Duty, Honor, Redemption

by Novelization by Vonda N. McIntyre

  “Mister President!” Fleet Commander Cartwright exclaimed. “We have power!”

  Reviving electronic machines chattered to each other. New light glowed in Sarek’s peripheral vision. But he could spare none of it his attention. Far distant, metal caught and reflected the new sunlight.

  “Look.” His voice was quiet.

  The council president joined him. “By God!” he exclaimed. “Do we have a working shuttle left?”

  Cartwright saw what they had found on the surface of the sea.

  “I’ll find one,” he said. “I’ll find one somewhere.”

  The sky had almost cleared, Jim turned toward the sun, letting its heat steam the cold out of his exhausted body and his bedraggled clothes. He glanced at his shipmates with a smile.

  “We look like we’ve been out here a week,” he said.

  “I want to grow a beard if I’m going to be a castaway,” McCoy said. He perched precariously on the control sphere, his knees drawn up and his forearms resting on them, his hands dangling relaxed. He grinned. “Congratulations, Jim. I think you’ve saved the Earth.”

  Jim glanced at Gillian, squeezed her hand, and searched the sea. Gillian nudged him and pointed.

  “Not me, Bones,” Jim said. “They did it.”

  In the distance, one of the humpbacks leaped. It cleared the water completely. Jim recognized which one it was, but human names meant nothing to the humpbacks anymore. The whale made a leisurely spiral in the air and landed back first and pectoral fins extended with a tremendous splash. Beside the first whale, the second humpback leaped and breached.

  Gillian laughed. “Vessyl kit,” she said. “Merry whale.”

  A great double rainbow glowed against the sky. The inner arc began with violet and ended with red; its shadow, as intense as any ordinary rainbow, began with red and ended with violet.

  “Oh, jeez,” Gillian said, and burst into tears.

  Epilogue

  Leonard McCoy strode through the gateway, across the manicured lawn, and up the steps of the Vulcan embassy. He pounded on the carved wooden door. When it did not open in a few seconds, he pounded again.

  “Let me in!” He was in no mood to be polite. He had been trying to reach Spock for days. “Spock, dammit, if you won’t take my calls, I’m staying on your front porch till you talk to me!” He raised his fist to hit the heavy polished wood for a third time.

  The door swung open. “Proceed.”

  Alone except for the disembodied voice, McCoy entered the elegant old mansion. The Vulcans had changed the house very little, or they had furnished it in the style of its world and its time. Oriental carpets covered golden hardwood floors; heavy velvet-covered furniture hunkered in the rooms he passed. The voice directed him down a long hallway to a set of wide glass doors. They swung open as he approached, admitting a hot, dry breeze. He might have expected the house’s atrium to contain a gazebo, a topiary, even a maze. Instead it held a sere expanse of swept sand and wind-polished granite blocks, reddened light and thin air, concentrated heat. The microclimate and the illusion of a great scarlet sun banished the morning’s fog.

  Spock stood in full sunlight in the center of the atrium, robed but bare-headed. McCoy started toward him without waiting for Spock to acknowledge his presence. The sand scraped beneath his boots.

  “Spock!”

  “Yes, Doctor McCoy,” Spock said.

  “Why didn’t you answer my call?”

  “I was helping Doctor Taylor ensure the safety and well-being and the freedom of the whales. Afterward, I found it necessary to meditate. If you had been patient—” He stopped and gazed at McCoy; he smiled very slightly. “But of course you are a doctor, not a patient.”

  “I—what?” He really had heard Spock say what he thought he heard him say.

  “It is of no consequence, Doctor McCoy,” Spock said. “Did you come to take me to task?”

  “No. Why do you think I’ve come to take you to task? Take you to task for what?”

  “For occupying myself elsewhere while you and Admiral Kirk and my other shipmates await the judgment of the tribunal.”

  “No. I—” McCoy realized he had not even considered berating Spock for his absence. “I understand why you didn’t stay. You testified, you did all you could. It wasn’t logical…” Groaning, he buried his face in his hands. “It’s driving me crazy, Spock!” he cried. “To understand you so well. T’Lar said you were whole again. She swore she’d freed us of each other!”

  “Doctor McCoy, sit down. Please.”

  McCoy collapsed on one of the polished granite boulders. Spock sat nearby.

  “Is it so terrible,” the Vulcan said, “to understand me?”

  “I—” McCoy managed to smile. “It isn’t something I’m used to.” He rubbed his hands down the smooth, stippled sides of the sun-warmed boulder. Between him and the mansion, the deep line of his footprints began to blur and vanish. “No, Spock, the understanding isn’t so terrible. It isn’t terrible at all—though I’m not sure I believe I’m admitting that. But it shouldn’t be happening! I feel like I’m losing myself again. Spock…I’m afraid.”

  Spock leaned toward him, elbows on knees. “Doctor, you are not alone in this experience.”

  McCoy rubbed his temples. The facilitation sessions horrified him. He had thought he would do anything, even conceal the madness he feared, to avoid enduring another one. Only the sensation of having another entity taking over his mind could be worse.

  “It depends on the tribunal’s verdict,” McCoy said, staring into the sand. “The terms may not permit me the freedom to return to Vulcan. Maybe, if you aren’t yet healed, if your sanity requires my presence—”

  “But the facilitation sessions are complete. We need not return to Vulcan.”

  McCoy glanced up.

  “Doctor McCoy,” Spock said, “T’Lar spoke the truth. To the degree that is possible to achieve, we are free, each of the other. But we have our own true memories. We retain resonances of each other. I understand you better, too. Can you accept what has occurred? If you cannot, you will suffer. But it will be your own suffering, not mine. If you can take yourself beyond your fear, you will take yourself beyond danger as well.”

  “Is it true?” McCoy whispered.

  Spock nodded.

  The Vulcan spoke of resonances: the truth of what he said resonated within McCoy.

  He rose. “Thank you, Mister Spock. You’ve eased my mind considerably. I’ll leave you to your meditation. I have to return to Starfleet headquarters. To wait with Jim and the others.”

  “Spock.”

  Spock rose. “Yes, Father.”

  McCoy glanced back. Sarek crossed the sand toward them. The desert garden began to obliterate his footprints.

  “The tribunal has signaled its intention to deliver a verdict.”

  “I’ve got to hurry,” McCoy said.

  “We will accompany you,” Spock said.

  In a pleasant room with a wall of windows, Admiral James T. Kirk stared into San Francisco Bay and pretended a calm that he did not feel. The water glittered in the sunlight. Somewhere out there, a hundred fathoms deep, lay the battered remains of the Bounty. Somewhere more distant, out in the Pacific, two whales swam free. Jim was imprisoned, bound by his word of honor to stay.

  I can’t believe this is happening, he thought angrily. After all we’ve been through—I can’t believe Starfleet still insists on a court-martial.

  Earth was recovering from the effects of the probe. Because of the evacuation of the coasts, few lives had been lost on Earth. Most of the neutralized Starfleet ships had been crippled, not killed; they had sustained few casualties. Jim was glad of that. He had seen too much death, too recently. He touched the narrow black mourning band on his cuff. His grief over David’s death returned suddenly, as it often did at unexpected times, and struck him with its full force. If Carol would only speak to him, if they could offer each other both sorrow and comfort…but she remained on Delta, refusing
his attempts to contact her. Jim looked down, blinking rapidly, forcing his vision to clear.

  He tried to take comfort in the resurrection of his friend, in the survival of his homeworld, and in the recovery of an extinct species of sentient being. Spock had made promises to the whales. The work that would carry out those promises had kept Spock and Gillian away from the trial.

  Samples of whale cells, preserved in the twentieth century, would add to the species’ genetic diversity through cloning. Legends and myths to the contrary, two individuals—even three, when Gracie’s calf was born—were not sufficient to reestablish any species. The whales would never again be hunted, and their freedom would never again be curtailed.

  Gracie and George, youths trying to rebuild their species’ civilization, seemed undaunted by the scope of the task. It would take far longer than rebuilding their minuscule population. But, according to Spock, humpbacks thought in terms of generations and centuries, not in minutes or seasons or years.

  Jim smoothed the mourning band and the sleeve of his uniform jacket.

  Will I still have the right to wear my uniform or my insignia after the next few hours? he wondered. He could not answer the question. He could not even be certain how he would react when the tribunal delivered its judgment.

  He wondered how the others were holding up. His officers, lacking McCoy, had gathered here this morning to wait through another day. No one spoke much. Scott sat nearby, fidgeting, glowering, hating the wait. Every so often Chekov tried to make a joke, and Uhura tried to laugh.

  Sulu stood alone, staring out the far window. Perhaps he was gazing at the spot where the Bounty had gone down. It might be the last starship he ever flew, if Jim’s attempt to shield his shipmates failed. Jim rose and crossed the room to stand with Sulu.

  “It was a good little ship,” Jim said.

  The young commander did not reply. Of all his shipmates, Jim worried most about him. Outrage lit Sulu from within.

  “Commander Sulu, whatever happens, you aren’t to make any foolish gestures.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Admiral,” Sulu said stonily.

  “A protest. An outburst, or resignation. The sacrifice of your career, to make a point. I think you do know what I mean.”

  Sulu faced him, his dark eyes intense. “And do you also think nobody noticed what you were doing during the testimony? Taking everything as your own responsibility? If you want to convince somebody not to make a sacrifice, you haven’t got much moral ground to stand on! I’ll tell you what I think. I think this court-martial stinks, and I don’t intend to keep my mouth shut on the subject no matter what you order!”

  Jim frowned. “Be careful how you speak to me, Commander. It was my responsibility—”

  “No, Admiral, it wasn’t. We all made our own choices. If you try to stand alone, if you deny our accountability for what we did, where does that leave us? As mindless puppets, following blindly without any sense of our own ethics.”

  “Now wait one minute!” Jim started to protest, then cut himself off. He could see Sulu’s point. By trying to draw all the blame to himself, Jim had, in a strange way, behaved thoughtlessly and selfishly. “No. You’re right. What we did, none of us could have done alone. Commander Sulu, I won’t discount the participation—or the responsibility—of my officers again.”

  He offered his hand. After a moment, Sulu grasped it hard.

  The door opened. Everyone in the room fell silent. The chancellor appeared in the entryway.

  “The council has returned,” she said.

  The shipmates gathered together. Jim led them from the anteroom. McCoy joined them in the corridor, hurrying, out of breath.

  As Jim entered the council chamber, whispers brushed his hearing. Spectators filled the observation seats and the spaces around the walls. Gillian Taylor sat with Christine Chapel and Janice Rand, and, to Jim’s surprise, with Sarek and Spock. Though grateful for their support, Jim did not acknowledge their presence. Eyes front, he strode to the center of the council chamber. His shipmates lined up beside him. On the floor, the seal of the United Federation of Planets formed an inlaid circle around them.

  Behind the wide bench, the members of the council gazed down at Jim and his shipmates. Their expressions revealed no hint of their decision.

  A louder murmur, a collective whisper of astonishment, rippled across the audience. Someone walked across the chamber with long, quiet strides.

  Spock stopped beside Jim and came to attention like the others. He, too, wore a Starfleet uniform.

  “Captain Spock,” the council president said, “you do not stand accused.”

  “I stand with my shipmates,” Spock replied. “Their fate shall be mine.”

  “As you wish.” The president touched each of them with his intent gaze. “The charges and specifications are conspiracy; assault on Federation officers; theft of the Starship Enterprise, Federation property; sabotage of the Starship Excelsior, Federation property; willful destruction of the aforementioned U.S.S. Enterprise, Federation property; and, finally, disobeying direct orders of Commander, Starfleet. How do you plead?”

  Admiral James Kirk formally repeated his plea. “On behalf of all of us, Mister President, I am authorized to plead guilty.”

  “So entered. Hear now the sentence of the Federation Council.” He glanced down at his papers, cleared his throat, and looked up again. “Mitigating circumstances impel the tribunal to dismiss all charges except one.”

  The spectators reacted. A glance from the president quieted them.

  “I direct the final charge, disobeying the orders of a superior officer, at Admiral Kirk alone.” He gazed at Jim, his expression somber. “I am sure the admiral will recognize the necessity of discipline in any chain of command.”

  “I do, sir,” Kirk replied. It was too late to argue about self-reliance and initiative.

  “James T. Kirk, it is the verdict of this tribunal that you are guilty of the charge against you.”

  Jim stared ahead, stony-faced, but inside he flinched.

  “Furthermore, it is the judgment of this tribunal that you be reduced in rank. You are relieved of the rank, duties, and privileges of flag officer. The tribunal decrees that Captain James T. Kirk return to the duties for which he has repeatedly demonstrated unswerving ability: the command of a starship.”

  The reaction of the crowd washed over him. Jim forced himself not to react. But a shout of astonishment and relief, a shout of pure happiness, trembled beside his heart.

  “Silence!” the president exclaimed. Slowly, the audience obeyed. “Captain Kirk, your new command awaits you. You and your officers have saved this planet from its own shortsightedness, and we are forever in your debt.”

  “Bravo!”

  Jim recognized Gillian’s voice, but a hundred other voices drowned her out. In another moment he was surrounded by well-wishers, acquaintances, strangers, all wanting to congratulate him, to shake his hand. He complied, but he hardly heard or saw them. He was searching for his shipmates. He saw McCoy, reached out, grabbed him, and drew him into a bear hug. McCoy returned it, then grasped Jim by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

  “You can always appeal, you know,” he said.

  Jim stared at him for a moment, speechless, his fear for the doctor renewed. And then he noticed the smile McCoy tried to hide. Jim started to laugh. McCoy gave up trying to keep a straight face. He laughed, too—finally, after too long, back to his old self.

  They eased their way between spectators till they reached Chekov and Scott and Uhura, hugging each other and shaking hands. Sulu stood nearby, perhaps more stunned by a positive verdict than by the negative one for which he had prepared himself.

  “Congratulations, Admi—I mean, Captain Kirk,” he said.

  “The congratulations are for all of us, Commander Sulu,” Jim said. He wanted to tell him something more, but the onlookers pushed between them.

  In San Francisco, in the twentieth ce
ntury, Javy and Ben climbed down the terraced bank and headed for their dieseling truck. Despite everything, the rest of their day’s work remained.

  “I’m really sorry, Javy,” Ben said. “I should of believed you right off. Maybe if I had we would of seen what made that burn.”

  “I saw it,” Javy said. “I saw its shadow, anyway.”

  “But, I mean, we would of seen it and we would of been able to show it to other people. To a reporter, maybe, and they’d write us up in a book and maybe we’d get on Johnny Carson.” He brightened. “Maybe if we show them the burned place—”

  “Maybe if we show them the burned place, they’ll arrest us for arson. Or they’ll write us up as a couple of nut cases,” Javy said. “And maybe they’d be right. We don’t have any proof. A burned place and a shadow.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Ben said again, downcast.

  “Don’t be, Ben, it’s okay, honest.”

  “I’d be mad, if I were you.”

  “Maybe I ought to be,” Javy said. “Except…” He hesitated, not sure he wanted to say it out loud before he was certain it was true.

  “What?”

  What the hell. Telling Ben the story had always worked before. Javy grinned. “I figured out how to end my novel,” he said.

  The FBI agent put all the reports together and looked at them and wished the lights were brighter so he could put on his sunglasses.

  I might as well be named Bond, he thought. Nobody outside a spy novel would believe this stuff. My boss sure won’t, and my partner will say I’ve been talking to Gamma too much.

  “I don’t even believe it,” he muttered. “I don’t even believe the parts I saw with my own eyes.” The radar reports from San Francisco and Nome did nothing to improve his mood.

  Maybe the report will get lost when it’s filed, he thought. Stuff sometimes does. Before anybody has a chance to read it. With any luck…

  But he trusted Murphy’s Law more than he trusted luck. He decided to file the report himself.