously deranged, Kirk gazed open-mouthed at his friend even as he had to lean on him for support. “You injected me with an alien mud flea virus?”
Getting his body under one of his friend’s arms, McCoy started to haul him away from the medical storage site, straining with the effort required to keep them both moving forward.
“Yeah—you owe me one.”
They barely made it in time. Whether it would be enough remained to be seen. A Klaxon was sounding and lights on the side of the shuttle indicated it was running through final countdown procedures prior to liftoff. Exerting himself to the utmost, McCoy heaved them both toward the boarding ramp.
The junior officer who intercepted them had been working without a break ever since the Red Alert had been sounded. He was in no mood for argument and had no intention of delaying the small ship’s departure. The irate comment he had prepared, however, died on his lips as soon as he got a look at Kirk’s face. He had seen some hungover cadets in his time, and some sick cadets, and even a few cadets who had survived classes in advanced Klingon hand-to-hand combat styles.
But he had never seen anyone who looked as bad as James T. Kirk did at that moment.
“Good Lord—what happened to him?” The boarding officer’s gaze dropped to the cadet’s hands. Both had swollen to a degree that suggested an advanced case of highly localized elephantiasis.
Struggling to keep his friend vertical, McCoy spoke without hesitation. “He’s suffering from an inflamed epididymis complicated by excessive swelling of the ego region of the cerebral cortex. Got exposed to gram-negative bacterium in the lab. Was writing out the order to send him to the hospital when the alert sounded.”
The officer took a long step backward. “Is it…contagious?”
McCoy shook his head. “Wholly internalized, transmittal vector is only via direct fluid exchange, no danger to anyone else. He should come through fine if the fever he’s suffering from now doesn’t boil his brain.”
Kirk’s eyes widened as they snapped to the face of the man holding him up. There were several questions he badly wanted to ask. Unfortunately his tongue seemed to have transported out of his body, leaving an empty place in his mouth that matched the expanding one in his head.
Pulling a small cylindrical instrument from a breast pocket, the officer ran it the length of the slumping cadet’s body. “Kirk, James T.” He quickly checked the boarding manifest for the shuttle behind him. “He’s not cleared for duty aboard the Enterprise.” Raising his gaze, he confronted McCoy uncertainly. “In fact, according to records, he’s not cleared for duty anywhere. It says here that he’s—”
McCoy interrupted him. “Look, we’re operating under Red Alert conditions and I don’t have time to argue. I am cleared for duty on the Enterprise, and Starfleet Medical Regulations state that the treatment and transport of a patient is to be determined at the discretion of his attending physician, which is me. Since I’m assigned to this ship, so’s he, even if temporarily. Check your regs: medical evaluation supersedes academic dispensation. It’s not like I’m trying to sneak my girlfriend aboard. He may be under temporary suspension, but he’s not first-year—he’s a qualified junior officer, and they’ll find something for him to do once he’s recovered. But as the physician providing treatment, I can’t abandon him. He comes with me.” The doctor paused for emphasis.
“Or would you like to explain to Captain Pike why the Enterprise warped into a crisis situation without one of its senior medical officers?” He glanced pointedly at the other man’s ident badge.
The officer hesitated, snuck another look at his manifest. A new alarm began to sound behind him indicating that departure was imminent. He had half a dozen other shuttles to check and he was already running behind. There would doubtless be an evaluation at the end of the emergency period and…
Lowering his head, he jerked the stylus he was holding toward the open shuttle portal. “As you were.”
“As you were.” McCoy started lugging his friend up the ramp.
“Been eating more than usual lately, cadet?”
Kirk’s cheeks bulged. “I’d appreciate it, Bones, if you didn’t mention food for a while.”
“Don’t worry—any inclination to general nausea is muted by the inflammation of your…,” he lowered his voice to a whisper as he continued. Kirk’s eyes widened.
“Inflammation of my what?”
“Shut up,” McCoy hissed as they neared the top of the ramp, “and keep walking. Try to help me, Jim. Make your legs work.”
Head lolling, Kirk goggled up at him. “I have legs?”
As soon as they were on board, they had no difficulty finding seats despite the lateness of their arrival. One look in Kirk’s direction and everyone gave them plenty of room. A final alarm sounded as the shuttle lifted off and the pilot guided it out of the hangar. Once they were outside and climbing, clean sunlight flooded the interior through the self-polarizing ports. A mumbling Kirk leaned toward his friend.
“One more thing, Bones.”
“What’s that?” McCoy was pressed back into his launch seat, the usual sweat beginning to bead up on his neck and forehead.
Kirk somehow managed to smile. “I may throw up on you.”
Accelerating steadily, the compact craft climbed through the atmosphere. Dark blue sky gave way to violet and then to black. Below, the curve of the Earth stood out like a piece of engraved turquoise in an onyx setting. Advance shuttles preceded Kirk and McCoy’s while others trailed behind. The distances between them were sufficient to make those on board feel as if they were utterly alone in the universe.
Until Starbase 1 came into view.
A city in space, the base thrust out enormous transverse arms that terminated in dock and repair facilities for starships. Unusually, every one of them was presently occupied. Resembling irregular snowflakes drifting in an absence of gravi
ty, a storm of servicing craft were swarming around the neatly docked ships, readying them for departure. Despite similar schematics, each vessel featured its own unique, individual design characteristics. All were beautiful and each had something to recommend it. None of which mattered to an enraptured Kirk as he gazed out the nearest port. He only had eyes for one of them. Its markings stood out clear and sharp against the ivory-hued metal and composite skin.
U.S.S. ENTERPRISE NCC–1701
He remembered the first time he had set eyes on her. Unfinished, skeletal, with gaping holes in her sides where her multiple outer hull had yet to be completed. She had been striking then, awkwardly balanced within a web of construction scaffolding on the hard cold plain of central Iowa. Incomplete and out of her element, she had appeared ungainly and graceless—an adolescent starship. Finished and sitting in her service dock, she was a thing of beauty. He couldn’t wait to embrace her.
Hopefully by not heaving his guts all over one of her nice, new, spotlessly clean decks.
Describing a smooth arc toward its destination, the shuttle curved into the plane of the base and slowed as it neared the great ship’s stern. Greeted by an open, waiting port, the shuttle pilot brought his craft to a smooth touchdown inside the ship’s docking bay. Airlock doors closed behind it as he cut impulse power to the shuttle’s drive. The taxi craft rocked slightly as a gush of atmosphere pressurized the bay. As soon as the all-clear sounded, the passengers disembarked. Kirk and McCoy were the last to leave.
Fortunately for the struggling doctor, his patient was rapidly regaining his strength.
“Bones,” Kirk muttered weakly, “thanks for getting me on board. But I don’t feel right. I feel like I’m leaking.”
McCoy still had alertness and energy enough to see Spock heading in their direction. “Oh, look—the pointy-eared bastard.”
Engrossed in the readout he was holding, the commander did not look up at them. By the time the Vulcan’s gaze lifted, McCoy had managed to wrestle Kirk into a side corridor.
A lift deposited the preoccupied commander onto the gleaming new bridge. Unmarred and as yet unused, it sparkled from the proud exertions of the final commissioning crew. No console had been left unpolished, no monitor left uncleaned. In a respectful nod to history, a small plaque featuring an engraving of an ancient aircraft carrier had been affixed to one wall, immensely meaningful despite the fact that it had been placed virtually out of sight. In another corner an unknown technician had left a miniature mop and bucket in deference to the time when such decks would have been swabbed instead of coated with an impact-resistant chemical coating.
All of this registered on the ship’s new science officer as he sat down at his station. Whereas other crew members might admire the shine of newly installed instruments or the unvarying multihued glow of projection monitors, the commander was pleased to see that everything fit together as intended and functioned properly at first touch. After running through an initial check of the new ship’s systems he turned toward the command chair.
“All decks report ready for launch, Captain.” His nonchalant bearing suggested that the science officer had uttered those words a thousand times previously. As indeed he had, if only in elaborate simulations.
“Very well.” Shifting slightly in the command chair, Captain Christopher Pike looked toward the helm. “Set course for Vulcan.”
“Course laid in,” the lieutenant at the helm controls replied.
“Maximum warp,” Pike ordered. “Punch it.”
Though still in his twenties, Hikaru Sulu was already regarded by many as one of the best pilots in the Federation. Having grown up on ocean-going fishing boats, he had graduated to small hover vehicles and was flying aircraft before he was in his teens. When performing their duties, many of his colleagues appeared to be under stress or laboring to carry out their assignments satisfactorily. Not Sulu. No matter how difficult the situations or simulations, he forever seemed to be smiling at some secret, private joke. This infectious good humor helped to deflect a good deal of the jealousy that might otherwise have attended his rapid rise through the fleet.
The lieutenant’s fingers slid deftly over the helm controls and…nothing happened.
Uncertain faces began to turn in the direction of the helm. Pike frowned ever so slightly.
“Something the matter, Lieutenant?”
“I’m not sure, Captain. I…”
“Where’s Helmsman McKenna?”
“Uh, he has lungworms, sir,” the lieutenant explained uneasily. “He’ll be fine but was unable to report for duty. I’m Hikaru Sulu.”
Pike pursed his lips. “And you are a pilot, yes?”
The lieutenant stiffened visibly. “Very much so, sir.” Sulu’s eyes roved worriedly over the helm console. “I’m not sure what’s wrong here…”
“Is the parking brake on?”
“No, I’ll figure it out, just…”
A voice spoke up from the vicinity of the science station. “Have you checked to ensure that all subsidiary connections to starbase have been disengaged?”
As he tried to hide his rising anxiety, the helmsman’s gaze flicked to a small readout on one side of the main monitor. His fingers moved. Suitably abashed, he returned his attention forward.
“Ready for warp…sir.” As he checked another readout he struggled to look anywhere but at the command chair or the science station. “Dock control reports ready for our exit.”
Pike nodded. “The external inertial dampener. That’s…the parking brake.” Having dealt suitably with his new helmsman, he let his gaze rove the bridge as he strove to make eye contact with each member of his crew.
“Many of you have served with me before. To those who are new to duty I extend a hearty welcome and my apologies for the haste with which you have been called into active service. Circumstances dictate speed. Stars and galaxies whirl through space at sometimes unimaginable velocities. On such an occasion Starfleet can do no less.
“Certainly the maiden voyage of our newest flagship deserves more pomp and circumstance than we can afford today. Its christening will have to be our reward for a safe return. I know that every man, woman, and other will do their duty.” Pride filled his voice. “You are the best that the Academy and Starfleet can produce. I am proud to serve with you and I hope you will not find me wanting in command.”
Someone let out a mild “Yea!” This was followed by muted laughter that quickly faded as all eyes focused on the captain. Pike held a stern visage for a moment, then smiled. Everyone relaxed, but only emotionally. Hands and minds remained wholly focused on the tasks at hand. Leaning forward, Pike activated the ship’s intercom.
“All decks, this is Captain Pike. Final preparations should be completed and all hands at flight stations. Prepare for immediate departure.”
He looked once more toward the helm.
“Now then, Mister Sulu, let’s—punch it.”
In the wake of the other ships, the Enterprise flashed into warp space.
In the main medical bay, technicians and support personnel were completing last-minute setups. There was always something to be stowed, a report to be forwarded, instruments to be placed in readiness for emergencies that hopefully would not materialize.
In Kirk’s case it was a matter of waiting for his bloated hands to shrink back to normal size so that he could stow, forward, or place in readiness something smaller than a chair. With his blunt, sausage-size fingers he couldn’t even adjust his own tunic.
“Bones, when’s this gonna stop, it’s killing me…”
“What is?” McCoy replied phlegmatically. “Pain, or the fact that you’re not looking as perfect as you usually think you are? It’ll all be over in half an hour, tops.” Leaning closer, he lowered his voice so that passing personnel could not overhear.
“Now listen: I can’t sit around and mollycoddle you. I have work to do. I have to secure my portion of this bay for departure, check in with my colleagues, see to it that the tech
s know where their stations are, and a hundred other details. Remember our deal. You’re my new candy striper. Stay on the medical deck and out of sight as much as possible till we get back in a couple of days. Got it? Anybody questions your specialty or your ‘training,’ tell ’em you’re an assistant anesthesiologist assigned to work directly with me.” He smiled sardonically. “I’ve seen you put people to sleep just talking about yourself, so I know you can pull this off.”
Kirk was uncharacteristically subdued. “Bones, I don’t know what to say.” He let his gaze and his gradually returning vision take in their immediate surroundings. Despite everything, despite having his world turned upside down in the most unanticipated and numbing fashion, he was in space. On a starship. On the Enterprise.
“Thanks.”
“That’ll do.” McCoy’s grin widened. “I’ll be back to check on you as soon as I can. As I said, the symptoms should all be gone within a little while and you should feel completely like yourself again. Meanwhile try to keep out of sight and out of trouble.” He started to leave, stopped himself, and left his friend with one final admonition.
“And Jim?”
“Yes, Bones?”
“Stay away from my nurses.” Then McCoy was out the open portal and heading for the main surgery. Kirk could hear him railing and complaining until a closing door finally stifled the doctor’s rant. Left alone, he looked down at his swollen hands.
As if he could do anything even if he felt like it.
VIII
“Engines at maximum warp, Captain.” Sulu allowed himself to relax. In the course of their departure from Starbase 1, Pike had not made an issue of what had been a novice’s oversight, something for which the helmsman was more than moderately grateful. In any case they were now under way and everything was functioning normally.
“Thank you, Mister Sulu.” Pike turned to his left. “Mister Spock, see that all departments receive the full details of the Vulcan transmission so that they can organize their sections accordingly. Let’s give them a condensed version first.” He thought a moment. “It’ll have more impact if it comes from tactical. What’s the name of that whiz kid? Chanko? Cherpov?”
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