And then he’d been with Edith on Earth in 1930. And with Gary on Delta Vega, with Sam on Deneva, with David on Regula, with Spock down in main engineering. He’d prevented Governor Kodos from giving the order to execute four thousand colonists on Tarsus IV, had avoided contracting the rapid-aging disease on Miri’s planet, had reached the S.S. Huron before it had been attacked by Orion pirates. He’d spent time with Carol and Ruth, Areel Shaw and Janice Lester. He’d served under Captain Bannock aboard the Republic and under Captain Garrovick aboard the Farragut. He’d interacted with different people, visited a myriad of places, experienced events both old and new to him…dozens of times, hundreds, thousands.
“We’re running out of time,” Picard said in an odd counterpoint to the apparent wealth of time that had crashed in on Kirk. “Look,” Picard said, peering back toward the splintered bridge. “The control pad. It’s still on the other side.”
Kirk saw it, wedged against a post support on the far half of the bridge. “I’ll get it,” he said, knowing that Picard would be better suited to disarming the missile with its twenty-fourth-century controls. “You go for the launcher.”
“No, you’ll never make that by yourself,” Picard said, and then he gazed at Kirk. “We have to work together.”
“We are working together,” Kirk told him. “Trust me. Go.”
Picard followed his direction without further protest, getting to his feet and heading for the missile platform. “Good luck, Captain,” he said.
“Call me Jim,” Kirk said as he stood and started back down the bridge. He took hold of the upper chain on the left side and made his way along the grated surface, which now hung down at nearly a forty-five-degree angle. As he moved, so too did the bridge, shaking and shimmying beneath his weight, its connections to the rocks strained. The stressed metal groaned as it shifted, and small pieces fell off and rattled to the bottom of the chasm below.
Two-thirds of the way down, the chain in his hands snapped. Kirk fell onto his side and skidded down the bridge toward where its charred, broken metal surface ended in midair. He reached for another chain and found it just in time.
Cautiously, he pulled himself up to a standing position, as close to the wrecked edge of the bridge as possible. He peered across the meters-wide gap and saw the other section moving too, appearing as though it could fall at any moment. He had no idea if it would bear up under his weight, particularly after a jump, but he had not come this far to play it safe. As he gazed at Soran’s lost control pad, Kirk knew that he must risk his life to do this, for if he didn’t, he would condemn the two hundred thirty million inhabitants of Veridian IV to certain death. He bent his knees in preparation, took a deep breath, and leaped.
He landed hard on the other side. He wrapped the fingers of one hand around another chain, while he sent those of his other hand through the grated surface to take hold there. That section of the bridge shook even more, and then Kirk heard the snap and creak of metal parts. The surface dropped to an even steeper angle, and he quickly let go of the chain and slammed that hand through the grating as well.
Above him, he heard a clatter, and he looked up just in time to see Soran’s control pad falling toward him. Letting go of the bridge with one hand, he managed to catch the device. He examined it for a moment, then pointed it toward the cloaked missile. Over the shriek of failing metal, he pushed a button. In the distance, he saw Soran’s trilithium weapon reappear on its platform, even as Picard raced up the ladder to it.
Not wanting to give up possession of the control pad, Kirk tucked it into his waistband. Then he reached again for the chain, intending to try and pull himself up to the rocks. Above him, he heard the report of metal splitting, and he knew he didn’t have long to get to safety.
That was when the bridge fell.
Kirk held on tightly as it careered down the rocks. Metal ground against stone, and then the bottom edge of the bridge struck an outcropping, which sent Kirk and the entire structure spinning into open air. He felt instant, blinding fear in a way he rarely had. He didn’t open his mouth, but in his mind, he screamed.
Seconds later, he crashed to the ground beneath the twisted mass of metal.
Kirk didn’t know how much time had passed or whether he’d remained conscious throughout, but he became aware of the scrabble of footsteps in the dirt. He attempted to move, but he could not sustain the effort for more than a moment. The wreckage of the bridge had pinned him on his back, but even had it not been there, Kirk doubted that he would’ve been able to stir. Though he felt nothing, he knew that he’d been crushed, that within him, his organs had been damaged beyond repair. He could still see and hear, and the sharp taste of iron filled his mouth, but he could do little else but wait to die.
He heard more movement in the dirt, and then seemingly in the metal ruins about him. A bar shifted then, and a chain, rattling away from him. Then, filling that space, Picard leaned in and peered at him.
Kirk blinked, once, twice, trying to make sure of what he saw. “Did we do it?” he asked, the whisper of his own voice barely audible even to him. “Did…we make a difference?”
“Oh, yes. We made a difference,” Picard told him earnestly. “Thank you.”
“Least I could do,” Kirk managed to say, “for the captain of the Enterprise.” He looked away from Picard and into the past, to his successes, to his failures, and he found that it pleased him a great deal that his death would be in the service of saving others—beings he hadn’t met and who would never know of his sacrifice. “It was…fun,” he said, feeling the sides of his mouth curling upward in a faint smile.
He gazed back at Picard, and then past him. In the patch of sky visible over his right shoulder, Kirk saw heading rapidly toward them the winding, thrashing energy ribbon—but not just the energy ribbon. All about it, the sky fractured soundlessly, space-time ripping apart in mute devastation. “Oh, my,” Kirk said as the black wave of destruction cleaving to the ribbon expanded in all directions, up toward space and down to encompass the planet’s surface. In the blink of an eye, the earth and the air shattered in the distance, annihilated in some fundamental, irrevocable way.
At last the sound came, a rumble sonorous and dark, like the voice of death itself. Picard spun toward it as the ground beneath them began to quake. Like a tsunami, the ribbon and the dark maelstrom reached far above them, a vast imposing threat from which there clearly could be no escape.
The rumble increased to a roar, the ground shaking intensely. And then all of it descended upon them. The structure of existence in that moment, in that space, disintegrated. Kirk saw a coruscation of brilliant light and then—
Reality ceased to exist.
I
Many Things I Thought of Then
Dully at the leaden sky
Staring, and with idle eye
Measuring the listless plain,
I began to think again.
Many things I thought of then,
Battle, and the loves of men,
Cities entered, oceans crossed,
Knowledge gained and virtue lost,
Cureless folly done and said,
And the lovely way that led
To the slimepit and the mire
And the everlasting fire.
And against a smolder dun
And a dawn without a sun
Did the nearing bastion loom,
And across the gate of gloom
Still one saw the sentry go,
Trim and burning, to and fro,
One for women to admire
In his finery of fire.
Something, as I watched him pace,
Minded me of time and place,
Soldiers of another corps
And a sentry known before.
—A. E. Housman,
“Hell Gate”
ONE
(2282)/2282
Kirk stood beneath a hazy sky, feeling hazy himself. Around him rose trees and brush. A light breeze blew, causing the switchgr
ass to sway against the legs of his black uniform pants. The strong scent of Solomon’s plumes wafted through the air, though in his mouth, he still tasted the tang of metal.
Metal? Still?
He reached his left hand to his lips, and his fingertips came away stained with blood. Kirk peered down at himself and saw dark patches on his crimson vest, and streaks of red on his long-sleeved white shirt and on his right hand. The material of his uniform had been covered with dirt and torn in numerous places. He struggled to recall what had happened—and then did.
Soran. Veridian Three.
Kirk remembered falling, remembered gazing out from beneath the misshapen remains of the bridge that had crushed him and knowing that he had only seconds to live. He’d seen the flaming ribbon of energy, racing toward him and bringing the obliteration of space and time with it. The ribbon and the ruin had extended down to the planet, had engulfed him and Picard—
Picard!
Kirk looked left and right, then turned in a circle, searching for any sign of the Enterprise captain. He didn’t see him, though, nor did he see the rocky desert locale where they’d fought Soran. Instead, he found himself once more among the rolling, wooded hills of Idaho, in the area where he and Picard had last spoken prior to their mission on Veridian Three.
Except that they hadn’t really been in Idaho, but in some type of temporal nexus that had allowed Kirk to imagine himself there. Picard had told him that, but Kirk had really known the truth of it even before then. He’d ridden Tom Telegraph out here from his uncle’s barn sensing that it had been the day he’d met Antonia, but also knowing that it could only be an imitation of that time.
Movement caught Kirk’s eye. He looked across the ravine to the hilltop, to where Antonia sat on horseback. Beneath the filmy sky, another horse and rider ascended the slope, approaching her. Only when they arrived at the summit of the hill and neared Antonia did Kirk recognize the second rider: himself, dressed not in the clothes he had worn on that long-ago day, but in the black slacks, white pullover shirt, and crimson vest of his Starfleet uniform—the same uniform he wore right now, though neither ripped nor coated with the soil of Veridian Three.
What’s happening? Kirk thought, and with an absurdity he realized a moment later, he actually patted the front of his own body in a visceral attempt to verify his own physical existence. He reasoned that he must be witnessing some sort of reproduced scene, since clearly he could not exist both here and there—or could he? Could his presence here, in this spot, simply be a later version of himself than the one right now appearing to meet Antonia for the first time? Could he be standing here minutes after he and Picard had stopped Soran sometime in the 2370s, viewing a period in his life that had taken place in 2282?
He didn’t know. That hadn’t seemed to be how the nexus had functioned before. In his previous spell within the mysterious region, he hadn’t been a witness to events, but a participant in them. He remembered preparing breakfast for Antonia on that day when he had been about to break the news to her of his intention to return to Starfleet, and then having his change of heart and telling Picard about it. He remembered stranding Gary Mitchell on Delta Vega but not being forced to kill him; finding a different way of dealing with Apollo on Pollux IV that did not require the self-styled god to spread himself thinner and thinner upon the wind, until only the wind remained; sharing a birthday meal with his son as David turned forty; and living or reliving so many other events of his life, some old, some new, many modified in ways clearly born of his own desires. But this…
He began walking forward, in the direction of the ravine, and beyond it, toward the hill where some version or replica of himself even now had that initial conversation with Antonia. As he moved through the switchgrass, he realized that it had been from this precise location that he and Picard had departed the nexus to reach Veridian Three. What did it mean, if anything, that he had returned to this place when he’d been swept back into the strange temporal confluence? Had he even really left the nexus?
Kirk stopped, unsure how he should proceed. He had intended to approach Antonia and the other Kirk, but now he didn’t know if he should. He looked to his left, then moved that way, until he stood concealed behind the foliage of a low-hanging tree branch. For now, he decided, he would simply observe, in the hope of gaining more information before choosing a course of action.
As he peered through the leaves of the tree to the top of the hill, Kirk could not help remembering the original version of this day in his own life.
After waking up and eating a light breakfast, Jim Kirk knocked around the one-story farmhouse for a few minutes. Clad in blue jeans and a gray short-sleeved shirt, he paced aimlessly through the few small rooms: from his bedroom on the right side of the house, past the refresher, down the short hall to the kitchen, out into the living room, and into the second bedroom, which he’d more or less set up as an office, though he rarely spent any time there. With his years of starship service—and consequently the requirements for written and recorded reports to Starfleet—at an end, he found little need for a desk or any sort of a sit-down workspace. He’d had a com/comm unit—a computer and communications station—installed when he’d moved in, but he almost never used it. During his first few months here, Spock and McCoy and others had contacted him a number of times, but he supposed that he must’ve made it abundantly clear that he intended to disconnect from his former life and keep to himself in the Idaho wilderness. At this point, after residing here for nearly two years, days would pass between when he checked for messages, and only infrequently did he find one waiting for him.
Now, standing before the self-contained terminal, Kirk leaned forward and touched a control surface. It responded with a buzz, and the declaration 0 MESSAGES appeared on the display. Kirk felt a mixture of relief and disappointment.
If you want to talk with Spock or Bones, he told himself, you can just go ahead and contact them. He could, of course, but what would he say to them? That he’d made a mistake in leaving Starfleet? He knew that most of his friends and colleagues had believed that very thing when he’d stepped down, and they probably still believed it now. But while there might have been some truth to that view, he also knew that it would have been a much greater mistake for him to have stayed.
Kirk didn’t want to discuss any of that, though, and what else could he tell his friends about his current life? Each day, he tended the horses, then often rode or hiked across the Idaho hills, even during the cold and sometimes snowy winter months. He occasionally went into Lost River for supplies, or farther afield, to Blackfoot or Pocatello or Idaho Falls. Twice, he’d visited the lava flows and cinder cones of Craters of the Moon Monument and Preserve. Last summer, he’d tried his hand at cultivating his own fruits and vegetables, but had discovered that he possessed little interest in the activity, not to mention something less than a green thumb. Now as then, he thought that some Orion joke must’ve hidden in that last observation, but it still eluded him.
Leaving the office, Kirk walked back out into the living room. A sofa and a pair of easy chairs, all old and timeworn, formed a cozy sitting area about the hearth. The mantel and the two end tables on either side of the sofa remained bare, though, and no personal photographs or artwork adorned the walls—not just in this room, but throughout the house. Since he’d come here, Kirk had done little to make this place his own. He’d brought with him several crates of books and personal, naval, and antique artifacts that he’d collected through the years, but he had for the most part left those items packed up and stored down in the cellar. Every so often he would descend the old wooden stairs and rummage through one of the crates to find one volume or another to read—and usually to reread. At the moment, a black, leather-bound edition of Great Expectations lay on the sofa, a gold ribbon halfway through marking his place in it, but the book hardly qualified as decoration.
Kirk padded across the living room to the front door and opened it, knowing that he needed to take care of the h
orses. The spring had been exceedingly mild so far, and the dull sky—more gray-blue than blue—promised another cool day. Kirk grabbed his light-blue jacket from where it hung beside the door and pulled it on. As he stepped outside, he hoped that the sky would clear and that by the afternoon the mercury would climb.
Great expectations, he thought, but the phrase resonated less with respect to the weather than to his own life. On his way to the barn, he considered the classic novel, which he had already read several times before, and he suddenly faced a moment of self-revelation. Have I become Miss Havisham? he asked himself. Jilted at the altar, her heart broken, the Dickens character had subsequently locked herself away, spending the rest of her life in her manse, Satis House, which she had then allowed to decay around her.
And me? he thought. Have I locked myself away? Kirk had not been abandoned on the day of his wedding, but fifteen years ago he had watched as Edith Keeler had been killed. The death of the woman he’d believed his one true love had affected him deeply, and though he hadn’t physically sequestered himself away as Miss Havisham had—at least not then—hadn’t he isolated himself in other ways? After his loss of Edith, he had become involved with other women, and for a couple of them—Miramanee, Lori Ciana—he had developed strong feelings. But he had lost his memory prior to his romance with Miramanee, and in the end, he’d found that his relationship with Lori had been something less than healthy, something less than real. Yes, after Edith, he had become enamored of other women, perhaps even fallen in love with one or two, but in truth, he had kept the fullness of his heart locked away from all of them.
Crucible: Kirk Page 3