STAR TREK: TOS #86 - My Brother's Keeper, Book Two - Constitution

by Michael Jan Friedman

  POCKET BOOKS

  New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 1999 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-671-01919-8

  First Pocket Books printing January 1999

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  For Joe Simko

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  About the e-Book

  Chapter One

  SECURITY OFFICER Scott Darnell would have preferred to go to the funeral. As it was, it had fallen to him to stand watch in the Enterprises monitor-studded security section, overlooking the ship’s internal sensor net and guarding her phaser stores.

  Hardly anyone ever visited security unless he himself was a security officer. So when the door slid aside to admit First Officer Spock, Darnell was a little surprised. Then he saw the phaser rifle cradled in the Vulcan’s arms and he understood.

  Spock had commandeered the rifle shortly after the Enterprise established orbit around Delta Vega. Darnell hadn’t been on duty at the time, but the inventory file showed the incident clearly enough.

  What it didn’t show was why the first officer had needed the weapon. As far as Darnell or most anyone [2] else knew, they had only made a stop at Delta Vega to obtain the hardware they required to repair their warp drive. The planetoid being completely unoccupied, it didn’t seem a phaser rifle would be of much utility to anyone there.

  Nonetheless, Spock had taken the weapon and beamed down with it. And sometime after that, something terrible had happened on Delta Vega—something, it seemed, which wasn’t entirely unexpected, or why bring down a rifle in the first place?

  When it was over, three of the crew had died. One was Gary Mitchell, the primary navigator. The second was Elizabeth Dehner, a psychiatrist who had joined the Enterprise only recently. And the third was Lee Kelso, the man whose funeral Darnell was missing.

  But that was all the security officer knew. In fact, that was all anyone knew. The captain had classified the matter, prohibiting all those who had beamed down to Delta Vega from speaking of it.

  It didn’t seem fair to Darnell—especially when people had lost their lives down there. But that was the way it was, and there was nothing he or any of his colleagues could do about it.

  “Mr. Spock,” he said as the Vulcan approached. “I guess you’re returning that rifle now.”

  “Indeed,” Spock replied, handing it over.

  Darnell took a quick look at the weapon. It had a few dinks, but otherwise appeared to be in good condition. Then, just out of habit, he checked to see if there was any charge left.

  He was confused. What’s more, he said so.

  [3] “Why is that?” the Vulcan inquired, his lean visage characteristically devoid of emotion.

  “Well,” the security officer explained, “I figured with all that happened down there—whatever that might have been—someone would have had occasion to squeeze off a few shots.”

  Spock cocked an eyebrow. “There are two possibilities, Mr. Darnell. Either the rifle was fired and someone recharged it, perhaps to avoid any official record of its having been employed on Delta Vega ... or contrary to your expectations, it never was fired. However, as the matter is now classified, I do not believe it is appropriate to speculate either way.”

  With that, the first officer turned and departed, leaving the security officer with the fully charged rifle in his hands. Darnell grunted. Then he got up from his seat among the security monitors and headed for the ordnance locker to put the rifle back where it belonged.

  Vulcans, he thought. Why can’t they just say what they mean?

  Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu knelt in the Enterprise’s botany lab, a place of vibrant colors and exotic scents, and contemplated the Mandreggan moonblossoms he had been cultivating.

  Their large, fragile-looking petals were a pale yellow at the center, fading to white and then deepening into a lush scarlet at the edges. They were breathtakingly beautiful. Even First Officer Spock had remarked on their appearance, and he seldom remarked on anything that didn’t pertain to the ship’s operation.

  [4] No one had believed that he could grow moonblossoms in an artificial environment. After all, no starship botanist had ever done it before. But he accomplished it anyway.

  After all, Sulu was the kind of man who did what he set out to do. When he was a teenager, he had set his sights on attending Starfleet Academy and earned himself a place at that prestigious institution. And when he had made the decision to specialize in astrophysics, he landed a berth on one of the most prestigious vessels in the fleet.

  In fact, in all his twenty-seven years, he had never failed to obtain something he really wanted. So why had it been so difficult for him to go after the thing he had come to desire lately?

  Of course, the astrophysicist knew the answer to that question. After all, life was good on the Enterprise. He had comforts here he had grown used to, friends he wouldn’t look forward to giving up.

  But as Sulu’s grandfather once told him, “Observe the wisdom of the shark, Hikaru. It knows that if it stops swimming, it stops breathing. So it continues to swim.”

  Like the shark they had seen at the aquarium that day, he would continue to swim. But that didn’t make it any easier to abandon the life he had made for himself there.

  “Hikaru?” came a voice.

  Sulu looked up and saw two of his fellow crewmen standing at the entrance to the botany lab. One was Daniel Alden, the ship’s primary communications officer. The other was Joe Tormolen, a lieutenant in [5] engineering. It was Tormolen who had called his name.

  “Come on,” he said.

  “It’s time,” Alden added.

  Knowing seats would be at a premium at the funeral service, Sulu nodded and got to his feet. “Just saying goodbye to some of my friends,” he explained as he joined the others.

  “I know the feeling,” said the communications officer.


  Sulu smiled wistfully. “That’s right. I guess you would.”

  Together, they left the botany lab and headed for the Enterprise’s chapel. And when they got there, Sulu thought, he would be saying goodbye to another friend. He would miss Lee Kelso, he reflected.

  He would miss them all.

  Captain James T. Kirk entered the Enterprise’s small, spartan chapel, with its silver-blue walls and its neatly arranged rows of chairs and its lonely, red-orange lectern. Looking around, he scanned the solemn faces of the crewmen who had already arrived for the noontime service.

  There must have been a hundred of them, from every section of the ship and every deck, representing every rank and every species in the Fleet, all gathered to pay their respects to a man they had valued and loved and admired. And if there weren’t enough chairs in the place for nearly a third of those in attendance, that didn’t seem to daunt them any.

  Kelso would have been touched by the size of the [6] turnout, Kirk thought. Touched and more than a little amazed.

  In one corner of the room, Montgomery Scott, the chief engineer, was speaking wistfully with Lieutenant Tormolen and Ensign Beltre, no doubt recounting some fond remembrance of the dead man. In another corner, Yeoman Smith and Lieutenant Alden were commiserating over their loss with Lieutenant Sulu of astrophysics. And in still another corner, Chief Medical Officer Piper was exchanging stoic looks with Lieutenant Dezago and Nurse Chapel.

  Several other crewmen had asked to attend also, but regulations required a full complement of specialists to operate the Constitution-class vessel. That was especially true on the bridge, where Ensign Green had taken over the helm controls, Lieutenant Brent had moved to navigation, Lieutenant Farrell was manning the communications console, and Lieutenant Commander Spock, the Enterprise’s Vulcan first officer, had assumed temporary command of the ship.

  “Captain,” said Scott, noticing Kirk’s entrance. He approached his commanding officer. “We’ve been waitin’ for ye, sir.”

  The captain nodded, adjusting the plastiform cast Piper had given him to help his wrist injury heal. “Sorry I’m late, Scotty. Something came up at the last minute.”

  The engineer looked at him suspiciously. “If I may ask, sir, what sort of something was it?”

  Kirk smiled at him, knowing the pride the man took in his work. “Just a little trouble with the plasma [7] manifold. But from what I’m told, it can wait until the service is over.”

  Scott’s features puckered into a frown. “Are ye sure, sir? If ye like, I could take a moment t’—”

  The captain held up his good hand to restrain the engineer. “Quite sure, Scotty. We’ve kept everyone waiting long enough.”

  Scott nodded dutifully. “As ye say, sir.”

  In the thirteen months since Kirk had taken command of the Enterprise, he had used the ship’s chapel to hold five weddings, an Iltrasian coming-of-age ceremony, and only one funeral—that of a young lieutenant named Henry George Beason, who had been killed in the weapons room when it took a hit from an Orion mercenary.

  Of course, Beason wasn’t the only casualty of Kirk’s stint as commanding officer, or even the first. However, the captain hadn’t conducted services for the fourteen who had died previously. It was only customary to do so when a crewman lacked family and friends planetside.

  Season’s only surviving relative had been a maiden aunt in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, who was too feeble to leave her house, much less attend any kind of funeral for her nephew. As a result, the captain had arranged a service for the man on the Enterprise.

  Unfortunately, the situation was a similar one today. The deceased was an orphan, a man who had been raised in an institution outside Los Angeles. The only people he really cared about—and the only people who cared about him—were his fellow [8] crewmen. It was only fitting that his death be marked by a service aboard the ship.

  Finding a seat in the front row, Kirk found himself flanked by security officers Matthews and Rayburn on one hand and Lieutenant Stiles on the other. Stiles, a severe-looking man who had shown himself to be an efficient officer, turned to the captain.

  “Sir,” he said, acknowledging Kirk’s presence.

  “Stiles,” Kirk said in return.

  “Hell of a way to go,” Stiles remarked. He shook his head. “Choked to death with a cable. Nasty business all around.”

  The captain was forced to agree. “It certainly was.”

  “There’ve been plenty of tragedies in my family,” Stiles told him somberly. “We lost a half-dozen brave souls in the Romulan Wars alone. But choked to death with a cable ...”

  “Sir?” said Rayburn, who was seated closer to Kirk than Matthews was.

  The captain turned to him, glad for the opportunity to speak to someone besides the morbid Stiles. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “Is it true what they say about Lieutenant Mitchell and Dr. Dehner?” Rayburn asked. “That they died heroes as well?”

  “I don’t know what’s being said,” Kirk told him, adjusting his cast again, “and as you know, I’m not at liberty to discuss the details. However, my log reflects that Lieutenant Mitchell and Dr. Dehner died in the line of duty. That should tell you something.”

  Rayburn thought about it for a moment, then smiled. “Thank you, sir. I think I understand.”

  [9] He didn’t, of course. The security officer didn’t have any inkling of the fate that had befallen Lieutenant Mitchell and Dr. Dehner. But then, that was the way the captain wanted it.

  After all, neither Mitchell nor Dehner had asked to become something more than human. Neither of them had wanted to hurt their colleagues in any way. With that in mind, it wouldn’t have been fair to label them monsters in the official record.

  A moment later, Kirk’s attention was drawn to the lectern, where Scotty was standing and making a point of clearing his throat. Kirk gave the engineer his attention. So did everyone else eventually, even the crewmen forced to stand in the back.

  Scotty looked around. “Ye all know why we’re gathered today, in such numbers it puts the size o’ this wee, cramped chapel t’ shame. We’re here t’ say goodbye and godspeed to our friend, Lee Kelso.”

  A murmur of agreement ran through the assemblage. After all, Kelso had been one of their favorites. He had enriched a lot of lives in his short time on the Enterprise.

  The engineer gestured and a man-sized duranium container, supported by an antigravity cart, appeared in the chapel’s doorway. The man and woman attending the container, both of them ensigns in the science section, guided it into the room and positioned it next to Scotty.

  Taking a moment to consider it, the engineer smiled a wistful smile. “If Kelso were here with us now, I believe he’d be wonderin’ what all the fuss was about. After all, he’d say, he was just doin’ his duty—[10] what any one of us would’ve done under the same circumstances. As ye know, he wasn’t one t’ toot his own horn.”

  True enough, the captain thought. Kelso had been so self-effacing at times, Kirk had felt the urge to grab the helmsman and impose on him how important his contribution was.

  At the lectern, the Scotsman shrugged. “I don’t have to tell ye we were competitors, Kelso and I. Sure, he was a helmsman by trade, but the man prided himself on his engineerin’ ability and his overall efficiency. And, as ye may have noticed, so do I.”

  The captain couldn’t help but chuckle at the remark. He wasn’t alone in that regard.

  “The day I met him,” Scotty continued, “Kelso had just come over from the Potemkin. I found the lad putterin’ around on a catwalk in engineerin’, his face screwed up tight in concentration, makin’ wee adjustments to the deuterium injectors.”

  Kirk could picture Kelso doing something like that. There was another ripple of laughter from the audience.

  “When I asked him what he was up to,” said Scotty, “he told me he was tryin’ t’ get a bit more power out o’ the engines. Apparently, some idiot of a chief engineer had everythin’ set in the wrong ratio
s.”

  This time, the laughter was louder—loud enough to echo from the bulkheads. Scotty grinned and shook his head.

  “As ye know,” he said, “Kelso and I were often on landing party teams together. What ye may nae know [11] is that we used t’ race like wee lads t’ see who could make it to the transporter pad first.”

  Really, Kirk thought. Had he been aware of something like that, he would have put a stop to it. Unfortunately, Kelso wouldn’t be doing any more racing, so the issue had become academic.

  “Of course,” Scotty noted, “I had a decided advantage, considerin’ the bridge is farther from the transporter room than engineerin’ is. And anyway, I never had t’ wait for a replacement before I could take off. All I ever had t’ do was give a few orders and be on my way.”

  That must have frustrated Kelso no end, Kirk mused. The man hated to come in second in anything—even tic-tac-toe.

  “Then,” the engineer continued, “a few weeks ago, we ran into that Ceebriian derelict near Alpha Ortelina Seven, and the captain asked me and Kelso t’ meet him in the transporter room.” He shrugged. “Mind ye, havin’ anticipated the summons, I was as ready as I’d ever been in my life. I left engineerin’ at a brisk but confident pace, knowin’ there was nae way Kelso could beat me to my destination.

  “And yet,” said Scotty, “when I reached the transporter room, there the lad was—grinnin’ as if he’d swallowed th’ galaxy’s largest canary. And he was nae even breathin’ heavy, a sure sign I’d been hoodwinked.”

  The engineer shook his head. “It was nae until the next day that I forced the truth out o’ the rascal. With the help of a transporter operator who’ll remain [12] nameless for her own good, he had reprogrammed the bloody controls—fixin’ it so a signal from the helm console would activate a special subroutine. A minute later, by which time Kelso would already have entered the turbolift, the transporter would activate itself—and he’d be beamed directly to the transporter platform.”