Captain's Glory

by William Shatner

  “You’ve given me seven missions this past year. I took them all.”

  “You completed four.”

  “You called off my surveillance mission to the Neutral Zone before I could reach it. The Andorian political prisoner you asked me to ‘escort’ to Deep Space Nine died en route—complications of torture.”

  “Suffered at the hands of the Klingons,” Janeway said as she carefully placed her untouched coffee on the galley countertop. “Not Starfleet.”

  “So that only leaves one mission in contention,” Kirk said.

  “There’s no contention. You were ordered to Inver Three. You refused to go. And a Starfleet covert observer team was lost as a result. Which brings us back to your court-martial.”

  “My son is on this ship,” Kirk said. “My friends, Bones and Scotty. All of us civilians. Inver Three was unsafe. You needed to send in a recovery team. Not a spy ship.”

  “You were the recovery team,” Janeway said accusingly. “An extraction team never would have made it through planetary defenses. But the Belle Rêve wouldn’t have been questioned. Six men and two women would be alive today except for your refusal to obey orders.”

  “If you had asked me, I would have gone. But I don’t put the innocent in harm’s way. And the Starfleet I know wouldn’t think of it.”

  That was when Kirk decided he had had enough of explaining and defending himself—to Janeway, and to Starfleet. He turned his back on such reminders of his old life. He headed for the open door that led to the central corridor, and his new life.

  Kirk stepped into the corridor, remembering to duck his head while passing through the small hatch opening; the painful lessons of a year on this cramped vessel had taught him to be more mindful. This main passageway—barely wide enough for two people to stand side by side—was similarly constricted. Anyone taller than two meters had to contend with low-hanging overhead conduits and light fixtures.

  Behind him, he heard the clanking of Janeway’s boots on the corridor’s metal-grid decking.

  “Kirk—you can’t walk away from this. We had a deal.”

  Kirk kept moving toward the interdeck ladder. “My deal was that I wouldn’t place my crew in danger.” He couldn’t say it more plainly than that. A few quick steps more and he reached the ladder leading up to the bridge. The Belle Rêve had a single turbolift, but he preferred to climb whenever he could. The gym on the ship was little more than a treadmill with an erratic gravity adjustment.

  “Captain Kirk! Get back here.”

  Kirk shook his head as he looked up, one hand already on the ladder. “One of us might say something we’ll regret.”

  “Your friends might be civilians, but you’re not.”

  Janeway had reached the ladder. She put her hand over his. “I suspect you refused the mission to Inver Three because you were caught up in following some lead on Manassas.”

  Kirk steeled himself not to shake off her hand. He had no wish to offend the admiral. But neither would he let her stop him. “This ship is mine to use as I wish between Starfleet missions. You told me that yourself.”

  “Yes. Between missions. But if you refused one because you were on a mission of your own, that is unacceptable.”

  Kirk felt Janeway’s hand give his own a slight push before it dropped away, freeing him.

  He took a breath to center himself, was aware of the thrum of the ship’s warp generators, idling at standby, ready to burst into superluminal speeds at a single command from their captain. Kirk felt the pent-up energy of those engines move through him. He was unable to distinguish their needs from his own.

  He had to keep moving.

  Like his ship, he had been held in one place too long.

  He relinquished his grasp on the ladder and turned to face Janeway. “I’ve said all I can say. I’ve filed my report. I’ve listened to you express Starfleet’s interpretation of events. And here we are.” Emotion was gone from him, and in that moment of clarity and reflection his thoughts turned once again to Spock. We’re life, Jim….

  “You’ll never be able to court-martial me with what you have—even for a Starfleet tribunal, there’s too much room for reasonable doubt. So either take my ship from me now, or don’t. But let’s not waste any more time trying to resolve something that can’t be resolved.”

  “You’re willing to give this up?” Janeway said with open disbelief. It was clear to Kirk she meant the Belle Rêve.

  “I can always get another ship,” he said, though he knew he’d be hard-pressed to find one with this vessel’s capabilities. “And my friends and my son will come with me. So I really have nothing of value to lose.”

  Janeway took so long to reply that for a moment it seemed she’d given up. But she’d only changed strategy, and the rules of their engagement.

  “What if I told you the Starfleet team on Inver Three didn’t get killed by rebels?”

  Kirk didn’t know what point she was trying to make. “Then I’d say you still had a chance to get a recovery team in there to extract them.”

  “We don’t know where they are.”

  It was a simple statement, but there was something about the way Janeway said it that caught Kirk’s attention. He studied her, trying to read her expression. But the admiral had served many years with a Vulcan as well. Her self-control was the equal of his own.

  “What I’m about to tell you is classified far above what you’re cleared for,” Janeway said.

  Kirk forced himself to stay silent. If he was about to hear information Janeway thought it was necessary for him to know, how could he not be cleared for it? Of all of the ills of the past humanity had grown beyond, governmental bureaucracy remained as an echo of the dark ages.

  “The entire negotiating team disappeared,” Janeway said. “Within days of stopping the civil war on Inver Three, and bringing both sides together, and pulling that world back into the Federation.”

  Kirk was puzzled, and intrigued. Why was Janeway revealing this to him now? Especially since she had spent most of the past hour accusing him of complicity in the team’s death.

  “A planet’s a big place,” Kirk said, his tone neutral, all his senses alert to detect whatever else it was that Janeway was hiding from him.

  Janeway finally acknowledged their unspoken battle of wills by conceding. She smiled in resignation. “All right. So now, maybe Starfleet will have to court-martial both of us.”

  Kirk shrugged, waiting, not sure if this was just another ploy on the admiral’s part. “You get used to it.” He regarded her with curiosity, waiting.

  Janeway wasted no more of his time. “Over the past year and a half, one hundred and twenty-eight key Federation personnel have…vanished. If we count Ambassador Spock, it’s one hundred and twenty-nine.”

  Irrational hope flared in Kirk. “A pattern?” he asked.

  “Circumstantial,” Janeway cautioned. “But there is reason to believe that at least some of the disappearances are connected.”

  Kirk’s mind raced as he tried to find something in all he had learned about Spock and Norinda and the Jolan Movement of Romulus and Remus. Something that would suggest a link to other events.

  He could think of nothing.

  “Why did you wait so long to tell me?” Kirk asked. Had he wasted a year looking for Spock without the information he needed?

  “We don’t know who’s responsible,” Janeway admitted. “Starfleet Intelligence—”

  “Intelligence?” Kirk was surprised to hear that department was involved.

  “—is reluctant to declassify their investigations. They’re concerned whoever’s behind the disappearances might benefit from knowing that…we know nothing.”

  Kirk made himself ask the obvious question. “Has Starfleet Intelligence conducted an investigation into Spock’s disappearance?”

  Janeway nodded. “As part of their ongoing investigation of the other cases, they have.”

  “And?” Kirk asked.

  Janeway shook her head in
exasperation. “I’ll say it once more—I think it’s time we worked together.”

  Procedure over the welfare of individuals…Kirk felt the familiar heat of anger. Mindless rules of behavior…“I thought that’s what we were doing this past year.”

  “I don’t make policy, Captain. And you do have a reputation for not playing by the rules.”

  Kirk ignored the provocation to another argument. It was time to move on, though it appeared that, contrary to his first thoughts, he’d be moving on with Starfleet after all.

  He put both hands on the ladder. “If Starfleet’s going to help look for Spock, I want my crew to hear everything. No more secrecy. No more lies.” Before Janeway could protest, Kirk started to climb. “I’ll see you on the bridge.”

  By the time he’d reached A Deck, he understood exactly why someone would make one hundred twenty-nine Federation officials disappear over the past year and a half. Even without knowing their identities, Kirk was certain he would find an explanatory pattern in their professions and their areas of expertise—a pattern that would reveal why they were valuable to the Federation.

  Which meant that somewhere an enemy was gathering its forces, and the capture of Spock was not just an act of personal revenge; it was the first strike in a war that might already have begun.

  4

  U.S.S. TITAN NCC-80102, SALTON CROSS

  STARDATE 58552.2

  Riker didn’t hesitate. He gave his orders in a steady stream.

  “Send a priority distress call to the Araldii ship. Scan the radiation burst heading for us—look for any region where the intensity might be weaker than others. Conn—align us stern first to the direction of the blast. All personnel are to immediately proceed to the most forward sections of the main decks.”

  He tapped his combadge. “Riker to engineering. When will we have shields?”

  “Working on it, Captain. Two minutes…maybe three…”

  “Concentrate on the stern—I want every scrap of power put into aft shields. Turn off the gravity if you have to.”

  Troi was already at the communications station and had switched over to emergency power. “Captain—the Araldii ship has responded. They’re on their way.”

  More than anything else at this moment, Riker wanted to order his wife to the hangar deck; the Titan’s shuttlecraft could travel at warp to reach safety. But with main power offline, there was no time left to manually depressurize the deck to launch the shuttles or the captain’s skiff.

  Riker drove the wishful thinking and impossible dilemma from his mind. “Troi, ask Ship Leader Fortral if they can use their tractor beam at warp.”

  Lights flickered on the bridge as main power returned.

  Riker tapped his combadge. “Was that you, Doctor Ra-Havreii?”

  The chief engineer replied. “Power’s coming back…getting ready to divert it all to aft shields…”

  Riker became aware of Joanna Burke beside him.

  “It won’t be enough,” the astrophysicist said. “I know the specs of your shields. This close to a supernova…they won’t be adequate.”

  Lavena reported from the conn. “Radiation front is three minutes from arrival.”

  Riker turned to Burke. “You need to get to the mess hall on Deck Seven,” he urged her. “That’ll put the mass of the ship between you and whatever radiation gets past the shields.”

  The astrophysicist stood her ground. “If I’m going to die, I’d rather watch the sensors.”

  “Will, the Araldii ship has arrived,” Troi announced.

  “Onscreen,” Riker said, though he didn’t know if those systems had been restored.

  But the viewscreen switched on to reveal Ship Leader Fortral, floating among a web of netting on her ship’s zero-gravity bridge. Even though Riker had known her for less than two weeks, he could see that she was upset.

  “Captain Riker,” the Araldon said through the com circuit’s translator, “you’ve experienced a warp-core breach?”

  “That’s correct, Ship Leader. And there’s no time to install our backup.”

  Fortral’s secondary mouth opened for just an instant. It was a disconcerting sight, and Riker felt as if the alien’s face had gone out of focus. His eyes struggled to accept the image of two mouths, one over the other.

  “I regret we don’t have the ability to tow your ship at warp.”

  “Then tow us at impulse,” Riker said. “The farther away we are when the radiation hits, the better the chance our shields will be able to protect us.” Riker didn’t bother looking at Burke; he knew it was a long shot. Then he thought of another strategy. “Ship Leader Fortral—can your shields withstand the radiation at this distance?”

  Fortral looked up at something beyond the range of the visual sensor, as if checking a reading. “Barely.”

  At a nod from her captain, Lavena made her next report. “Radiation front is one minute, ten seconds from arrival.”

  “I won’t ask you to endanger yourselves for us,” Riker told Fortral truthfully. “But for whatever help you can provide, we will be grateful.”

  “Understood,” the Araldon replied.

  The screen went dead.

  “They’re leaving,” Troi said with surprise.

  Riker was startled. He had expected some kind of assistance. “Raise them again.”

  “No response.”

  The lights on the bridge of the Titan dimmed.

  “Engineering to bridge. Diverting all power to aft shields.”

  “Captain, one minute to radiation front,” Lavena said. The conn officer’s voice, produced by muscle contractions, not airflow, was subdued, uncertain.

  Riker leaned forward in his chair. His racing mind considered, discarded, reconsidered all his options, as limited as they were. He ran through everything he knew about supernovas…turned sharply in his chair.

  “Doctor Burke! If we detonate all our quantum torpedoes just ahead of the radiation front, can we create a pressure bubble? One that might absorb or divert at least some of the energy heading toward us?”

  Burke stared back at him, her gaze fixed as if she were attempting to solve all the equations his question required.

  “Yes or no, Doctor?”

  Burke did not respond at once, still lost in thought.

  Riker had no more time to waste. He twisted back to face his tactical officer. “Tuvok…fire all quantum torpedoes on my mark, directly astern.” He addressed the astronomer, without looking back at her. “Best guess, Doctor—at what distance do they detonate? How much in advance of the radiation front? Now!”

  Burke’s tense voice betrayed that she was flustered, but she knew the stakes. “Detonate as close as you can to the ship.” Then she had a question of her own for Riker. “How long for a quantum-torpedo explosion to reach maximum pressure?”

  Riker shook his head, frustrated, knowing that Data would have given him the answer at once. He, in contrast, would have to look it up, discuss it with—The answer suddenly came to him. “A tenth of a second!” Whether that was really the figure, remembered from some long-ago lecture, or simply a bad guess, Riker didn’t know. But there was no chance to confirm or change it.

  “Then set them off two-tenths of a second ahead of the radiation front!”

  Riker felt Burke put a hand on his shoulder as if in apology. “It’s the best I can do! Sorry!”

  “Lavena!” Riker said.

  “Twenty-five seconds to arrival.”

  “Tuvok, can you program the delay?”

  “No time, Captain. I will have to do it manually.”

  “Two-tenths of a second—no more, no less.”

  “Understood, Captain…fifteen seconds…fourteen…”

  Then the whole ship rocked violently, inertial dampers barely keeping up with the change in orientation.

  Riker quickly scanned all the displays he could, searching for an explanation for the shock. “Report!”

  This time, Burke was first to answer. The astrophysicist was readi
ng from her sensors. “The Araldii ship…it exploded…directly astern…”

  “Three seconds,” Lavena called out from the conn.

  Riker looked over at Troi. From the look on his wife’s face, Riker knew she felt as he did, that she longed for one final embrace. But he stayed where he was, as did she. Whatever else they were to each other, first and foremost they were Starfleet officers.

  “Two seconds…”

  Looking straight ahead, Riker stood up, put his hand on his chair arm. Bracing for—

  “Firing!”

  The capacitor twang of a full spread of quantum torpedoes launching echoed through the bridge. Almost instantly the deck tilted violently as the ship pitched down, and Riker was thrown back, slamming into the step leading down from the engineering station.

  The Titan’s shields will be out of alignment! Next time we should…

  The utter foolishness of this sudden thought made Riker laugh before he sank into blackness with a different realization filling his mind.

  He and his crew and his wife and their ship were finished.

  There would be no next time.

  5

  S.S. BELLE RÊVE, VULCAN

  STARDATE 58552.2

  When Kirk had taken formal command of the Belle Rêve, the first thing he had done was reconfigure the bridge. Or, to be accurate, he had had Scotty reconfigure it.

  As part of the Calypso, the ship’s bridge had been a tightly constrained control room, with the captain’s office on the aft bulkhead, separated from the crew by a transparent wall. Information flowed in only one direction, from a particular crew station to the captain. Somewhere, sometime, for some other captain, that command structure had been acceptable for the merchant fleet or a private yacht. But Kirk believed in Starfleet’s original ideal of sharing critical information among all senior personnel. So now his bridge was almost circular—a drawn-out ellipse, at least—with the captain’s chair elevated just back of the center point. There, Kirk was properly surrounded by duty stations, with all other bridge personnel able to see all displays at all times.

  About the only key component left over from the old design was the three-panel main viewscreen. On it now were three different magnifications of Vulcan terrain as the Belle Rêve orbited that world. Kirk had come to appreciate having three different sets of critical information available to him, and had asked Scotty to retain that system as it was.