STAR TREK: TOS - Enterprise, The First Adventure

by Vonda N. McIntyre

  “Does she? They aren’t common.”

  “No, but Pavi did student project at Vladivostok Genetics Institute where cats are bred. She is outstanding student—following in steps of Lysenko!”

  Spock’s eyebrow arched in disbelief. “Ensign Chekov, do you dislike your cousin?”

  “Why, no, sir! She is little pest sometimes, I tease her, but she is good kid.”

  “Then why do you wish her to follow in the footsteps of Lysenko?”

  “Are you not familiar with Lysenko, sir? Why, he invented whole study of genetics on earth.”

  “I was under the impression that Gregor Mendel had that distinction.”

  “Oh, no, sir, I beg your pardon. Lysenko discovered dominant/recessive gene inheritance, structure of deoxyribonucleic acid, and process for recombinant DNA.”

  Spock gazed at Chekov, then turned back to his work without replying. Jim got the impression that Spock had had similar conversations with Chekov before.

  [192] “Lysenko must have lived a long time,” Stephen said.

  “Why, I don’t know, sir.” Chekov rubbed the forest cat beneath the chin. Ilya’s contented purring reverberated across the bridge.

  The lights rose slowly, obeying their diurnal program.

  Nearly high watch, Jim thought. It really is morning.

  Because of the information brought to him by his spy, the director of the oversight committee mobilized his security fleet before the oligarchy had reason to notice that the prototype ship had been lost.

  The director had not personally commanded a mission in many years. He ascended to the command deck, oblivious to space and stars, intent only on his pursuit of Koronin, the renegade who could expose his son’s unworthiness to the world.

  The course he ordered sent his fleet toward the Federation Phalanx.

  Still half asleep, Roswind dropped her robe on the floor of the bathroom. It was great to have the cabin to herself for a while. Sharing with that wimpy little Janice Rand had been just about more than she could stand. Roswind smiled, thinking about how Janice had looked in the oversized uniform. That would teach her to get promoted over people with more seniority and more skills. Roswind wondered when the new roommate would move in. She wondered what the new roommate was. If she was green ... maybe a Vulcan? That might be interesting. But, did Vulcans hibernate? They surely were not timid.

  Roswind stepped into the shower and onto something warm and slippery. She shrieked and leaped back, shocked awake.

  A large lumpy green creature nestled sleeping in the sonic shower. The mark of Roswind’s toes marred the faint pulsating sheen of its translucent skin. Roswind could see its—her—internal organs moving and working.

  “What are you doing in the shower?” Roswind said, indifferent to the possibility of scaring her new roommate into hibernation. The being—Roswind had not asked what [193] her new roommate’s name would be, or even whether she had a name—lay quiet and silent. “You’re worse than Rand—she just didn’t know what a sonic shower was. But you—you think it’s a bed!”

  Jim hurried to the recreation deck. In the locker room he changed into his gi, the white canvas jacket and pants that were the uniform of so many martial arts. As he tied his black belt around his hips, he greeted Mr. Sulu, who was dressing for a fencing lesson.

  “How about that match?” Jim said.

  “Oh ... sure, captain.” Sulu sounded doubtful. “Sometime when we’re both dressed for it?”

  “I can change after my class,” Jim said. He wondered if Sulu was looking for a diplomatic way to back out. “Unless you’ll be tired after your lesson?”

  “Tired?” Sulu said quizzically. “No, sir, I won’t be tired.”

  “Then we’re on.”

  “All right, captain.”

  Jim went to the mat to meet his beginning class.

  Jim first had to teach them to fall down without killing themselves. They started with forward rolls and progressed (should that be “regressed”? Jim thought with a smile) to backward rolls. A few of the students even tried leaping over a rolled-up mat and landing in a forward roll.

  At the end of the hour, the students bowed to each other and to him. “That was a good first class,” Jim said. “Next time we challenge the record for jumping over mats. And learn some throws.”

  The class dispersed.

  Teaching beginners did not offer much exercise; Jim, having warmed up during class, was ready for a real workout. He changed into fencing garb and strolled across the gym, past a pheodanthis class and a calisthenics group.

  Like Jim’s class, Sulu’s consisted of beginners too new even to be comfortable holding the epée. Sulu, on the other hand, looked like he ought to be playing d’Artagnan. Jim watched, impressed with the lieutenant’s technique. Even his half-speed demonstrations were clear and clean and powerful.

  [194] The class ended. Sulu raised his mask and saluted Jim from the fencing floor.

  “Ready, sir?”

  “Sure,” Jim said, thinking, I did ask for it.

  The other people in the gym noticed something interesting about to happen. Naturally, they all gathered to watch.

  Jim and Sulu saluted each other with their epées, put on their masks, and took the en garde position.

  For half the match, Jim nearly held his own. He won one touch to Sulu’s two. He was soaked with sweat and panting and exhilarated and thoroughly enjoying the competition. He would probably lose, but Sulu had not beaten him yet.

  His knee twisted. Somehow he kept his feet. The cold sweat of pain overwhelmed the sweat of exertion. Trying to hide the limp, he retreated, lunged, missed Sulu by a couple of handsbreadths, and ran into Sulu’s epée.

  “Touché,” Jim said.

  “Are you all right, captain?”

  “Yes. En garde.” Begging off with a claim of injury was a ridiculous way to avoid losing. The pain receded. It was probably just a muscle cramp anyway.

  Parry—parry—lunge—retreat. Sulu powered him right off the end of the fencing floor, which counted as Sulu’s fourth touch against him. The kid was terrific, Jim had to admit it. The quality of competition had risen since his own days in the Academy. Jim shook the sweat out of his eyes and stepped gingerly back onto the floor. His knee felt wrenched.

  “En garde.”

  He lunged blindly. His epée bent against Sulu’s jacket as Sulu’s epée squarely touched Jim’s heart.

  “Double touch.”

  Five touches for Sulu: a win. Jim had two, though the second was a fluke. He hoped Sulu had not held back, but he would never know. The lieutenant was that good.

  Jim saluted Sulu and shook his hand.

  “Thank you, lieutenant. I’m glad to have had the chance to fence with a real champion.”

  “You’re, uh ... you’re welcome, sir.”

  “We’ll have to do it again sometime,” Jim said, though what he most wanted in the universe now was an ice pack.

  [195] “I need to talk to you for a few minutes, captain. The subject sort of relates to that.”

  “Did Yeoman Rand make an appointment for you?”

  “Yes, sir, but it isn’t for three weeks.”

  “Ask her to move it up. Tell her I said it was all right. I’m afraid I can’t talk to you now—today’s schedule is too tight.”

  “It would only take a minute—”

  “I’m sorry, lieutenant. Not now.”

  Alone in the corridor, Jim leaned against the wall and rubbed his knee. He wiped the sweat from his face. His skin felt clammy. He made his way back to his cabin and spent the next hour icing his knee. Then he canceled the physical exam he was supposed to take that afternoon.

  Back in the gymnasium, Hikaru wished he had not pushed Captain Kirk to give him a few more minutes. He had obviously gone over the line. Nevertheless, Hikaru was impressed with the captain’s grace in losing. Especially after what had happened at the championship.

  Hikaru had realized early in the match that he could not lose to the
captain even if he wanted to. If he threw the competition, Hikaru would look like a panderer and Captain Kirk would look like a fool. So Hikaru had not held back—well, not much. He was amazed that it had turned out so well.

  “Lieutenant Sulu!”

  Hikaru almost groaned out loud. It was too late to flee Mr. Cockspur and his interminable stories.

  “Mr. Cockspur, sir—I’m on duty this morning, I’ll have to hurry or I’ll be late.”

  “This will only take a moment, my boy. I watched your match—nice, very nice, though you might consider the difference between discretion and valor. Never mind that. Are you familiar with Shakespeare?”

  “Why ... yes, sir.”

  “Good! I’m thinking of changing my scene. Making it a bit more martial for this tour. What do you think? I usually do a soliloquy ... but perhaps Hamlet’s death scene, the sword duel at the end of the play, would be more appropriate.”

  “That sounds fine, sir,” Hikaru said, wondering why in the world Cockspur was asking him.

  [196] “I hoped you’d say that. I have no understudy—no one who can take the part of Laertes. What do you say?”

  “To what, sir?”

  “To playing Laertes.”

  “Oh.” Hikaru almost refused outright, but stopped and thought about it. He doubted he would be able to avoid Mr. Cockspur’s company during the tour, unless he avoided the rec deck too. The actor spent his evenings in the lounge. Why not put the time to use? Hikaru would rather play Hamlet, of course—for one thing, he was the right age. But Laertes would be fun. “All right,” he said. “I’d like that. Thanks for asking me.”

  “Excellent, my boy. Can you learn the lines in time for two o’clock rehearsal?”

  “That’s a problem,” Hikaru said, disappointed. “I’m on duty till sixteen hundred. I’m familiar with the scene, though—I could probably learn it by showtime.”

  “No, that won’t do at all. We must rehearse, and you must learn my translation—”

  “Translation? Of Shakespeare?”

  “—so I’ll speak to the captain.” He bustled away.

  Feeling grumpy and badly used, Roswind went to the rec deck locker room for a shower. The place was packed with people getting ready to go on duty. Whenever a starship set out on an extended voyage, practically everyone on board signed up for some kind of exercise class: tai chi or yoga, martial arts from several worlds, beginning fencing (that was a new one), and even an obscure and esoteric practice whose name translated as “deep breathing,” but which sounded to Roswind like nothing more than an excuse for people to shriek at the top of their lungs for an hour.

  Within a few weeks half the people would have dropped out of classes and gone back to their usual sedentary ways, but for the moment the locker room was one big traffic jam.

  Just how long am I going to have somebody sleeping in my shower? Roswind wondered. If she’s going to do this all the time, can I get away with filing a complaint?

  Personnel looked askance at any frivolous—or bigoted—objection to a roommate of a different species. If the [197] roommate emitted methane or some other noxious gas, if two roommates required widely different temperatures, or if one were allergic to the other—Roswind wished she had not assured Lieutenant Uhura that she had no allergies—then Personnel would grant a transfer. But a complaint that a new recruit had mistaken the shower for a bunk would bring nothing but a reprimand and a lecture on tolerance. So Roswind grumbled, took her shower in the locker room, and snapped, short-tempered, at everyone who spoke to her all day.

  At noon, Captain Kirk gave Hikaru the rest of the day off. The fledgling actor received the scene from Mr. Cockspur. He read it ... and realized what he had let himself in for.

  After the two o’clock rehearsal, feeling relatively pleased, Mr. Cockspur sent the lieutenant off to review his lines. Mr. Cockspur himself sought out Amelinda Lukarian, who was, of course, as usual, with her wretched pet.

  He picked his way carefully across the shuttlecraft deck. No telling what might be concealed in the sprouting grass. “Ms. Lukarian.”

  Insolently, she brushed the creature’s coat. Finally she acknowledged him. “Yes, Mr. Cockspur?”

  “I’ve changed my scene.”

  “I saw it. Hikaru is charming in the part.”

  “Yes, he shows promise. And I’ve explained to him that the original is incomprehensible to the modern audience. He’ll have the lines letter-perfect by tonight. So the only question is—where should the scene appear.”

  “Same as always, next to last, just before Newland.”

  “But my dear child, the death scene is the final scene in Hamlet. It should come last in the show.”

  “We’ve been through this. Billing is the manager’s responsibility. Newland Rift gets to go last on any bill I put together.”

  “Puppies,” Cockspur said before he considered the effect of his impersonation on Lukarian.

  “And I won’t end the show with a tragedy, either.” She turned to her horse as the ill-mannered beast bit her.

  “In that case, I must protest.”

  “Your privilege.”

  [198] “If you dislike me so much, Ms. Lukarian, why don’t you buy out my share in the co-op?”

  “I can’t afford to. Why don’t you abandon it?”

  “That would be financially foolish, would it not?”

  “Then run for manager. If you win, you can decide who goes first and last.”

  “Run for manager? My dear young lady, I am an artist.”

  She faced him again. “Mr. Cockspur, I’ve tried to be civil, because you were a friend of my father. But I won’t displace Newland so you can have better billing!”

  “In that case, I am on strike.”

  “On strike? You can’t go on strike! You’re on the bill! You signed a contract!”

  “I have a right to protest intolerable working conditions.” Cockspur stalked away.

  Ship’s news announced the special performance of the Warp-Speed Classic Vaudeville Company. Soon all the places for the evening’s two shows had been spoken for and the standing room was going fast.

  Jim strolled to the shuttlecraft hangar, along the catwalk, to the companionway. He stared at the deck in pure astonishment.

  A gauzy emerald sheen covered the gently rolling landscape; new grass grew on what had been part of a barren astronomical body the day before. Three gnarled pines twisted together in one corner, and a huge stone, jagged and broken on one side, meteor-pitted on the other, rose from among their roots. The shuttlecraft had been lined up along one bulkhead, close together, and partitioned off from the pasture so Athene would not become trapped between them. Sulu had planned well. The shuttlecraft stood atop the dirt and could be launched if they were needed. The sprouting grass shimmered against their skids.

  It smelled like spring.

  Lindy ran across the field. Athene sprinted after her, bucking, nipping at her heels, playing. She bounced to a stop, her wings half spread. Lindy petted her and tsked to her. Athene began trotting in a circle around her, controlled by her voice. Lindy chirruped; Athene broke into a canter and widened the circle. When she spread her wings, she [199] looked as if any instant she could leap from the ground and fly.

  Lindy saw Jim. She waved to him and he joined her.

  “Hi, Jim. What do you think?”

  “I’m impressed,” Jim said. “I forgot we carried ADG seed—planting accelerated desert grass was a good idea.”

  “I never heard of it before. Hikaru said it’s descended from desert plants that grow after rainstorms.”

  “Yes. It’s invaluable in controlling erosion.”

  “So we threw a few kilos around, and, voilà! You’ve got a ton of it—why does a starship carry grass seed?”

  “We’ve got about fifty metric tons, if I remember correctly. Terraformed planets sometimes use it—after a flood, say, or a volcanic eruption. You don’t get much call for it, but when you need it you need a lot of it and you ne
ed it fast.”

  “We brought the big rock in with the dirt, and we borrowed the trees from botany.” Lindy smiled. “Athene loves it. But ... she still can’t fly. Jim, will you change the gravity?”

  “Isn’t the ceiling too low?”

  “The deck isn’t perfect. Obviously I’d rather have a ninety-nine percent earth environment with one-tenth gravity. Jim, whatever we do, she probably won’t get off the ground. More likely she’ll just be able to float along for a few steps. But it might make her think she’s flying. It might be enough.”

  “Let me check with the chief engineer.” He contacted Engineering and posed the question to Mr. Scott.

  “Tenth g, just on the shuttlecraft deck? I dinna ken, Captain Kirk, ’twould be complex. The structural stress—”

  “Mr. Scott, the structure of the Enterprise ought to be capable of standing the stress—unless the ship’s maintenance has been neglected. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  “Neglected! Begging the captain’s pardon!”

  “Yes or no, Mr. Scott?”

  “Nay, captain, the maintenance hasna been neglected. And aye, captain, ’tis possible to change the gravity.”

  “When?”

  “A few hours, captain.”

  [200] “Very well. Keep Ms. Lukarian informed so she can be here when you make the change.”

  “Aye, captain.”

  Jim cut off the connection.

  “Jim, thanks,” Lindy said. “I’m afraid this isn’t making Mr. Scott very happy ...”

  Jim shrugged. “That isn’t your problem. He just isn’t used to having ... an ‘inexperienced tyro’ for a captain. By the way, it’s standing room only at tonight’s performances.”

  “SRO? Already?” With a whoop of triumph, she raised her arms, her fists clenched, and spun once around.

  “Ticket scalpers may start work any minute.” Jim grinned. “How about heading them off by adding some more shows?”

  “You need a bigger theater.” She laughed. “Of course we’ll add more shows, are you kidding? Like I told you, we’re used to doing two a day. And there’s nothing a performer likes better than being held over.”