Constitution

by Michael Jan Friedman

  The Dedderac nodded. “Of course.”

  With a faint, sad smile, the younger man headed for the nearest turbolift, leaving the incident behind him. With all the nightmarish things he had on his mind, Gaynor’s fit simply hadn’t fazed him very much.

  But then, these days, few things did.

  * * *

  Damn, thought Mitchell, rushing along the corridor so quickly it might have been easier for him to break into a run. Of all the times for his chronometer to go on the blink.

  His friend Jim would be angry with him. He was sure of it. The man hated to be kept waiting more than anything, and Mitchell had been guilty of it so many times he had no credibility left.

  If this had happened at some other time and in some other place, the navigator wouldn’t have felt quite so bad about it. But Jim had been acting so strangely since he came on board, Mitchell had really wanted to shepherd him through whatever he was going through.

  It’s difficult to do that when you can’t even show up on time for lunch, he told himself. Damn that chronometer!

  In his haste, the junior officer passed several crewmen going in the other direction and then overtook a few others. They all stared at him, no doubt wondering why he was in such a hurry.

  Finally, he spun around a corner and got the rec lounge in his sights. He pelted down the last stretch of hallway and then slowed down just before he hit the double set of red doors. Taking a deep breath, he waited for them to open for him.

  A moment later, they whispered apart, revealing the lounge and everything in it. The place was pretty crowded, Mitchell thought, even for lunchtime. However, it didn’t take him more than a quick look to determine that his friend wasn’t there.

  Seeing Lynch, Velasquez, and Jankowski sitting together, the navigator went over to their table. “You didn’t, by any chance, see Jim Kirk here?” he asked his fellow officers.

  “As a matter of fact,” said the chief engineer, “we did. He left just a couple of moments ago.”

  Mitchell frowned. “Thanks.” He started for the exit.

  “Gary!” Lynch called out.

  The navigator turned. “Yes?”

  “There was a little trouble,” the science officer told him.

  Concerned, Mitchell found himself sitting down with the others. “What kind of trouble? Is Jim all right?”

  “He’s fine,” said Velasquez. “All that happened is he spilled his meal on Jack Gaynor. It was an accident, of course. But under the circumstances, Jack took it personally.”

  “Circumstances?” the navigator echoed.

  Lynch turned to the doctor. “He doesn’t know.”

  Mitchell looked at the science officer. “Know what?”

  That was when Velasquez told him about Gaynor’s aspiration to become the Constitution’s second officer—an aspiration thwarted by Kirk’s appointment to the post. Suddenly, the navigator understood.

  “Gaynor resents Jim,” he said. “So when Jim spilled his food on Gaynor, the guy blew up.”

  “Something like that,” Jankowski confirmed.

  “Jack tossed his tray at the refuse slot and started to stalk out of here,” Lynch related. “And if our erstwhile First Officer Hirota hadn’t taken him to task, that’s the way it would have ended. As it was, Jack apologized and put the tray where it belonged.”

  Mitchell grunted. “And what did Jim do?”

  The officers looked at one another. Jankowski shrugged.

  “Not much of anything, really,” she replied. “He just stood there. When Jack was gone and Kirk was picking up his dishes, we went over to him—tried to explain why Jack acted the way he did.”

  “Just the way we explained it to you,” Lynch added.

  “And how did he react?” the navigator asked.

  Again, his colleagues exchanged glances. “He still pretty much just stood there,” the science officer told him. “Then he got some more food and went off to eat by himself.”

  Just the way he used to at the Academy, Mitchell thought. But in those days, it hadn’t been Kirk’s choice to remain apart from society—it was just the way things had worked out.

  “Is … Kirk all right?” Jankowski wondered.

  The navigator turned to Velasquez. “I believe that’s a question for the chief medical officer here.”

  Velasquez smiled. “You know I can’t discuss the man’s medical records. But if you’re asking me as a friend and not a doctor, I’d say he’s got something on his mind.”

  “That’s how it seems to me, too,” Mitchell noted.

  Lynch regarded him. “Did you ask Kirk about it?”

  The navigator nodded. “He didn’t exactly seem eager to comment, but I think it has something to do with the Farragut. I mean, he got a commendation and all, but I wonder if some of his friends got hurt in the course of whatever happened—or maybe even died.”

  “Is that one of your patented flashes of insight?” Jankowski asked.

  Mitchell looked at her. “Could be. I just wish the flash were a little brighter so I could figure out my pal’s problem.”

  No one said anything after that. Sighing, the navigator got up and pulled down on the front of his uniform.

  “I guess I ought to look in on him. I have an apology to make for showing up late,” he said.

  As his comrades wished him luck, Mitchell left the buzz of the rec lounge and headed for the nearest turbolift. He felt sorry for his friend. He plumbed his imagination for a way to cheer the man up—a way to take his mind off whatever was bothering him.

  By the time the lift doors hissed apart for him, he had an idea. What’s more, it was one he had used with success in the past. Unfortunately, when he reached Deck Four and the doors opened again, he hadn’t come up with anything else to use as a backup.

  The navigator’s door was the fifth one on the right. Jim’s was two doors before it, on the same side of the corridor. Mitchell stopped there and gave the internal sensor a chance to register his presence.

  Before too long, the door slid away, revealing the interior of his friend’s quarters. Jim was standing in the middle of a surprisingly bare-walled anteroom, looking weary and put upon. He didn’t at all seem like the man with whom the navigator had gone through the Academy.

  “You were late,” said the second officer, but the remark didn’t have the fire of an accusation. It was just a statement of fact.

  “I was,” Mitchell conceded. “Sorry about that.”

  Kirk looked at him a moment longer, as if he were going to say something else. Then he just turned and retreated to his workstation, where it appeared he had been working on something.

  The navigator came around behind his friend to find out what was on the monitor screen. He wasn’t surprised to see a three-dimensional-chess program in operation. After all, the game had become Kirk’s passion by the time he graduated the Academy, even more so than racquetball or gymnastics.

  At that particular juncture, only a couple of moves had been made. Mitchell smiled. “I’d give you some advice,” he told his friend, “but I doubt I could suggest anything you hadn’t already thought of.”

  The second officer didn’t answer. He just tapped in another move and watched as it was reflected on the monitor screen.

  “You know,” the navigator ventured, “Mr. Borrik is pretty good at this. I bet he’d give you a run for your money.”

  Still no answer. Kirk just continued to stare at the chess pieces arrayed on the screen.

  “What do you say?” Mitchell asked. “Should I see if he’s got time for a game later on?”

  Finally, his friend spared him a glance. “No, thanks,” he answered softly. “I’m content to try my luck against the computer.” Then he turned back to his virtual chess game.

  The navigator sighed. So much for that approach. But he still had the ammunition with which he had armed himself in the turbolift.

  “Listen,” he said, “I happened to run into Ensign Lidell last night. You know who I mean? The sle
nder redhead with the amazing green eyes and the legs that go forever? Anyway, I bet she’d love to tour the botanical garden with the Constitution’s dashing new second officer.”

  Kirk shook his head. “Maybe another time.”

  “But, Jim,” Mitchell protested, kneeling down next to his friend to get the man’s attention, “I didn’t mention a time.”

  The second officer looked at him. “I appreciate what you’re doing,” he said, “trying to make me feel at home here and all. But really, I’m fine the way I am. All right?”

  There wasn’t a whole lot the navigator could say to that. “Sure,” he managed. “Whatever you say.”

  Kirk nodded. “Thanks.”

  Then he went back to his chess program.

  Gary stared at him. There had to be a way to snap his friend out of his malaise, he told himself. But at the moment, he didn’t have any idea what that way might be.

  Chapter Seven

  KIRK HAD BEEN sitting behind the Constitution’s sleek, black helm controls for a good half hour, running diagnostic after red-screened diagnostic to keep his nightmares at bay, when he heard a beep. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Lieutenant Borrik swivel himself away from his communication panel.

  “Captain?” said the Dedderac, an undertone of urgency in his voice.

  Captain Augenthaler, who had been going over inventory reports with Yeoman Ferris, turned in his chair to face Borrik. So did Kirk and everyone else on the bridge—his friend Gary, Science Officer Lynch, Chief Engineer Jankowski, and Commander Hirota.

  “Yes, Lieutenant?” the captain responded.

  “Sir,” said the communications officer, “I have a message for you from Starfleet Command … for your eyes only.”

  “Is that so?” said Augenthaler. Rising from his center seat, he glanced at his yeoman. “We’ll continue this later,” he told her.

  “Aye, sir,” Ferris responded.

  “Commander Hirota,” said the captain as he moved to the turbolift, “you have the conn. I’ll be in the briefing room.”

  Finishing his work at one of the peripheral stations, the first officer nodded. “Acknowledged, sir.”

  Then the lift doors opened for Augenthaler and he entered the compartment. The doors had barely closed again before Kirk saw the bridge officers exchanging curious glances.

  “The captain’s eyes only,” Jankowski noted from her place at the engineering console, just to one side of the lift doors. “Sounds ominous.”

  “Maybe it’s the Klingons again,” Lynch ventured, caught in the crimson glare of his science station monitors.

  “It’s always the Klingons,” the engineer shot back at him.

  “Maybe it’s war this time,” said the science officer, a devilish expression spreading across his face.

  “Bite your tongue,” Hirota told him, getting up and crossing to the captain’s chair. “The last thing we need now is another Donatu Five.”

  “I thought we won that battle,” Gary said.

  “We did,” the first officer replied, “but not before both sides suffered heavy casualties.” He turned to Lynch. “I’d keep that in mind before I tempted fate with any clever remarks.”

  “Sorry, sir,” said the science officer, though it was clear his apology was only half-serious.

  Kirk could tell from their banter that these people liked each other. Part of him wanted to be liked by them as well. But then, he had felt that way about Captain Garrovick and his staff, and it had made it all the more painful when the life was sucked out of them.

  He would maintain his distance from this crew, the second officer promised himself. He would keep them at arm’s length—all of them, including his friend Gary. After all, he had all the ghosts he could handle.

  Just as he thought that, the turbolift door opened again with a rush of air, and Captain Augenthaler walked out. His expression was a pensive one as he returned to his seat and sat down.

  No one asked a question of him, but it was in the air nonetheless. What’s more, Augenthaler seemed to know it.

  “We’ve received new orders,” he said.

  New orders, Kirk thought. There was a time when those words would have stirred his sense of adventure. No longer, though. Now he was just trying to cope, just trying to maintain his sanity.

  “Mr. Kirk,” said the captain.

  The helmsman turned in his chair. “Yes, sir?”

  “Bring us about, heading two seven eight mark four,” Augenthaler told him crisply, his small blue eyes looking more intense than usual. “And while you’re at it, Lieutenant, increase speed to warp six.”

  “Aye, sir,” Kirk replied, implementing the changes in course and velocity through his helm controls. A series of short, shrill sounds punctuated his actions.

  Hirota moved to the side of the captain’s chair. “I don’t suppose you’d care to let us in on where we’re going, sir.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Augenthaler, “I can’t do that, Commander. And not because it’s classified.” His frown deepened. “It’s because I don’t know myself. We’ve been asked by Command to proceed on this course until we receive further instructions. Period, end of transmission.”

  The first officer absorbed the information. “Well, then,” he declared, “I guess that’s what we’ll do.”

  The captain stroked his rounded chin. “On the other hand,” he said thoughtfully, “there’s nothing to keep us from gathering as much information as we can.” He glanced at Gary. “Is there, Lieutenant Mitchell?”

  “No, sir,” said the junior officer. His fingers were already flying over his navigational controls, the red and green graphics on his monitor screens changing rapidly. “No reason at all.”

  Clearly, Kirk mused, Augenthaler trusted his bridge crew implictly. Otherwise, the captain would never have asked his people to investigate what Starfleet obviously wanted kept under wraps.

  “Anything, Mr. Mitchell?” Augenthaler wondered out loud.

  Gary was studying one of his secondary navigation monitors, where he had called up a three-dimensional coordinate matrix. “Nothing much, sir,” he replied after a moment or two. “Ultimately, of course, we’re headed for the heart of the Klingon Neutral Zone, but there doesn’t seem to be anything of real significance between here and there—just a single star system with three unoccupied planets.”

  Then the navigator’s brow furrowed—as if he had noticed something unusual after all. But he didn’t say anything more.

  Unable to see Gary’s face, the captain grunted and leaned back in his chair. “There must be something, Mr. Mitchell—even if it’s a situation only Starfleet has any knowledge of.”

  But Gary seemed to have some knowledge of it, too. The more Kirk stared at his friend, the more he studied Gary’s expression, the more certain he was that Gary knew something.

  Intrigued, the helmsman decided to figure out why. Calling up a blood-red coordinate matrix of his own, he scanned it to see what systems or starbases might lie near their new course. But as Gary had indicated, there wasn’t anything noteworthy in their path. Just that lone star and its planets, a handful of light-years from the Klingon Neutral Zone.

  Strange, Kirk thought. He could have sworn that his friend had discovered something interesting.

  Then, as if the navigator had heard the helmsman’s question, he turned and regarded him. Slowly and unobtrusively, Gary’s finger moved in a circle around a particular part of his secondary monitor screen—encompassing a handful of the hundreds of emerald-green coordinates in the matrix he had created.

  At first, Kirk didn’t understand what his friend was trying to say. What was it about that portion of the matrix that he was supposed to recognize? What meaning was it supposed to have for him?

  Then it hit him.

  My god, he thought. It was the same part of space he and Gary had visited all those years ago … a place where they had been part of something dark and mysterious, though neither he nor his friend had ever learned what that so
mething might be.

  Now they were going back to that part of the void, a sector seldom visited by Federation ships or anyone else. If luck was with them, Kirk mused, they would get an opportunity to plumb the mystery again—and maybe this time get to the bottom of it.

  He raised his eyes and met Gary’s look. I get it, he answered silently. What’s more, he had figured out why his friend couldn’t let the captain in on his conjecture.

  After all, they had sworn never to talk about it. Not with anyone—their commanding officers included. And despite Gary’s casual ways, he had always been a man of his word.

  * * *

  From the moment Mitchell had realized where the Constitution might be headed, he had been itching to talk to Kirk about it. But as long as he was at the navigation console, he couldn’t do that.

  So he waited patiently for his shift to end, enduring each moment as if it were an hour and each hour as if it were a week. Finally, the time began to approach when the navigator could turn his responsibilities over to another crewman and share his excitement with his friend.

  Then, when Mitchell was less than half an hour from the end of his shift, he heard a beep from Borrik’s communications console. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Dedderac stir and say, “I have another call for you, Captain. Eyes only, as before.”

  Augenthaler looked back over his shoulder. “From Starfleet Command again?” he inquired.

  Borrik shook his striped head from side to side. “No, sir. This time it’s from Starbase Twenty-nine. An Admiral Mangione.”

  Mitchell felt a thrill go up and down his spine. He’d been right about their heading, hadn’t he? And Mangione’s involvement in the mission was proof of it.

  Seven years earlier, he and Kirk had been cadets on the starship Republic, dispatched on a routine training mission not far from the Klingon border. Rollin Bannock had been the captain on that voyage … and Ellen Mangione had been the first officer.

  For a while, everything had gone according to plan. Then, one night as they skirted the Klingon neutral zone, Mangione had gotten on the intercom system and ordered all cadets to confine themselves to their quarters. Naturally, Kirk did as the first officer told him. So did Mitchell, albeit a good deal more reluctantly.