STAR TREK: TOS - Enterprise, The First Adventure

by Vonda N. McIntyre

  “—you’ll accept it, and with good grace. Jim! Who knows how long this will last? Maybe only ten microseconds! But [337] somehow, you’ve got the governments talking to each other instead of trading insults. And beyond that, if it’s true the people in the worldship won’t move it back to the Federation, someone’s got to represent us to them. Our scientists and diplomats won’t arrive for at least a week. So you are ad hoc ambassador to the Klingon frontier and to the worldship. I’m counting on you, my boy.”

  “I’ll ... do my best, admiral.”

  “I know you will. Now, and in the future. We’ll have a good long talk about the future, and about your next mission, as soon as you return.” He smiled as Jim struggled to think of something to say. “By the way, Jim—tell Lindy that the director of the oversight committee has expressed interest in seeing the company perform. If she agrees, please arrange it. Oh—here’s somebody who wants to talk to you.”

  Another image flickered into being.

  “Gary!”

  “You’re in deep trouble, kid,” Gary Mitchell said. “I warned you not to leave Federation space without me.”

  “You sure did,” Jim said. “I won’t do it again, I promise.” He felt like laughing with joy to see his friend back on his feet, to know he would be ready when the admiral presented Jim with his next mission. Gary still looked thin and drawn, and he supported himself with a cane, but a cane inlaid with ebony and topped with a flamboyant gold head had to be at least partly for show, for attention.

  Does it matter? Jim thought. Not a bit. “I missed you, Gary. We needed you.” He did not even feel his usual irritation at Gary’s calling him “kid.”

  “Damn right. Look at you—no sooner out of the hospital than you put yourself back in a cast.”

  Jim glanced at his knee with resignation. “Bones has already got the green slime mixed for me.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it. I always knew he was a sadist at heart.” Gary laughed.

  He thinks I’m joking, Jim thought. I wish.

  “How soon can you get out here?” Jim said.

  “Not for a while, kid. You’ll have to muddle on without a first officer till they let me out of the torture chamber.”

  The reminder that Gary could not be first officer [338] attenuated Jim’s happiness. “I have to talk to you. Later ...” He wanted to talk to Gary about Noguchi’s orders; he wanted to ease the broken promise both for himself and for his friend. But in private. He was painfully aware of Commander Spock just behind him. He trusted Gary to pick up on the hint.

  “Soon,” Jim said.

  “Yeah, all right.” Gary tossed his head to fling his heavy dark hair back from his forehead. “Later.” His hair immediately slipped down again. “Soon.”

  Gary fell silent. Even the short conversation had tired him.

  “I have to go,” Jim said quickly. “Just one thing—”

  “What?”

  “Get a haircut.”

  “Aye aye, cap’n kid sir,” Gary said, smiling.

  “And get better,” Jim said softly.

  Gary let the transmission fade.

  Spock could not help overhearing. He knew what the future conversation would be about. Captain Kirk would be forced to explain that Commander Mitchell could not, after all, occupy the position of first officer. Spock had taken little note of Kirk and Noguchi’s argument on the subject, and until now he had seen no reason to involve himself in any part of it. But now only he could have any influence, and he felt he should take action. He asked the computer for a file, the transfer request he had drafted and which he had thought to withdraw.

  As he waited for it, he became aware of Dr. McCoy standing nearby, arms folded, tapping his fingers impatiently.

  “You have that look of medical fervor in your eye, Bones,” Captain Kirk said.

  “That’s right. I want you and Spock to get down to sick bay—right now.”

  Spock raised his eyebrow in disbelief. “Do you think it wise, doctor,” he said, “for both senior officers to leave the bridge at the same time?”

  McCoy looked at him with a very strange expression.

  Spock gazed back with utter seriousness.

  “You’re absolutely right, Spock,” McCoy said, after a [339] lengthy pause. “It would be a mistake. Jim, didn’t you once say something about never asking anyone under your command to do anything you wouldn’t do?”

  “I never said that,” Jim said. But, resigned, he pushed himself to his feet and limped after McCoy.

  Wondering why McCoy had behaved so oddly in response to his comment, Spock completed his request to transfer off the Enterprise.

  In sick bay, McCoy gave Jim a quick once-over, but devoted most of his attention to his knee. It looked even worse than Jim expected. Freed of the temporary splint, it started to hurt. A deep bruise circled his kneecap.

  “I know you’ve already got the green slime growing,” Jim said.

  “What? No, not at all.”

  “But I saw the requisition—!”

  “Oh, you did, did you? Is that why you’ve been avoiding this exam?”

  “Pretty good reason, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I did mix up a batch of regen culture. But it doesn’t have anything to do with you. Not everything does, you know. And I do perform the occasional bit of research down here.”

  “Sorry, Bones.”

  “Damn right. If it will ease your mind: No. You aren’t going back into regen. Regen’s for serious stuff. You’ve got a bad muscle pull and some bruising.” McCoy grinned. “Just think of all the years of med school behind that diagnosis. Lay off the cowboy acrobatics for a while—”

  “No argument there.”

  “—and postpone any more fencing tournaments.”

  “You heard about that, did you?”

  “My spies are everywhere.” He enclosed Jim’s knee in an electro-stimulant brace. “Everything else looks just fine. A biofeedback refresher wouldn’t hurt, just for safety’s sake. Regen changes you, even if you can’t consciously tell. And you’ve obviously been neglecting your knee exercises.”

  “I’ve been so busy ...”

  “I’m too busy to nag you. Grow up, Jim. You can either do them, or you will end up back in regen. Understood, captain?”

  [340] “Understood, doctor.”

  “Good. Now go be the senior officer on the bridge and send Spock down here.”

  As Spock routed his transfer request to Captain Kirk’s comm unit, the captain returned from sick bay.

  “Your turn, Mr. Spock.”

  “I have already completed my required physical—”

  “Don’t argue, Commander Spock!”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Spock knew Dr. McCoy would find nothing amiss.

  “You’re a lucky man,” McCoy said.

  “I do not believe in luck, Dr. McCoy.”

  “You ought to. If Stephen hadn’t been around—”

  “His presence disproves your theory that I am lucky.”

  “There’s something awfully personal in your dislike for him, Mr. Spock. What is he—the family nonconformist?”

  “We are ... distantly related.”

  “Somehow,” McCoy said, “it’s comforting to know that even Vulcan families have relatives they don’t talk about. So Stephen’s your weird cousin, eh?”

  “That explanation will suffice. Vulcan kinship ties are complex.”

  “I think I can follow the explanation,” McCoy said. “Use short words.”

  “My father’s father’s sister’s daughter is Stephen’s mother. Therefore we are related through a three-level direct transgender line, in the second degree.”

  McCoy frowned over the explanation. “Then you are cousins.”

  “If Vulcans counted kinship as your culture does, our relationship would fall into that category.”

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “I did, doctor,” Spock said, wondering why human beings persisted
in their contrariness.

  But a few minutes later, on the way back to the bridge, he could not help but recall what McCoy had said about Stephen. Much as he preferred not to admit it, he and Stephen had one factor in common.

  They both were exiles.

  * * *

  [341] The next twenty-four hours passed in a blaze of activity. Scarlet, hearing of the planned performance, expressed a wish to see it, and hinted at interest from other of the worldship’s people. The audience would be so large that neither the Enterprise nor any of the ships of the director’s fleet could hold it. Scarlet found a natural amphitheater within the worldship. Lindy agreed that the site would work, since the company brought all its own scenery and props. Besides, on the worldship and outdoors, Athene could be part of the show. The only thing that worried Lindy was the possibility of rain.

  “It will not rain, Lindy-magician,” Scarlet said.

  “That’s easy to say—but hard to be sure of.”

  “No, I am sure.”

  “Okay, we’ll do it.”

  And, to Jim’s surprise, it was just that easy.

  Hikaru Sulu arrived at the worldship’s amphitheater, wearing black tights and vermilion doublet, with his sword belt buckled around his hips. It was a great costume. Maybe he would even get to wear it onstage.

  He worried about his lines. He knew them—but he was not certain he could stand to say them. He wondered if he could get away with speaking the unrevised lines and pretending he had been too nervous to remember Mr. Cockspur’s version. He almost wished he were playing Horatio instead of Laertes. Horatio had several speeches after Hamlet died. If Hikaru ignored the revisions while playing Laertes, he would have to recite them to Hamlet’s face, and Hamlet would be facing him with a sword. The duel might turn out to be more real than anyone expected.

  In either event, Cockspur would be furious, but then, he was furious about something most of the time anyway.

  “Er ... Mr. Sulu.” Mr. Cockspur joined him. The actor wore black velvet. Until this minute, Hikaru had not known whether Cockspur would deign to end his strike and perform.

  “I’m all ready, Mr. Cockspur.”

  “I see you are. But there’s been a change in plans.”

  “Oh ... Are you on strike again?” Maybe Lindy will let [342] me give Hamlet’s soliloquy, Hikaru thought. I did learn it, after all, just in case.

  “No, no—Admiral Noguchi persuaded me that I should participate, for the good of the Federation.”

  “A different scene, then?” Hikaru asked, not at all sure he could stand to learn another set of Mr. Cockspur’s lines.

  “Yes. Exactly. The dueling scene has been canceled. Too arousing, I feel, given the, er, martial proclivities of our guests.”

  “I don’t think it would be arousing,” Hikaru said. “What about catharsis? ‘Incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to accomplish its catharsis of such emotions.’ ”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  “I’m quoting Aristotle.”

  “But we’re doing Shakespeare. Perhaps it’s just as well that I’ll be doing one of Hamlet’s soliloquies. Alone.”

  “Oh,” Hikaru said. His visions of understudy-saves-show dissolved.

  “It’s for the good of the performance,” Cockspur said. “The show must go on, and that sort of thing.”

  He walked away.

  “Whatever happened to ‘all for one and one for all’?” Hikaru said plaintively.

  Nearby, Stephen checked the balance on some new juggling equipment. He had discovered that if he juggled very large and very heavy objects, or used more objects and threw them higher, he could put on a decent show despite the low gravity. In the high partial pressure of oxygen, torches worked spectacularly well. The first time he lit one, he almost singed his eyebrows.

  Just as well, he thought. You need something to keep you on your toes.

  Tzesnashstennaj, Hazard, and Snarl came by, sliding past and over and under each other as if they had already begun the powerful and erotic hunt performance. Ilya bristled. The hunters stopped. Stephen caught his juggling clubs and put them down, wondering if he was going to have to break up a cat fight. He did not understand why the hunters disliked Ilya so much.

  [343] With a chirp, Starfleet peeked from behind Tzesnashstennaj’s shoulders.

  “Stephen,” Tzesnashstennaj said, “have you met my new pet?”

  “Here and there,” Stephen said.

  “Is he not charming?” Tzesnashstennaj scratched it gently on the chin. Sighing with pleasure, Starfleet flopped on its back with its arms and legs splayed in the air. “Hazarstennaj gave him to me ... as a love-token.”

  Hazard made a snarly, purring sound. “As Tzesnashstennaj will not let me kidnap him into Starfleet, I am compelled to give Starfleet to him.”

  “I think he does not like the name Starfleet,” Tzesnashstennaj said. “I may change his name. His ears are a little pointy ... what do you think of the name Vulcan?”

  “I think Starfleet would be the only mauve Vulcan in the history of the universe,” Stephen said.

  Tzesnashstennaj nodded. “That is true. He would be even more unusual than a Vulcan who was blond. I will have to wait for him to find his own name. But I will teach him to juggle! Perhaps Lindy will put him onstage, and we will become rich and famous. What do you think of that, Stephen?”

  “I think there’s only room for one juggler in a vaudeville company,” Stephen said, and realized he was clenching his teeth with irritation.

  Snarl chuckled. “I told you all—did I not?—there is not a Vulcan in the universe with a sense of humor.”

  Laughing and yowling they bounded off, a sleek and gleaming flow of muscle and arrogance. Starfleet perched on Tzesnashstennaj’s shoulders like a jockey.

  Ilya unbristled and sat down to wash.

  “Do you think we deserved that?” Stephen asked Ilya. “I don’t think we deserved that.”

  Roswind hurried to her cabin to get changed. Like most of the rest of the crew of the Enterprise, she had permission to transport to the worldship and see the vaudeville performance. It was about time she got her turn.

  She opened the door.

  [344] She shrieked.

  Green slime covered the floor, and the nauseating odor of decomposing regeneration gel permeated her cabin.

  She spent the next several hours cleaning up the remains of the green “roommate,” while all her friends enjoyed themselves at the show.

  Roswind knew she had been had.

  In a makeshift dressing room in the amphitheater, Jim straightened his formal tunic for about the ninety-third time, gave up trying to feel comfortable in it, and wandered outside. He found Lindy, who looked perfectly comfortable in her silver suit.

  “This is ridiculous,” Jim said to her. “I don’t belong on that stage.”

  “Sure you do.” She straightened one of the triangular ribbons on his chest. “Did you leave a place for the new one? Come on, it’s a tradition to have heroes talk about their exploits on the vaudeville stage.”

  Jim groaned.

  She laughed. “You’ll do fine. I’ve got to hurry—wait till you see my entrance!”

  She disappeared in the visual cacophony of performers doing their warmup routines between the curtained dressing rooms. Jim walked around, trying to look calm. Nearby, Spock observed the backstage activity. He appeared perfectly serene, and he wore his brown velvet tunic.

  “Commander Spock.”

  Solemn, emotionless, Spock watched James Kirk approach. “Yes, captain?”

  “What’s the meaning of the transfer request I found on my desk this morning?”

  Spock raised one eyebrow. “I assumed it would be self-evident,” he said.

  “You assumed wrong. Commander, I thought we’d made our peace.”

  Spock looked into the sky, where Scarlet soared free in the exhilaration of flight. Spock recalled the resonances of Scarlet’s grief; he recalled his own desperate climb towa
rd silence or death. He would have plunged slowly to oblivion, [345] except for James Kirk’s dangerous and impulsive rescue. For all his imperturbability, Spock valued his life, his experiences past and the experiences to come.

  “Indeed, captain, we did.”

  “Then why the transfer?”

  “I believed, when I first observed you, that I could not work with you. You are very different from Christopher Pike. You are emotional, headstrong, and stubborn. But I have come to understand that these differences should be valued, not despised. I realized that working with you would be a valuable, if difficult, experience.”

  “Thanks for the compliment,” Kirk said dryly.

  “One must face difficulty if one wishes to learn,” Spock said.

  “None of this explains why you’ve requested a transfer.”

  “I thought only of myself and whether I wished to remain on the Enterprise with you as captain. I never considered whether you wished to work with me. If I resign the post of first officer, you may promote Commander Mitchell.”

  “Why exactly did you decide to make this sacrifice?”

  “It is a sacrifice only of my personal wishes. That is little enough to offer in return for the risk you took in the center of the worldship. Vulcans do not collect debts. We prefer not to owe them, either.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Spock. Dammit—”

  “Captain—”

  “It’s your turn to listen. A few days ago, I probably would have let you go ahead with your noble gesture. I probably would have appreciated it. But even if I thought Admiral Noguchi would let me finagle Gary in as first officer over his objections, which I don’t, I wouldn’t try. I’ve learned a couple of lessons, too, over the last few days. Lesson one: Admiral Noguchi is right.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “A starship needs differences. It needs good officers—and Gary is one of the best—but it needs checks and balances, too. Gary and I are very much alike ...” He paused, staring into a distance of recent memories. “I owe him ... my life. But I have to do what’s best for the Enterprise. And that is to persuade you to stay on as first officer.”

  [346] “But what of Commander Mitchell—your friend?”

  “Balancing friendship and responsibility won’t be easy—and telling all this to Gary is going to be harder. I’ll hear the end of it in, oh, twenty years or so. Which will be at least fifteen years after he gets his own command. Forcing you off the Enterprise in his favor would do him—and me—more harm than good. If you turn down your first senior position, you won’t win any prizes with Starfleet, either.”