“Sorry, sir,” Hirota responded, straight-faced. “We didn’t mean to have a good time in your absence.”
There were smiles all around. Mitchell smiled as well, certain that Augenthaler would take the first officer’s remark in the spirit in which it had been tendered.
“Apology accepted,” said the captain. He made a gesture to include everyone in the room. “As you were, people.”
The room began to buzz again, though not quite as loudly as before. After all, nearly everyone present wanted to know what Augenthaler was up to.
The captain took in his command staff with a glance. “If you can all stop chuckling for a moment, I’d like you to meet our new lieutenant ... Jim Kirk.”
Mitchell grinned. It was good to see the old curmudgeon again. In fact, it was damned good. And [92] wasn’t it just typical of Kirk to look like he’d lost his best pal when everyone around him was in such a good mood?
As long as Mitchell had known him, Kirk had always been a bit too serious for his own good. And every time it seemed the man had loosened up a little, he did something to demonstrate conclusively that he was still the same stick-in-the-mud as always.
Mitchell’s impulse was to wrap an arm around Kirk’s shoulders and present the lieutenant to the command staff. However, that job belonged to Captain Augenthaler, and the last thing a junior officer wanted to do was step on his commanding officer’s toes.
“Lieutenant Kirk,” said the captain, “allow me to introduce my staff. My first officer, Commander Akira Hirota.”
Hirota inclined his head. “Welcome to the Constitution, Lieutenant. I look forward to working with you.”
“Likewise, sir,” Kirk replied.
Augenthaler went on. “And this,” he said with a sweep of his arm, “is Christina Velasquez, my chief medical officer.”
The doctor was a slight woman with long, dark hair and light blue eyes, who had remained on the periphery of the conversation until that moment. She smiled warmly at the newcomer. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Kirk. Mr. Mitchell has seen to that.”
Kirk acknowledged the CMO’s comment with a nod. “I’m pleased to meet you too, Doctor.”
Next, the captain identified Lieutenant Lynch, the [93] science officer, and Chief Gaynor, who was in charge of security on the ship. Gaynor was a barrel-chested, powerful-looking man. Like Velasquez, he had remained relatively aloof to that point.
“Good to make your acquaintance,” said Lynch.
“Same here,” Gaynor muttered.
Kirk responded as Mitchell would have expected—politely and economically—but he seemed unusually reserved, even for a stick-in-the-mud. Maybe the guy’s a little nervous, Mitchell told himself. Yeah, that’s it. After all, this is his first assignment as second officer of a starship, and he wants to make the most of it.
“This,” said Augenthaler, making his way around the room, “is Anita Jankowski, the Constitution’s chief engineer. And beside her is Mr. Borrik, our communications officer.”
Borrik was a Dedderac, one of the first aliens Mitchell had ever served alongside. In keeping with his people’s traditions, he inclined his long, striped head and held his slender hands out, palms up—an offer of friendship and peace.
Jankowski was less formal. “Nice to have you aboard,” she said.
“Nice to be aboard,” Kirk told her. But there was no real animation in his voice. He seemed cool almost to the point of disinterest.
The captain must not have noticed, because he went on with his introductions. “Finally,” he said, “someone I believe you know.” He indicated Mitchell with a jerk of his thumb. “Our navigator, God help us.”
Kirk turned to him and their eyes met. But even then, seeing the pal he hadn’t spoken to in months, there wasn’t any real life in him. It was as if the lieutenant hardly knew him.
Strange, Mitchell thought.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said.
“Fancy that,” Kirk responded.
But there was none of the old warmth in his voice, none of the old camaraderie. At that point, Mitchell had to wonder if Kirk’s problem was more than mere nervousness.
Augenthaler put his hand on Kirk’s shoulder. “Of course, you’ll be spending most of your time at the helm, Lieutenant. And when you’re there, Mr. Mitchell will be paired with you as navigator.”
Kirk nodded. “Thank you,” he told the captain.
“Don’t mention it,” said Augenthaler. “Just do the job I know you’re capable of, Mr. Kirk, and that’ll be thanks enough.”
A moment later, the captain dismissed everyone and sent them about their business. As it happened, Mitchell and his friend were the last to remain standing in the lounge.
By then, the crewmen seated around them seemed to have lost interest in Augenthaler’s meeting. They were playing chess, filling their mugs and exchanging jokes again.
Kirk glanced at Mitchell, but he didn’t say anything. He just stood there with a funny, blank look in his eyes. The junior officer wasn’t sure why his friend looked so distant, so disoriented, but he was determined to bring him out of it.
“How do you like that?” he asked, grinning. [95] “Mitchell and Kirk, back in business again and more black-hearted than ever. If I were Starfleet, I’d be putting out warning beacons all over the sector.”
His friend looked at him. “That’s funny,” he said, but without a whole lot of conviction.
Mitchell returned the look. “You okay, Jim?”
Kirk didn’t answer him. He just looked away.
When the man spoke again, it was about something else entirely. “By the way,” he said, “thanks for putting in a good word for me here. On the Constitution, I mean.”
Mitchell shrugged. “No problem whatsoever. For some reason, the captain seems to respect my opinion in such matters ... even if I voice it more frequently than he’d like.”
Kirk smiled, but it was a shadow of what it should have been. What it had been, back at the Academy.
“Besides,” Mitchell added slyly, “you weren’t very hard to sell. I mean, the hero of the Farragut? Augenthaler couldn’t wait to get his captainly hands on you.”
His friend nodded, but his mind seemed light-years away. “Hero of the Farragut. That’s a good one,” he said.
Funny, Mitchell thought. Kirk sounded almost bitter about what he had done on the Farragut. But as far as anyone had heard—and admittedly, it wasn’t very much, since Starfleet Command had kept it tightly under wraps—his friend had exhibited great courage and presence of mind. According to one rumor, he had saved the lives of the entire crew.
But maybe he hadn’t saved everyone, the navigator [96] realized, experiencing one of his special flashes of insight. Maybe a few of Kirk’s friends on the Farragut had gotten hurt or died. And maybe he was worrying about them, or even mourning their loss.
Yeah, Mitchell told himself. That would explain the way the man’s acting. Hell, I’d be acting that way too, under the circumstances.
“Jim,” he said, “something happened on the Farragut, didn’t it? Something that’s got you down?”
Kirk’s eyes seemed to recede into his skull. “I think I’m going to like it here,” he said, changing the subject. It came out mechanically, as if he’d practiced saying it in front of a mirror.
Damn, Mitchell thought. It’s worse than him acting like he doesn’t know me. It’s like he’s not even here.
He felt a desperate need to fan a spark in his friend, to make it seem like old times. For a second or two, he plumbed his memory for something optimistic, something upbeat.
“Hey,” he said finally, “I heard Finney forgave you.”
Ben Finney had been Kirk’s friend at the Academy until an unfortunate incident came between them. One night on a training flight, Kirk had relieved Finney on watch and found an open circuit that could have blown up the ship. Kirk closed the circuit and logged the incident, earning Finney a reprimand ... and last place on the all-important promo
tion list.
Afterward, Finney had felt betrayed. After all, Kirk was his pal—he could have overlooked the incident. But when it came to the safety of the crew, Kirk went strictly by the book, no exceptions.
[97] Mitchell hadn’t always liked that about him. But at the moment, he would’ve settled even for that Kirk. Anything was better than the one standing in front of him.
“Is it true?” Mitchell asked.
Kirk sighed. “Yes,” he said softly. “We’re friends again.”
He didn’t sound very happy about it—and yet, Kirk’s guilt about the incident had haunted him for a long time. If Finney had let him off the hook, Kirk should have been ecstatic.
Mitchell’s lips pressed together. This wasn’t good, he told himself. This wasn’t good at all.
He had looked forward to picking up where he and Kirk had left off. He had looked forward to their being a team again. But his friend seemed so melancholy, so faraway ... and maybe something else as well, though Mitchell couldn’t put his finger on it despite his powers of intuition.
Someone started playing some music on an alien flute. It was light, upbeat, optimistic ... and grotesquely inappropriate, given the tone of the officers’ conversation.
“I guess I’ll show you to your quarters,” Mitchell said, feeling that he had lost a battle of some kind.
Kirk nodded. “That’d be great.”
Yeah, the junior officer thought. Great. “Come on,” he told his friend. “They’re on Deck Four, right near mine.”
And he led the way.
Chapter Six
AS KIRK WALKED the long, straight corridor that led to the rec lounge, he kept his eyes straight ahead and tried not to think about what he might find if he looked at the floor.
After all, the Constitution and the Farragut were sister ships. Everything about the vessels was identical except for the commissioning plaques on their bridges. Given all those similarities, it was difficult for the second officer to keep from glancing at the deck here and there and seeing the faces of his dead comrades staring up at him.
Pavano, Gilhooley, Keyes, Poquette ... all of them blue-lipped and pale as ivory, all of them drained of their life’s blood through an invisible wound, all of them caught at their moment of greatest terror.
It’s all right, Kirk told himself, managing to stay [99] calm. They’re not here. You left them all behind on the Farragut, remember?
Of course, the lieutenant had never truly believed otherwise, even at the worst of times. He had never gone insane enough to think his friends’ corpses were following him from place to place, crying out for retribution. Nonetheless, their likenesses were emblazoned on Kirk’s brain, branded there like ghostly afterimages, and he was afraid it would be a long time before those images faded.
Turning a corner, the lieutenant saw the double doors of the rec lounge up ahead. They parted well before he got there, letting out two of his crewmates. Kirk didn’t look them in the eye. He just continued walking, the doors remaining open for him until he got past them.
Only then did he look around. There were a good twenty or twenty-five people in the lounge, but Gary wasn’t one of them. The second officer sighed. His friend was late and he was hungry—and knowing Gary, there was no telling when he might show up.
Another time, years earlier, he might have gotten mad at Gary. He might have had words with him about his paying more attention to the time. But not anymore. Now, Kirk couldn’t have cared less.
He decided to get some food and sit down somewhere. If his friend arrived any time in the next half hour or so, he could join him. If not, he would see Gary another time.
Picking up a tray from a stack at one end of the counter, the lieutenant slid it along until he got to the food slot. There, with a series of beeps, he punched in [100] his meager requirements—a tuna casserole and a cup of black coffee.
Not that it mattered much what he ordered. Nothing seemed very good to him these days. It was as if his taste buds had died along with Captain Garrovick and the others on the Farragut.
Garrovick, he thought, as he picked up his tray and turned around. It still hurt to recall the man. Garrovick had liked him, treated him almost like a son. And how had he—
“What the hell!” someone cried.
Before Kirk knew it, he had come nose to nose with the person. The second officer’s tray, wedged between them, flipped forward and deposited its contents on the other man’s uniform.
It took him a moment to realize the other man was Jack Gaynor.
The security chiefs mouth twisted in anger, and he started to reach for the front of Kirk’s shirt. Then he seemed to remember he was dealing with a superior officer. Red-faced, the muscles in his jaw rippling, Gaynor took a breath and let it out.
“Sorry, sir,” he muttered. “Clumsy of me.”
Aware that everyone in the room was staring at him, the second officer shook his head. “No, Chief, it was my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was—”
But before he could say anything more, Gaynor held his hand up. “Don’t,” he snarled almost menacingly, his shirtfront wet and stained and giving off wisps of steam. And then, in an only slightly less antagonistic tone, “Just don’t, all right?”
Then he turned and flipped Kirk’s empty tray at the [101] refuse aperture. The thing missed and clattered to the floor, but Gaynor didn’t bother to pick it up. He just headed for the doors.
A voice rang out. “Just a minute, mister!”
As the echoes died, the security chief stopped in his tracks and turned around. Hirota was bearing down on him like a photon torpedo, his expression vastly different from that of the friendly, easygoing man who had welcomed the second officer aboard the ship.
“Sir?” said Gaynor, glancing not at the first officer but at Kirk. His eyes were full of anger and resentment.
“If I were you,” Hirota told him in a clipped voice, “I’d apologize to Lieutenant Kirk. Then I’d pick up that tray and be grateful I wasn’t tossed in the brig for acting like a child.”
Gaynor stared at Hirota for a moment, then turned to the second officer. “I hope you’ll excuse my behavior, sir,” he said. But his tone still had an arrogance about it.
As Kirk and the first officer and everyone else in the rec lounge watched, the security chief knelt and picked up the errant tray and placed it in the proper slot. Then, without another word, he made his exit.
The second officer shook his head. The whole thing had been his fault, just as he said. He had been thinking about the people on the Farragut and Gaynor had paid the price for it.
If he couldn’t maneuver around the rec lounge, Kirk thought, what good was he going to be at the helm of a starship? What good was he going to be as a second officer?
[102] The brief moment of excitement over and done with, a buzz of conversation began to fill the room again. Little by little, the place was returning to normal.
Bending down, Kirk recovered his plasticware, his casserole dish and his coffee cup. As he got to his feet, he found himself surrounded by Lynch, Velasquez, and Jankowski. Still holding the casserole dish and the empty coffee cup in his hands, he looked around at the three of them and wondered what they wanted from him.
“Pay no attention to Chief Gaynor,” said the science officer. “He’s always been a hothead.”
“Lynch is right,” Velasquez agreed. “He can’t accept the fact that he was passed over for second officer.”
“Second officer?” Kirk echoed.
“A little while before you got the job,” Jankowski explained. “I think you get the picture.”
The helmsman nodded. “I think so, yes.”
It was pretty obvious. Gaynor was a career officer, and Kirk was a man several years his junior—an upstart, in the security chiefs eyes. It was no wonder the man harbored some resentment.
“Anyway,” Jankowski went on, “I don’t see what all the fuss is about.” She glanced at Hirota, who was standing across the room. “It’s no
t like our first officer is ever going to need replacing.”
Hirota must have overheard, because he looked back at her. The engineer smiled at him. Clearly, Kirk thought, there was a bond between them that went beyond mere camaraderie.
[103] “Thanks for your support,” the second officer told his fellow officers. “But, really, I don’t need it. I’m fine.”
They regarded him. “You’re sure?” asked Lynch.
“I’m sure,” Kirk replied.
Dumping the remains of his first lunch in the appropriate aperture, he went and got another one. Then he found a seat at an empty table, where the friendly chatter wasn’t quite so loud. As he put his tray down, he saw that Lynch, Velasquez, and Jankowski were still standing where he had left them, watching him. Finally, they returned to their places on the other side of the room, and he began to eat his food.
No doubt his colleagues were wondering about his solitary behavior, trying to divine if it was Gaynor’s outburst that had caused it. Of course, Gaynor had nothing to do with it. Kirk just didn’t want to be in a position where he would have to make small talk with strangers.
It was hard enough for the second officer to maintain his composure if he just fixed his gaze on his tray. If he looked around too much, he might begin to remember what it had been like in the Farragut’s rec lounge before the disaster, and he wanted to avoid that at all costs.
He had believed that it would help him to sign on with the Constitution—to leap back into the fray with both feet. Wasn’t that what he’d always been told? If you’re afraid of something, confront it. Go nose to nose with it. Show your fear who’s boss.
But now, Kirk was starting to wonder if coming [104] here had been such a good idea after all. The last thing he wanted was to crack under the strain and become useless to his fellow crewmen.
Abruptly, he realized his casserole dish was empty. Likewise, his coffee cup, except for a thin film on the bottom. Getting up, the second officer brought his tray to the refuse slot and emptied it. Then he crossed the room and left the mess hall, its voices dying behind him.
STAR TREK: TOS #86 - My Brother's Keeper, Book Two - Constitution Page 8