by Rick Barba
“Well, I didn’t know,” protested Uhura.
Spock raised his hands.
“I believe you, of course,” he said. “And in any case, acquiring knowledge, no matter how, is rarely a dishonorable thing, Cadet. Human networks of interpersonal communication are just so remarkably well attuned. It is fascinating.” He shook his head. “One of my colleagues calls it ‘the grapevine.’ An apt metaphor, I must say.”
“Yeah, word gets around,” said Uhura, still looking a bit uneasy.
Spock gently touched her arm. Then he nodded toward a dozen first-year cadets hanging out on the wide staircase leading up to the main building entrance.
“See that group?” he said. “Four of those cadets have approached me in the past week about Zeta assignments.” He looked at her. “The ambitious ones.”
“The obsequious brownnosers,” said Uhura.
“The ambitious ones,” corrected Spock.
He led Uhura to a bench, and they both sat. Then he gazed up at the towering statue in the center of the courtyard: Admiral David Glasgow Farragut, the famous Civil War Naval flag officer who became the first Rear Admiral in United States history.
“The USS Farragut,” he said. “You wish to serve onboard.”
Uhura didn’t speak.
“It is not code violation to lobby for what you want, Cadet,” said Spock. “Let me tell you something important about Starfleet. It is like any other organization in the galaxy. Decisions and appointments have a political component, and sometimes a personal component. Putting together a ship’s roster must take many things into account. After all, a starship crew is like a sports team. Raw skill is important. But interpersonal dynamics are critical. I believe your term for it is … ‘good chemistry.’”
Uhura took a deep breath.
“I wasn’t going to ask for a favor, Commander,” she said. “I just wanted to know if the rosters were final yet. But yes … I did want some insight on how to influence the selection committee.”
Spock couldn’t hide his amusement.
“I believe the selection committee has already been deeply influenced,” he said. “And the rosters are final for Friday’s posting. I seem to recall that you have been assigned to the communications desk on the bridge of the Farragut.”
Uhura fought back a wave of emotion.
Then she said, “Thank you, Commander.”
Spock stood abruptly.
“I know you were not asking me for favors,” he said. “But now I am asking you for one.”
Uhura stood too. “Yes?”
“When we are not in uniform,” he began, and then hesitated, thinking of how to best phrase his request. “I would prefer that you call me ‘Spock’ instead of ‘Commander.’ Of course, it is quite rare that we are out of uniform, you and I. We seem to be wedded to our Starfleet tasks. But …”
“Spock,” said Uhura. She smiled.
Spock smiled back.
“Thank you, Cadet,” he said.
“That would be Nyota to you,” she said. “Maybe you haven’t noticed that we’re currently out of uniform?”
Spock’s eyes flitted down to her skirt and then back.
“Oh, I have noticed,” he said.
Lieutenant Commander Judy Renfield, adjutant to the Commandant of Midshipmen, was a frightening woman and a walking rulebook. She was forty-six but dressed and acted older. She pulled her prematurely gray hair into a severe bun. She despised infractions. In fact, whenever she had to say the word, she whispered it as if it suggested something too depraved to speak aloud.
But oddly, in spite of all of this, she liked Kirk.
“I usually enjoy our little visits,” said Renfield to Kirk as he sat near her desk in the Commandant’s waiting room. “Perhaps they’re a little too frequent. But they’re always fun.”
“Agreed,” said Kirk.
Renfield gave him a sharp look. “This time … not so fun,” she said.
Kirk waggled his eyebrows.
“But, Judy,” he said. “I found a new, very obscure primary source on Admiral Yamamoto’s dispersal strategy at Midway.”
On one of Kirk’s many visits, he and Renfield learned they shared a fascination with the 1942 Battle of Midway, the tide-turning WWII naval engagement between the United States and Japan in the Pacific. Military historians still considered it the most stunning and decisive blow in the history of naval warfare.
But Renfield shook her head.
“Maybe we can talk about it when you get out of prison in ten years,” she said. “Assuming, of course, you’re not executed.”
Kirk nodded, but he stood to grab a pen from Renfield’s desk. Then he jotted something on her sticky notepad.
“Here’s the Library of Congress number,” he said. “You won’t find it online. You’ll have to file a request with the LOC war archives division.”
A grim Renfield watched with disapproval as Kirk wrote. But when he sat back down, she quickly nabbed the sticky note, slipping it into her pocket.
Kirk noticed but grinned without looking at her.
Something on Renfield’s desktop dinged softly, like a bell. She tapped her screen, then looked at Kirk, nodding. Without speaking she pointed over her shoulder at the commandant’s office door.
“And here we go,” said Kirk, standing.
Ensign Collins, who sat nearby, stood too. But the lieutenant commander held up one finger, then looked at him. Collins smiled and sat back down.
Kirk sighed and entered Vice Admiral Tullsey’s office alone.
He found the admiral scribbling furiously on a notepad next to what looked like a dossier.
In a chair beside Tullsey’s desk sat Lieutenant Caan. She looked up as Kirk entered, and they made brief eye contact. Once again Kirk found her eyes mesmerizing. Their impossible bright blue glimmer seemed beyond Human, and now he noticed an exotic, alien curve to her face.
“Sit down, Mr. Kirk,” said the commandant with a brusque jab toward an empty chair.
“Admiral, I’d really like to—,” began Kirk, but Tullsey cut him off sharply.
“Cadet, I strongly advise you to speak as little as possible until you know what’s going on,” he rumbled.
“Yes, sir,” said Kirk with a quick nod. He sat.
Admiral Tullsey muttered to himself for a while longer, shaking his head as he flipped through a few more pages of the dossier. He jotted more notes. His old-fashioned reading glasses gave him a professorial look, but Kirk knew better. The vice admiral was a bulldog with both bark and bite. Finally he flipped the report shut and then gave it a resolute slap.
“Mr. Kirk, I find this entirely … unbelievable,” he said.
“As do I, sir,” said Kirk.
“Do you know what’s in here?” said the admiral, tapping the dossier.
“No, sir.”
Kirk glanced over at Lieutenant Caan, who was staring directly into his eyes. Her demeanor was calm and watchful. Kirk held her gaze for a few seconds: Her eyes widened slightly as he did. A hint of a smile rippled across her pale lips.
“This may seem trite or quaint, Mr. Kirk, but I’d like you to recite the Cadet Honor Code if you would,” said the admiral.
This was not an unreasonable request. The Honor Code was a single sentence. First-year cadets were often ordered to repeat it, frequently by upperclassmen in the first weeks of term, and Kirk knew it well.
He said, “A cadet will not lie, cheat, steal, or tolerate those who do.”
“Thank you,” said the admiral. He patted the dossier on his desk. “I’m going to let you read this entire sordid report in a minute, but let me give you a summary.” He glanced down at his notes. “Violations of the Honor Code include cheating, plagiarism, lying to achieve unfair advantage, and theft. Add to that numerous regulatory infractions, including multiple curfew and residence hall violations; unauthorized female visitors after-hours, both cadet and civilian; and, uh, other activities … drunk and disorderly activity. Good god, I could go on for a while, but I w
on’t.”
Tullsey glared at Kirk over the top of his reading glasses.
Kirk considered his words carefully.
Then he said, “Admiral, I have never committed an Honor Code violation.” He looked at Lieutenant Caan. “Never.”
Tullsey nodded. He said, “And these regulatory infractions?”
Kirk hesitated. Then he said, “Maybe a few of them …?”
Tullsey almost smiled but caught himself.
“Okay, well … we’ll deal with these accusations individually in a moment,” he said. “But the lieutenant here has evidence of a much more serious offense, one that could be considered criminal in nature, and which certainly violates the Uniform Code of Military Justice.” He looked at Lieutenant Caan.
“Actually, it’s two offenses,” said Lieutenant Caan in a measured tone. “We have evidence suggesting that you, Cadet Kirk, may have tampered with Starfleet internal operating systems in a malicious manner. It also appears that you targeted a fellow cadet with this activity … and that the alleged activity threatened the life of that cadet. You should also know that Starfleet Intelligence is now investigating a large number of unauthorized and possibly illegal database searches originating from your secure Starfleet account.”
Kirk was stunned silent for a moment. He turned to Admiral Tullsey, who looked uncomfortable.
Finally, Kirk said, “Admiral?”
Tullsey cleared his throat. Then he drew a deep breath and said, “Mr. Kirk, I don’t like Intelligence snooping around in Academy matters. I’ve made that perfectly clear to Lieutenant Caan, here. We take care of our own, as a general rule.” He leaned his arms heavily on the desk, then leveled his eyes at Kirk’s. “But the incident she refers to happened today in Nimitz Hall, and it did indeed target a cadet, a first-year. And, son … it was clearly malicious in nature, and could’ve had deadly consequences.”
Kirk looked at Lieutenant Caan. Something about her manner of presentation seemed odd. Then it hit him.
“Wait. You don’t think I did it, do you?” he asked.
Lieutenant Caan was taken aback. She said, “We grant you the presumption of innocence.”
Kirk laughed. With an involuntary edge of sarcasm, he said, “Right. Starfleet Intelligence is really known for its restraint.”
Lieutenant Caan turned to the admiral.
“May I speak freely and … confidentially, sir?” she asked.
“Absolutely!” barked Tullsey. “This room is secure.”
Kirk gave Lieutenant Caan a dark look. “I wouldn’t count on that, sir.”
Her tone grew chilly in response. “Mr. Kirk, you disappeared two nights ago for a period of six hours,” she said.
“It seems so,” he replied.
“Yes, it does,” she said. “And you claim to have no recollection of your activities during that period, correct?”
“It’s not a claim,” he said. “It’s a fact.”
Lieutenant Caan reached into a uniform pouch, producing a digital notepad. She tapped it a few times, then stood to hand the display to Kirk.
“What’s this?” asked Kirk, taking it.
“These are Dr. McCoy’s diagnostic notes and other observations related to your hospitalization,” she said. “I’ve come to respect Dr. McCoy’s insight into your case. He seems like a man of integrity, and he’s very loyal to you.”
Kirk smiled slightly as he examined the screen. Then he handed it back.
“You won’t find a better man,” he said.
Lieutenant Caan remained standing. She was a tall, lithe woman with the figure of a dancer. Her movements were very ballet-precise. She brushed her finger lightly up the notepad several times, scrolling.
“Now, Mr. Kirk, keep in mind that you do have the right to remain silent, so I want you to answer carefully,” she said. “I want to protect you. But I’m going to ask you a couple of admittedly odd-sounding questions.”
Kirk was wary. She seemed sincere. And on another level, he liked her—the voice and movement and eyes, those neon eyes. But nobody trusted the black jumpsuit of Starfleet Intelligence, no matter how good it looked on her.
“Okay, shoot,” said Kirk finally.
Lieutenant Caan looked at her screen. Then she looked at Kirk and asked, “Are you a quarry rat?”
Kirk twitched in surprise. Then he frowned.
“Hell yes, I’m a quarry rat,” he said.
Lieutenant Caan nodded. She said, “Dr. McCoy’s notes mention that you reported flashbacks, a flood of boyhood memories, a strong flood, washing over you since your episode. Can you describe these to me?”
Kirk’s eyes narrowed. “Why?” he asked.
“Are Dr. McCoy’s notes correct?” she responded.
Kirk nodded. “Yes,” he said.
“Do the flashbacks include memories of swimming in the dark water of a quarry? Make that cold and dark waters?”
“Yes,” said Kirk.
“This quarry is in Iowa, correct?” asked Lieutenant Caan.
“I grew up near the Riverside Shipyards. But of course you already knew that.”
“I did,” said Lieutenant Caan. “I know about the local rock quarry. And about your brother, George Samuel Kirk. He’s in your flashbacks too, right?”
Kirk nodded again. “Yes, I told Bones about those images. Very vivid. Very … present.” He leaned back in his chair. “Lieutenant, why is this important to the question of these charges?”
Lieutenant Caan sat back down and then examined her notepad again.
“The cadet victim of the incident at Nimitz Hall reported that an image appeared on his workdesk view-screen during the incident in question,” she said. “Our cyber-crime people managed to recover the image. It was deliberately distorted, but here it is.”
She tapped on the screen and then handed the display to Kirk.
“Just tap the play icon,” she said.
Kirk did so and then watched the recording. Then he lowered the pad to his lap.
“My god,” he said.
“Mr. Kirk,” said Lieutenant Caan slowly. “Would you say this recording conveys certain information that only you would know?”
Kirk knew that his answer would be self-incriminating. But he was ready to answer … when suddenly Admiral Tullsey interrupted.
“I’m sure Cadet Kirk wants the whole truth to come out,” said the admiral. “But, Cadet, I would suggest that you don’t answer that question. Not yet, anyway.”
Lieutenant Caan nodded. “Actually, I agree,” she said to Tullsey. Then she pointed at the dossier. “Doesn’t it seem odd to you, Admiral, that all of these incident reports came flowing in at once?”
“The timing is quite curious,” said the admiral.
“And all of them are anonymous reports?” she asked.
“Every one,” said Admiral Tullsey. “Except for tonight’s incident in Nimitz, of course.”
Kirk glanced down at the notepad display in his hands. Up in the corner, text in a tiny font read: CHEKOV, PAVEL. NIMITZ 316. FIRST-YEAR. He handed the notepad back to the lieutenant.
Then Kirk dropped his aching head into his hands.
I need help, he thought.
But he wasn’t exactly sure what kind.
Uhura swept her gaze across the horizon.
Spock was right: The view from the dining hall was astounding. It was a perfect afternoon—azure sky, cerulean water, riffled by a landward breeze. Sailboat spinnakers dotted the bay.
“How is your minestrone?” asked Spock.
“Good,” said Uhura. “And your plomeek broth?”
“It is very good,” he said.
“Isn’t that traditionally a morning meal on Vulcan?” she asked.
Spock was impressed. “Yes, commonly,” he said. “But it is the only native Vulcan dish that I find edible in this dining hall.”
Uhura grinned. She sipped her water … then tried to sound casual.
“My comparative exobiology professor said something interesting
today,” she said. “Biological similarities between most known Humanoid species in our galaxy suggest that our origins may all trace back to a single seed genetic code.”
Spock nodded. “An entirely logical assumption,” he said.
“The theory is that a space-faring, warp-capable civilization preceded us, perhaps by millions of years … then disappeared,” she said. “That’s mind-blowing.”
“Certainly, my own existence suggests a common Vulcan-Human ancestry,” replied Spock. “My father’s Vulcan sperm found my mother’s Human egg to be a hospitable destination, genetically speaking, and thus here I am.”
Gosh, how romantic, thought Uhura.
“Why did they marry?” she asked.
Spock looked slightly startled.
Uhura put her hand on the table. “I’m sorry if that’s too forward. I know it’s a pretty personal question.”
“That is okay,” replied Spock. “I admire Humans who get right to the point. Most do not.”
“Well, I do,” said Uhura.
“Yes,” agreed Spock. “My father was Vulcan’s ambassador to Earth for many years. That is how he met my mother. He once told me that, given his position, marrying an Earth Human was the logical thing to do.”
“Touching,” said Uhura.
Spock was amused. “However, I do believe he has feelings for her,” he said. “As do I.”
Uhura nodded. Time to change the subject, she thought. “It’s a little unsettling to think that Romulans might share our genetic roots too,” she said.
“Why?” asked Spock.
Uhura thought for a moment, then said, “I guess because I grew up afraid of Romulans. They were the great evil, unknown and unseen, like monsters lurking out there beyond the Neutral Zone.”
Spock took a sip of his plomeek broth while he considered this.
“On Earth your French and English subcultures fought many bloody wars over the centuries,” he said. “By your logic they should find their common DNA most unsettling to contemplate.”
“I think they do,” replied Uhura, laughing.
“I will consult with Professor Galloway on that,” said Spock, amused.
“But I get your point,” said Uhura. “See, for Humans, Romulans are like phantoms.” She curled her fingers like claws, waving her hands. “They’re the bogeymen. If we had any kind of direct cultural contact, maybe that perception would change.”