But after a few days alone beside the sea, he found himself [17] gripped and held by the quiet beauty of his unknown home world.
I used to believe I could make myself at home anywhere, he thought. But now I know I never felt at home at all. Not compared to the way I feel now, sitting beside earth’s greatest ocean.
But soon he must leave; soon he would be on his way to the border to serve on Aerfen with Captain Hunter.
Basking in the warmth of the fire, he dozed off.
Koronin strode across the dark landing field, ignoring the shabby ships that hunkered in the dust. Ships that visited the Arcturan system had left their best years far behind them, whether they originated in the Federation, in the Klingon Empire, or as some unlikely hybrid of orphan parts and cobbled-together retrofitting.
But one ship on the field was different.
The cold keen night wind ruffled powdery dust against Koronin’s boots and pressed her cloak around her. It caught her long copper hair and blew it back from her high forehead, from her brow ridges. It fluttered her unfastened veil over her shoulder.
She paused some paces from the sleek new ship. Starlight gleamed from its smooth flank. No one—certainly no one in the Arcturan system—had seen its like before. The wide-winged body, the long slender midsection, and the spherical prow gave evidence of the ship’s descent from the favored design of the Klingon military. But the design had evolved to produce a unique ship.
And now it belonged to Koronin, who was an outlaw and a fugitive.
She touched the key to the locked hatchway. The key and the ship exchanged complex electronic communication. Knowing that the key or the ship might be rigged to destroy her, Koronin tried to maintain her philosophy of fatalism. But the possibilities that this craft opened for her excited her beyond any chance of calm.
The hatch opened and she stepped inside.
The command balcony could wait. The secured hatch of the work pit opened at Koronin’s approach.
[18] “My lord—” The serjeant cut off his words when he saw Koronin. His brow ridges contracted and his bushy eyebrows bristled.
Koronin read his confusion. She did nothing to alleviate it, but let it increase as she stood before him in silence.
“My lady,” he said quickly. “This is the work pit, no fit place for a citizen of ... of your position. If you permit, I will show you the way to the command balcony, where you may wait in comfort for my lord.”
Koronin smiled. It amused her to be taken for the mistress of the ship’s previous owner. She approved of the speed with which the serjeant recovered from—or concealed—his surprise. She saw in him a valuable assistant, if he could be subverted to her interests.
She held up a thread-thin gold chain. At its end spun a life-disk, its colors already fading to the clarity of death.
“Your lord will not be returning,” she said. “This ship belongs to me.”
The other crew members had merely glanced at her with jaded curiosity when they thought she was their master’s newest favorite. Now that she claimed instead to be their master, they stared at her: some astonished, some terrified. A bare few reacted with joy and relief before they realized what a small chance Koronin had of keeping the ship. They instantly put on expressions of neutrality.
Agape, stunned, the serjeant tried to make sense of her claim. “You killed my lord—you robbed him—?” He stopped. No one could simply steal the electronic key and use it to come on board. It contained safeguards against such an occurrence.
“Your lord transferred ownership to me. He lost to me in a game of chance. A fair game. But afterward, he thought better of his bargain.”
She flicked the chain so the fading life-disk snapped upward. She caught it and folded her hand around it as if she were oblivious to its sharp edges. As she fastened the disk to the long fringe on her belt, she deliberately turned her back on the serjeant.
When the serjeant attacked, she spun and blocked his blow. His force staggered her, but her resistance threw him off balance. He snatched at the blaster on his belt. Koronin [19] disdained to use a powered weapon against him. She drew her dueling blade and slashed the Serjeant’s arm. He shrieked in agony. The blaster flew from his hand. Koronin scooped it up and pocketed it.
The Serjeant huddled on the floor, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his forearm. He bled heavily, but the bleeding was, ultimately, superficial. Koronin had carefully avoided the arm’s major circulatory paths. She despised unnecessary killing.
“Stand up.” She placed the point of her blade at the side of his throat.
He moaned, protesting, terrified. His brow ridges paled and shriveled, for he hovered on the edge of shock. He rose unsteadily. His gaze froze on her blade. As he watched, Koronin’s glassy weapon absorbed the blood that glistened on its surface. The color of the blood-sword deepened.
“The ship belongs to me,” Koronin repeated. “The crew is mine, and you are mine. I will permit you to determine your own fate. You may swear yourself to me, or you may die.”
The Serjeant’s master had disgraced himself. The serjeant could accept the disgrace, or he could renounce it and accept Koronin.
He did the honorable thing.
“I swear myself, and the crew as I command it, to your service.” He hesitated.
“My name is Koronin.”
“I swear myself to your service, Koronin.”
She drew back her blade and sheathed it. A single drop of blood welled from the Serjeant’s throat. “My belongings will arrive soon. When you have seen them safely delivered to the balcony and when you have prepared the ship for liftoff, you may doctor your wounds.”
He acknowledged her right to demand that her tasks take precedence over his pain. “Thank you, my lady.”
“My name is Koronin!” she said angrily. Her hand tightened on the grip of her sword.
He hesitated. He had offered her the title as an act of courtesy and she had refused it. He could not know why. In his pain and shock and fear, he cast about for the reason he had offended her.
[20] “I use no title,” Koronin said, her tone harsh but no longer angry. “Carry out your orders.”
He slowly sank to his knees before her. “Yes, Koronin.”
She turned her back on him and on the crew. No one moved against her. She secured the work pit, sealing the crew at their stations but leaving the serjeant free, and hurried to the command balcony to make herself familiar with the controls.
She wanted to be far from the Arcturan system when the rulers of the Klingon Empire learned of their loss.
She would take their newest ship and see what mischief she could make for the Federation of Planets.
Chapter 1
COMMANDER SPOCK PAUSED before the cabin of the captain of the starship Enterprise. In eleven years he had never stepped inside this cabin, though he had worked with Christopher Pike more closely than he had worked with any other human being. Pike was a very private man. Mr. Spock approved of the captain’s reserve.
The Vulcan knocked on the cabin door. He expected no answer.
“Come.” The door slid aside.
Spock stood on the threshold. He had not planned what to say.
Pike rested his elbows on his desk and his chin in both fists as he gazed at the crystals that covered the desktop. Of various sizes, various colors, some held static images and some had captured moving scenes. Spock’s keen vision picked out familiar vignettes and landscapes. He had not known that Captain Pike made memory crystals of the worlds his ship visited.
Pike glanced up. His pensive attitude vanished. He waved his hand over the crystals. The images faded. The crystals darkened, then cleared to complete transparency.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Spock.”
“Commodore Pike.”
“Not commodore! Not yet. I’m still a captain till this evening.” Pike swept up the crystals and poured them into a drawstring bag. They clicked and rattled.
“Very well, Captain Pike,” Spo
ck said.
“Ship’s business?”
[22] “No, sir. The Enterprise is prepared for change of command.”
“Good.” He drew the strings tight, tied the bag shut, and tossed it into a nearly empty suitcase. “Not much to show for eleven years, is it?”
“Captain?”
“Never mind. I’m just feeling my age.”
Spock considered. Captain Pike had not yet reached fifty earth years of age. On Vulcan, he would still be considered a youth. No doubt he looked forward to his approaching maturity.
“Yes, captain. Congratulations, sir.”
“Congratulations?”
“Yes, sir. On your promotion. On your increased responsibilities.”
“Oh. Right.” He smiled a private smile that did not seem to contain much humor.
Spock did not understand it.
“Did you want to talk to me about something in particular, Mr. Spock?” Pike said.
“Change of command offers little opportunity for conversation, captain. I came to speak to you now ... merely to wish you farewell.”
“Merely?”
“Yes,” Spock said. “Words of farewell are perhaps not logical, based as they are in superstition, in wishes for good fortune, but ...” He did not know what else to say. “I have learned much from you, captain.”
“That’s high praise, Mr. Spock,” Captain Pike said. “Thank you.”
“Perhaps we will have the opportunity to work together again, sometime in the future.”
“Does that bother you, Mr. Spock?”
“What, captain?”
“I never asked you if you wanted to be promoted off the Enterprise along with me. I could have recommended that. If I had, you’d be on your way to being my executive officer at a starbase.”
“I am aware that this is often done,” Spock said. “Captain Kirk has recommended two of his senior officers for [23] positions on the Enterprise. That is his privilege, as it is your privilege to choose your own executive staff.”
“I probably should have talked to you about it,” Captain Pike said. He rearranged the articles in his suitcase and sealed the case shut. “But I made the choice for you, because I was afraid that if I made you the offer, you might feel compelled to accept it. Compelled to leave the Enterprise. Did I make a mistake?”
“Sir?” Spock said, feeling confused.
“You have a highly developed sense of responsibility, Mr. Spock. You don’t necessarily choose the path that’s best for you.”
Spock perceived Pike’s comment as criticism, but he did not understand its aim. “ ‘Best’ is a highly subjective term, captain,” he said. “Vulcans attempt to eliminate subjective terms from their decisions. The goal of a Vulcan with my background and training is to increase the store of knowledge available to sentient beings.”
“Maybe I didn’t make a mistake, after all.” Captain Pike hesitated. “When people of my background and training say good-bye, they shake hands. But Vulcans ...”
“I will shake your hand, Captain Pike, if you wish it,” Spock said.
The captain and the science officer clasped hands for the first and last time.
Uhura beamed on board the Enterprise, happy and rested and glad to be back and at the same time wishing the festival had lasted for another week. She stowed her things in her cabin and set her comm unit to call her on the bridge if her package arrived while the Enterprise was still in port. That was not likely, but, well, anything could happen. Then she changed out of her festival costume, a long dark-red dress with Celtic embroidery at neck and wrists, and into her uniform; she changed from Uhura, musician, citizen of the Bantu Nation of United Africa, into Lieutenant Uhura, communications officer of the starship Enterprise.
The activity on the bridge would have looked like uncontrolled chaos to a stranger. Uhura had seen the chaos many times before. She understood its workings and its ebb and [24] flow. It changed, it evolved; it would evolve more during this trip than it ever had since the first time Uhura came on board.
Captain Pike had been promoted. This evening he would be replaced. Throughout the ship, anticipation and curiosity and apprehension about the new captain mixed with regret for the departure of their respected and loved commanding officer.
The sound level on the bridge dropped precipitously.
Commander Spock had arrived. Everyone fell silent, not through fear, not through dislike or reluctance to be overheard, but because Mr. Spock’s very presence inspired a more serious attitude.
He glanced around the bridge, then took his place at the science station as if unaware of his effect. Uhura doubted, though, that Mr. Spock missed anything having to do with the Enterprise.
“Good morning, Mr. Spock,” Uhura said.
“Lieutenant Uhura.”
“Did you enjoy your vacation?”
“The time was intellectually stimulating,” he said. She had not seen him for a month or so; he seemed even more intense and self-controlled than usual.
“I bought an Irish harp,” Uhura said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I went to the Irish Harp Festival in Mandela City. And I ordered a harp. Siobhan might finish it before we ship out, but I’ll probably have to wait till our next stopover.”
“Why was an Irish harp festival in Mandela City? Mandela City is not in Ireland.”
“They have harp festivals all over the world, Mr. Spock. They’re thinking of having one off earth soon. There are more harp players outside Ireland than in it. You don’t even have to have red hair.” She smiled, “Siobhan does have red hair ... but her skin is darker than mine. She makes the most beautiful harps I’ve ever seen.”
“I will be interested to observe how it is played.”
“So will I—I hope it comes before we leave. Any word on where we’re going, and for how long?”
“Our orders will of course be given first to the new captain,” Mr. Spock said. “But ...”
[25] Uhura had never known Mr. Spock to engage in idle gossip; yet somehow he always knew the most recent changes in Starfleet plans and policy.
“What, Mr. Spock?”
“The ship is neither prepared nor fueled for a long voyage, and the full scientific staff has not been assigned. One may deduce a trip of limited duration.”
“I see.” Uhura felt disappointed. Rumors had been flying about the Federation’s exploration plans, and everyone on the Enterprise had been hoping, expecting, to take part in that mission.
The lift doors opened and Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott burst onto the bridge.
“I’m an uncle!” he exclaimed. “Will ye have a cigar, Lieutenant Uhura? Mr. Spock, a cigar to celebrate!”
As Scott rounded the bridge handing out cigars to all and sundry, Uhura wondered what to do with the cylinder of rolled tobacco.
“Congratulations, Mr. Scott,” she said when he completed his circuit and beamed with pride at her and Spock. “And thank you. I probably shouldn’t smoke it on the bridge, though.”
“What is the function of this object?” Spock asked.
“ ’Tis a cigar, Mr. Spock. ’Tis a tradition to hand out cigars at the birth of a baby. My little niece is two days old. Dannan Stuart, her name is. A heroic name! ’Tis my first time to be an uncle. Though,” he said, as if telling a secret, “the baby is verra ... verra small.”
Uhura smiled. “She’ll get over that, Mr. Scott.”
“I still do not understand this object. This cigar.” Spock rolled the cigar between his elegant, powerful fingers. The tobacco rustled.
“Be careful, Mr. Spock! Ye should light it, not mash it. Ye’ll bruise the tobacco!”
“But this appears to be made of dried leaves,” Spock said. “How can one bruise—” He raised it, sniffed it, drew it quickly from his nose. “This is tobacco, Mr. Scott. It contains noxious chemicals.”
“Aye, ’tis true,” Scott admitted. “But ’tis the tradition, d’ye see?”
Spock regarded the cigar a m
oment longer. “I believe I [26] understand,” he said. “During a time of critical overpopulation, the birth of a child would have required an adult to die. The adults resorted to a sort of lottery to decide who must make way. Your customs ... fascinating. Not efficient, but fascinating.”
“It wasna quite like that, Mr. Spock—”
Spock handed him the cigar. “I am sure you meant to compliment me, but I should prefer not to participate in your lottery.”
Jim transported up to Spacedock. Why did I say that to Carol? he thought. I knew what she’d say. She’s said it before. I’ve said it before. I know what it’s like to be part of the family of a Starfleet officer. What happened to all my unbreakable resolutions not to do that to anyone?
“Jaime? Jaime Kirk!”
Jim turned toward the familiar voice. “Agovanli!”
The large person before him grasped his ankles with his knee-pincers and spun about on his central foot. Jim grabbed his mane. Agovanli set him down, whuffling and blowing his hot, fragrant breath in his version of a hug.
“Congratualaations,” Vanli said. His voice could rattle wall hangings. “Congraatualations on receiving the Enterprise! I aam poised with anticipation of what you will do with it now thaat you haave it.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Jim said. “I think.”
“I will buy you a lunch and a drink, to celebraate.”
Just then that sounded like a good idea to Jim.
Vanli took Jim to his favorite restaurant, an environment three-quarters tropical island at night, one-quarter space station. They sat in an area that passed for al fresco on Spacedock: a view-bubble protruding from the side of the station, with a 180-degree horizontal and 90-degree vertical star view. An enormous fluorescent-orange rhododendron loomed over Jim’s left shoulder.
“Jaime, I discovered something quite wonderful at my last duty station. Some humans—Do you know this? Your cultures are so diverse—Some humans mix different alcoholic entities together to create new sensations.”
STAR TREK: TOS - Enterprise, The First Adventure Page 3