Crucible: Kirk

by David R. George III

  How appropriate, Kirk thought, struck by the lonely path his life had taken. Why did I leave the nexus? I could’ve fixed this. I could’ve fixed all of it.

  But of course, he couldn’t have, not really. The nexus had been filled with joys, but imagined joys. What he had to do now, he had to do in the real universe.

  Kirk closed the door behind him, then pulled the strap of the carryall from his shoulder and dropped the bag onto the floor. It landed with a soft thump, and he thought that he might just want to follow it down. Fatigue had washed over him, and he realized that he had no idea when last he’d slept.

  Kirk decided to walk through the rest of the house. He ducked his head into the office he’d once set up off the living room, and which Antonia had then made her own once she’d moved in. Everything with which she had filled the room had gone now, leaving most of the space empty. Only the com/comm unit he’d had installed there now remained, draped like the rest of the furniture with a white sheet. Kirk padded over to it and gingerly gathered the covering from atop it, not wanting to stir up all the dust that had accumulated during the past months. After setting the balled sheet down on the floor, he tapped at the console’s controls. It blinked to life with a chirp, confirming that he would be able to use it to record the message he needed for next week, for the Enterprise-B launch. He deactivated it, then continued on through the rest of the house.

  Moving through the kitchen, down the short hall, past the refresher, and into the bedroom, Kirk saw only more signs of disuse. At one time he had loved this place back when he’d spent a couple of summers here as a boy. It had been here that his uncle had taught him how to ride horses, and just being away from home had made those trips seem like adventures. In the years since the property had passed to him, though, he had neglected it. His long duty aboard the Enterprise had certainly prevented him from visiting more than occasionally, but even when he’d been stationed on Earth as chief of Starfleet Operations, he hadn’t come here much. Even during that first time he’d stepped away from the space service, when he’d actually come here to live, he hadn’t really taken care of the place until he’d met Antonia.

  And now look at it, he thought as he gazed at the unused furniture hidden beneath yet more sheets. As tired as he felt, he couldn’t bring himself to lie down on the bed. He imagined it would seem like a betrayal of sorts to treat this place like home.

  Too many regrets, he told himself. As little as he’d used this place over the years, he’d still been unable to divest himself of it. Kirk had rarely seen his nephews, owing both to his time on the Enterprise and their being scattered throughout the quadrant, so he supposed that holding on to his uncle’s old house had provided a familial touchstone for him, however infrequently he’d visited it. Just knowing it was there, waiting for him, had probably helped him in ways of which he hadn’t even been aware.

  Kirk paced back through the house to the living room. He thought about checking outside for some wood, but then thought better of it, deciding that he didn’t have the energy to build a fire. Instead, he carefully pulled the sheet from the sofa and sat down.

  As he did, his hand struck something. Kirk looked down and saw a hardcover book on the cushion beside him. He picked it up, the scent of its age reaching him, a smell he recalled from childhood; his mother had so loved books. Kirk examined the small, thin volume, bound in gilded leather. Its cover contained an ornate design, but no title. He turned it so that he could see its spine, and when he saw the words there, he read them aloud: “The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.” His voice echoed slightly in the room, evoking the peculiar impression that no words had ever been spoken here before.

  But of course many had.

  Too many, Kirk thought.

  He shook his head. He didn’t remember leaving the book here, though clearly he must have on his last trip out to the house, before the nexus, before the Enterprise-B, before everything. It had been a gift from Antonia, on the second anniversary of their first date, just half a year or so before she would last speak to him. She must’ve suspected when she’d given this to me, Kirk thought. A tragedy in the offing.

  He opened the cover of the book. On the front endpaper, he saw words flowing across the page in Antonia’s delicate hand. Dear Jim, she had written, Even though I don’t care much for the story, I know how much you love old books. This is just to show how much I love old Jim Kirk. Always, Antonia.

  “‘Always,’” Kirk said. She’d been wrong about that, and wrong about the tragedy too. Kirk had been the forlorn Romeo, but Antonia had not been his Juliet.

  And I knew that, Kirk rebuked himself. I knew it all along. He had done so much good in his life, but he would never forgive himself for what he had done to Antonia.

  For a fleeting moment, Kirk considered contacting her now, telling her how sorry he felt for how badly he’d hurt her. He knew that he couldn’t do that for fear of changing the timeline, for fear of disrupting his plans to prevent the temporal loop, but even if he could speak with her, he understood that it would do no good. Kirk craved absolution, but he also knew that he did not deserve it.

  Kirk leafed through the book until he reached the first page of the play. He began to read, but before long, his eyelids fluttered closed. His head lolled back on the sofa and he drifted to sleep.

  Unfortunately for him, his slumber did not lack for dreams.

  As Jim Kirk slid the pan of Ktarian eggs onto the low heat of the cooking surface, he felt the chill of the morning air. Thinking that he should start a fire, he dashed around the island and out of the kitchen. In the living room, he peered down beside the hearth at the log basket there, which sat empty. He then went over to the front door, opened it, and looked out at several stacks of wood, some of it cut, some not.

  Kirk paced outside to his right and up the curved stone stairs to the front clearing. There, he reached down for a few pieces of firewood, but as he did so, his gaze came to rest on the axe that he’d left sticking in the stump. Suddenly feeling the need for some physical activity, he went over to the pile of unhewn tree segments, grabbed one, and set it down beside the axe. He pulled the tool free, then swung it up and around, bringing the blade down squarely into the short length of tree trunk, which divided neatly in two, each piece falling to the ground. He bent, picked up one of the pieces, and placed it back in position to be split.

  Before he brought the axe down again, Kirk breathed in deeply. Where before he’d found the air cool, he now appreciated its crispness. He gazed around at the evergreen trees holding court about the house, and past them, at the stately Canadian Rockies, clad in the white folds of autumn snow. Beautiful day, he thought, and he knew that his sentiment wouldn’t last.

  “You’re stalling,” he told himself. He peered over at the house, at the second-story window on the left, beyond which he knew Antonia still lay in bed. How could a man who’d once battled a Gorn in hand-to-hand combat, who’d by himself piloted a starship into the maw of a machine that devoured entire planets, who’d floated alone in a completely empty universe—how could he be scared to talk with the woman who loved him?

  Because it’s not fear stopping me, Kirk knew. It’s guilt.

  Kirk brought the blade of the axe down into the stump, then headed back into the house. In the kitchen, left over the low heat, the Ktarian eggs had almost finished cooking. From the far counter, Kirk retrieved the tray he’d already set for Antonia’s breakfast. In addition to a plate, flatware, and napkin, he’d also placed on it a glass of grape juice, a glass of water, and a small vase of larkspur. He set it down beside the heating surface, dished the eggs from the pan onto the plate, then added three slices of toast when they’d done browning.

  Before he went upstairs, he walked back out into the living room, where he opened an antique wooden box ornamented with metal fleurs-de-lis. From it, he removed a small, black velvet pouch that contained a gift he’d acquired for Antonia: a golden horseshoe, on the arch of which had been affixed a miniature red rose. T
o soften the blow, he thought as he returned to the kitchen and set the pouch down beside the breakfast he’d made.

  Taking a deep breath, Kirk picked up the tray and carried it back through the living room and then up the stairs. When he reached the second floor, he balanced the tray against the jamb, took hold of the knob, and threw open the bedroom door. Across the room, Antonia looked up at him from where she still lay in the antique four-poster bed Kirk had obtained for the house. Her long dark hair spread on the pillow behind her head like a crown.

  “At last,” she said with a wide smile. She fluffed up the pillows behind her and sat up against them. Kirk caught a fleeting glimpse of her bare body before she pulled the sheet up across her chest. “I was wondering how long you were going to be rattling around in that kitchen,” she said. “I’m starving.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Kirk commented as he made his way across the room. They had gone to bed before midnight last night, but had stayed up long past, exploring each other’s bodies. “I wanted to get all of this just right,” he said, settling the tray across her lap.

  “Ktarian eggs,” Antonia said excitedly, almost singing the words. She peered up at Kirk with an expression of surprise and delight. “When did you…?”

  “I brought them with me from Idaho,” Kirk said. They’d come up here to Canada five days ago, wanting to spend some time in the Rockies before the big snows of the winter began.

  Antonia picked up a fork and took a bite of the eggs, after which she hummed in appreciation. “Delicious,” she said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” Kirk said. He tried to smile, but felt only one side of his mouth rising. He dreaded what lay ahead.

  After Antonia enjoyed another mouthful of the eggs, she looked back up at where he stood, one hand raised to the post at the foot of the bed. “Aren’t you eating?” she asked.

  “I’m—no,” Kirk managed to say. “My stomach’s a bit upset.” As soon as he’d decided this morning to speak with Antonia about what had happened, his anxiety had physically unsettled him.

  “I’m sorry,” Antonia said. “Do you think you’re getting sick? Can I make you some tea?” She reached as though to take the tray from her lap so that she could get out of bed, but Kirk stopped her.

  “No, no, I’ll be fine,” he said. “Have your breakfast.”

  Antonia smiled at him, then looked back down at the tray. “What’s this?” she asked, holding up the velvet pouch.

  “How did that get there?” Kirk teased, trying to stay positive.

  Antonia reached into the pouch and pulled out the horseshoe. “Jim, this is lovely,” she said. She held it out before her, the ends up. “For good luck.”

  Again Kirk tried to smile, and again failed to do so convincingly.

  “What’s the matter?” Antonia asked. “Does your stomach feel that bad?”

  “It’s nothing,” Kirk said.

  “Jim, I’ve lived with you for two years now,” she said. “I can tell when something’s bothering you.” She seemed to make an assessment while she looked at him. “It’s not your stomach, though, is it?”

  “It’s not just that, no,” Kirk said.

  “What is it?” Antonia asked, clearly concerned now.

  Kirk pushed off the bedpost and walked across the room to the far corner. When he turned back to face her, he knew that the time had come to tell her. “Antonia,” he said, “Harry Morrow contacted me.”

  “Harry Morrow?” she asked, her brow creasing.

  “An old friend,” Kirk said. “He’s also the commander in chief of Starfleet.”

  Antonia set the horseshoe down on the tray with a loud thump. “And what did Harry want?” she asked flatly.

  Realizing that he’d unintentionally put distance between Antonia and him when he’d moved across the room, he walked back to the corner of the bed. “He wanted to tell me that he has a position open for me at Starfleet Headquarters.”

  Antonia gazed at him for a long moment without saying anything. Then she lifted the tray from her lap and set it gently down next to her on the mattress. As she reached for her silk robe at the foot of the bed, she said, “You told me that you would never go back to Starfleet.”

  “I didn’t think I would,” Kirk said. “But this is strictly a supervisory position, maybe with an opportunity to do some instruction at the academy.”

  Antonia stood from the bed and quickly pulled her robe on, as though she didn’t want Kirk to see her naked form. After cinching the belt tightly about her waist, she looked up at him, her pain obvious. “You told me you weren’t going back,” she repeated.

  “Antonia, this would be at Starfleet Headquarters, in San Francisco,” he said. “I would wake up every morning in Idaho with you, and go to bed every night with you. Things wouldn’t have to change that much.”

  Antonia’s eyes widened. “You’re actually considering taking this position?” she asked.

  Kirk glanced down, not wanting to make this any more difficult for either one of them, but knowing that he had to tell her. Looking back up, he said, “I already accepted it.”

  “What!?” Antonia said.

  Kirk stepped over to her, his arms out. “Antonia,” he said, but she pushed his arms away and raced past him. “Antonia,” Kirk said again, but she did not respond. Instead, she stood beside the upholstered bench in front of the bed, where she’d tossed her clothes last night. She quickly pulled on her socks and underwear, then her blue jeans. Kirk walked over to her and placed his hand on her back. “Antonia—”

  “Leave me alone,” she said, and she grabbed her sweater from the bench and marched to the other side of the room. Keeping her back to him, she took off her robe and let it fall to the floor. She tugged her sweater on over her head, then pulled at her long hair to get it through as well.

  When finally she looked back over at him, he said, “We won’t have to be apart. You spend a lot of your days with your practice anyway. We could still be together.”

  “Tell me,” she said. “When did Harry contact you? When did you accept his offer?”

  “Last week,” Kirk admitted. “A few days before we left Idaho.”

  Antonia shook her head. “And you waited until we came up here to tell me.” She walked over to the other side of the bed and bent over it toward the tray. “You made sure to make me Ktarian eggs before you decided to tell me,” she said, lifting the plate up with two fingers and dropping it noisily back onto the tray. The grape juice splashed over the rim of its glass. “You made sure to give me a symbol of good luck before you told me.” She picked up the horseshoe and then let it clatter onto the tray. Fixing him with a glare, her voice rising, she said, “You made love with me last night knowing that you would do this to me today.” She shoved her hand beneath the tray and sent it flying across the bed and onto the floor.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Kirk said, even though, on some level, he had always known that he would.

  “Your intentions don’t really mean much, do they?” Antonia said. “Because you think it’s more important for you to go back to Starfleet than it is not to hurt me. You told me that you would never go back. You promised me.”

  “I promised that we wouldn’t have a long-distance, part-time relationship,” Kirk said, defensive despite knowing what he was doing to this woman that he loved—that he loved, but not enough.

  “No,” Antonia said. “You promised me that you wouldn’t go back to Starfleet.”

  Kirk raised his arms and then let them fall back to his sides. “At the time, I meant that,” he said. “I really didn’t believe that I’d ever want to do something like this, but things change.”

  “That doesn’t make your promise any less of a lie,” Antonia told him.

  “I didn’t lie,” Kirk bristled. “I believed what I told you at the time.”

  “A promise isn’t something with a time limit on it,” Antonia said. “What good does it do for somebody to promise one thing one minute
that they believe and intend to live up to, if in the next minute they decide that they’ve changed and so now the promise no longer applies?” She strode over to where she’d dropped her robe and bent to pick it up. When she stood back up, she said, “You can rationalize this any way you want to, but you lied to me.”

  Though he knew it would do no good—he’d always known it—he said, “I can be back in Idaho every night.”

  “I know you mean that right now,” she said, “but ‘things change.’” She spat the last words back at him, a rebuke that told him she would never again trust him. “One day you’ll come home from Starfleet to tell me that Harry’s offered you the command of a starship.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Kirk said.

  “Sorry,” Antonia said, “but your promises don’t carry a lot of weight with me anymore.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like this,” Kirk said, walking toward her, wanting very much to find a way to ease Antonia’s pain. “We can…” The notion of marriage had actually risen in his mind, though he refrained from saying so on the off chance that she might accept.

  “We can what?” Antonia asked. “Get married? That’s just a label if there’s no promise to back it up.” She looked down at the robe in her hand for a moment, then threw it back down on the floor and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Kirk asked.

  “I’m leaving,” she said from the doorway. “Don’t come after me, don’t try to see me, don’t try to contact me.” She thought for a second and then added, “I’ll move my things out of the house when you’re away during the day at Starfleet.” She said nothing more, but she also didn’t turn and walk away. She stared at him, and Kirk realized that, amidst her hurt and disappointment, some part of her wanted him to protest, to do something that would keep them together. At that instant, Kirk understood that there were things that he could say to Antonia that would begin to put this incident behind them, that would indeed save their relationship.