STAR TREK: TOS #7 - Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan

by Vonda N. McIntyre (Novelization)

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned the intercom off again and glared at [90] McCoy, as if having any witnesses to his reaction irritated him.

  “Well, well, well,” McCoy said. “It never rains but it—”

  “Some doctor you are,” Jim said angrily. “You of all people should appreciate the danger of opening old wounds.”

  The lift doors opened, and Kirk stormed out.

  “Sorry,” McCoy said after the doors had closed once more. Well, Old Family Doctor, he thought, needling him isn’t working; you’d better change your tack if you want to bring him out of his funk.

  On the other hand, McCoy said to himself, depending on what that call is about, you may not have to.

  Jim Kirk strode down the corridor of the Enterprise, trying to maintain his composure. Carol Marcus, after all these years? It would have to be something damned serious for her to call him. And what, in heaven’s name, was going on with McCoy? Every word the doctor had said in the past three days was like a porcupine, layered over with little painful probes veiled and unveiled.

  He hurried into his room and turned on the viewscreen.

  “Dr. Marcus, Admiral,” Uhura said.

  The image snowed and fluttered across the viewscreen. For an instant, he could make out Carol’s face; then it fragmented again.

  “Uhura, can’t you augment the signal?”

  “I’m trying, sir, it’s coming in badly scrambled.”

  “... Jim ... read me? Can you ...”

  What did come through clearly was Carol Marcus’s distress and anger.

  “Your message is breaking up, Carol. What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  “... can’t read you. ...”

  “Carol, what’s wrong?” He kept repeating that, [91] hoping enough would get through for her to make out his question.

  “... trying ... take Genesis away from us. ...”

  “What?” he asked, startled. “Taking Genesis? Who? Who’s taking Genesis?”

  “... can’t hear you. ... Did you order ... ?”

  “What order? Carol, who’s taking Genesis?”

  The transmission cleared for a mere few seconds. “Jim, rescind the order.” It began to break up again. “... no authority ... I won’t let ...”

  “Carol!”

  “Jim, please help. I don’t believe—”

  The picture scrambled again and did not clear. Jim slammed his hand against the edge of the screen.

  “Uhura, what’s happening? Damn it!”

  “I’m sorry, sir. There’s nothing coming through. It’s jammed at the source.”

  “Jammed!”

  “That’s what the pattern indicates, Admiral.”

  “Damn,” Jim said again. “Commander, alert Starfleet HQ. I want to talk to Starfleet Command.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Jim Kirk strode onto the bridge.

  “Mr. Sulu,” he said, “stop impulse engines.”

  Sulu complied. “Stop engines.”

  The bridge crew waited, surprised, expectant, confused.

  “We have an emergency,” Kirk said stiffly. “By order of Starfleet Command, I am assuming temporary command of the Enterprise. Duty Officer, so note in the ship’s log. Mr. Sulu, plot a new course: Regulus I Spacelab.” He paused as if waiting for an objection or an argument. No one spoke. He opened an intercom channel to the engine room. “Mr. Scott.”

  “Aye, sir?”

  “We’ll be going to warp speed immediately.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  [92] “Course plotted for Spacelab, Admiral,” Mr. Sulu said.

  “Engage warp engines.”

  “Prepare for warp speed,” Saavik said. Her voice was tense and suspicious; only the regard in which Captain Spock held this human kept her from rebelling. She shifted the ship to warp mode.

  “Ready, sir,” said Mr. Sulu.

  “Warp five, Mr. Sulu.”

  The ship gathered itself around them and sprang.

  Kirk stepped back into the turbo-lift and disappeared.

  In his cabin, Spock lay on a polished slab of Vulcan granite, his meditation stone. He was preparing himself to sink from light trance to a deeper one when he felt the Enterprise accelerate to warp speed. He immediately brought himself back toward consciousness. A moment later, he heard someone at his door.

  “Come,” he said quietly. He sat up.

  Jim Kirk entered, hitched one hip on the corner of the stone, and stared at the floor.

  “Spock, we’ve got a problem.”

  Spock arched his eyebrow.

  “Something’s happened at Regulus I. We’ve been ordered to investigate.”

  “A difficulty at the Spacelab?”

  “It looks like it.” He raised his head. “Spock, I told Starfleet all we have is a boatload of children. But we’re the only ship free in the octant. If something is wrong ... Spock, your cadets—how good are they? What happens when the pressure is real?”

  “They are living beings, Admiral; all living beings have their own gifts.” He paused. “The ship, of course, is yours.”

  “Spock ... I already diverted the Enterprise. Haste seemed essential at the time. ...”

  “The time to which you are referring, I assume, is [93] two minutes and thirteen seconds ago, when the ship entered warp speed?”

  Kirk grinned sheepishly. “I should have come here first, I know—”

  “Admiral, I repeat: The ship is yours. I am a teacher. This is no longer a training cruise, but a mission. It is only logical for the senior officer to assume command.”

  “But it may be nothing. The transmission was pretty garbled. If you—as captain—can just take me to Regulus—”

  “You are proceeding on a false assumption. I am a Vulcan. I have no ego to bruise.”

  Jim Kirk glanced at him quizzically. “And now you’re going to tell me that logic alone dictates your actions.”

  “Is it necessary to remind you of something you know well?” He paused. “Logic does reveal, however, that you erred in accepting promotion. You are what you were: a starship commander. Anything else is a waste.”

  Kirk grinned. “I wouldn’t presume to debate you.”

  “That is wise.” Spock stood up. “In any case, were the circumstances otherwise, logic would still dictate that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

  “Or the one?”

  “Admiral—” Spock said. He stopped, then began again. “Jim, you are my superior officer. But you are also my friend. I have been, and remain, yours. I am offering you the truth as I perceive it, for myself and for you.”

  “Spock—” Kirk said quietly. He reached out.

  Spock drew back within himself.

  Kirk respected the change. He let his hand fall.

  “Will you come to the bridge? I didn’t do much explaining, and I think your students wonder if I’ve mutinied.”

  “Yes, Admiral. But perhaps we’d best talk with Mr. [94] Scott first, so he may explain the situation to his cadets as well.”

  That day at lunchtime, Saavik went to the cafeteria and got in line. All around her, her classmates speculated about the change in plan, the Enterprise’s new course, the admiral’s unusual move in taking over the ship. Saavik, too, wondered what all these abrupt changes meant. She leaned toward the view that it was another, more sophisticated, training simulation.

  A few minutes after the admiral’s order, Captain Spock had returned to the bridge accompanying Admiral Kirk. He assured the crew that Kirk’s action had his consent. Yet Saavik still felt uncomfortable about the whole procedure.

  She hesitated over her choice of lunch. She would have preferred steak tartare, but the captain considered eating meat—raw meat in particular—an uncivilized practice at best; consequently Saavik ordinarily chose something else when she was to take a meal in his company. She had tried for a long time to conform to the Vulcan ideal, vegetarianism, but had succeeded only in making herself thoroughly sick.


  She compromised, choosing an egg dish which came out of the galley in a profoundly bland state, but which could be made nearly palatable by the addition of a large amount of sesame oil and pippali, a fiery spice. Peter Preston had taken a taste of it once, and Saavik had not warned him to use it sparingly. She had had no idea of the effect it would have on a human being. Once he stopped coughing and drinking water and could talk again, he described it as “a sort of combination of distilled chili and nuclear fission.”

  She wondered where Peter was. They occasionally ate together; but though now was his lunch break, he was not in the cafeteria.

  Saavik stopped beside Captain Spock’s table. He was eating a salad.

  “May I join you, sir?”

  [95] “Certainly, Lieutenant.”

  She sat down and tried to think of a proper way to voice her concern about the admiral’s having taken command of the Enterprise.

  “Lieutenant,” Spock said, “how are Mr. Preston’s lessons proceeding?”

  “Why—very well, sir. He’s an excellent student and has a true aptitude for the subject.”

  “I thought perhaps he might be finding the work too difficult.”

  “I’ve seen no evidence of that, Captain.”

  “Yet Mr. Scott has asked me to suspend Mr. Preston’s tutorial.”

  “Why?” Saavik asked, startled.

  “His explanation was that the engines require work, and that Preston’s help is needed.”

  “The engines,” Saavik said, “just scored one hundred fifteen percent on the postoverhaul testing.”

  “Precisely,” Spock said. “I have considered other explanations. An attempt by Mr. Scott to shield Preston from overwork seemed a possibility.”

  Saavik shook her head. “First, Captain, I believe Peter feels comfortable enough around me that he would let me know if he felt snowed under—”

  “ ‘Snowed under’?”

  “Severely overworked. I beg your pardon. I did not intend to be imprecise.”

  “I meant no criticism, Lieutenant—your progress in dealing with human beings can only be improved by learning their idioms.”

  Saavik compared Scott’s odd request to her earlier conversation with Peter. “I believe I know why Mr. Scott canceled Cadet Preston’s tutorial.”

  She explained what had happened.

  Spock considered. “The action seems somewhat extreme. Mr. Scott surely realizes that proper training is worth all manner of inconvenience—for student and teacher. Did Mr. Preston say anything else?”

  [96] “He preferred not to repeat part of it. He said it was ... ‘too dumb.’ He seemed embarrassed.”

  “Indeed.” Spock ate a few bites of his salad; Saavik tasted her lunch. She added more pippali.

  “Saavik,” Spock said, “has the cadet shown any signs of serious attachment to you?”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Does he express affection toward you?”

  “I suppose one might say that, Captain. He appeared quite relieved when I told him that I do not consider him a ‘pest.’ And I must confess ...” she said, somewhat reluctantly, “I am ... rather fond of him. He’s a sweet-natured and conscientious child.”

  “But he is,” Spock said carefully, “a child.”

  “Of course.” Saavik wondered what Spock was leading up to.

  “Perhaps Mr. Scott is afraid his nephew is falling in love with you.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Saavik said. “Even were it not highly improper, it would be impossible.”

  “It would be improper. But not impossible, or even unlikely. It is, rather, a flaw of human nature. If Cadet Preston develops what humans call a ‘crush’ on you—”

  “Sir?” Now she felt confused.

  “A crush, for humans, is something like falling in love; however, it occurs only in very young members of the species and is looked upon with great amusement by older members.”

  The reasons for Peter’s behavior suddenly became much clearer. If this were what he was too embarrassed to tell her about, no wonder. She was well aware how much he disliked being laughed at.

  Spock continued. “You must deal with it as best you can, as gently as you can. Human beings are very vulnerable in these matters, and very easily hurt. And, as you quite correctly pointed out, it would be improper—”

  Saavik felt both shocked and uncomfortable. “Mr. Spock,” she said, returning to the title she had used for [97] him for many years, “Peter is a child. And even if falling in love is a flaw of human nature, it is not one of Vulcan nature.”

  “But you are not a Vulcan,” Spock said.

  Saavik dropped her fork clattering onto her plate and stood up so fast that her chair rattled across the floor.

  “Sit down,” Spock said gently.

  Unwillingly, she obeyed.

  “Saavik, do not misunderstand me. Your behavior as regards Cadet Preston is completely proper—I entertain no doubts of that. I am not concerned with him for the moment, but with you.”

  “I’ve tried to learn Vulcan ways,” she said. “If you will tell me where I’ve failed—”

  “Nor are we speaking of failure.”

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  “I chose the Vulcan path when I was very young. For many years, I considered it the best, indeed the only, possible choice for any reasoning being. But ...” He stopped for a moment, then appeared to change the subject. “I spoke to you of tolerance and understanding—”

  Saavik nodded.

  “I have come to realize that what is proper for one being may not be correct for another. In fact, it may be destructive. The choice is more difficult for someone with two cultures—”

  “I have only one!”

  “—who must choose between them, or choose to follow another’s lead, or choose a path that is unique. You are unique, Saavik.”

  “Mr. Spock, what does this have to do with Peter Preston?”

  “It has nothing at all to do with Mr. Preston.”

  “Then what are you trying to say to me?”

  “What I am trying to say—and I am perhaps not the most competent person to say it, but there is no other—is that some of the decisions you make about your life may differ from what I might decide, or even [98] from what I might advise. You should be prepared for this possibility, so that you do not reject it when it appears. Do you understand?”

  She was about to tell him that she did not, but she felt sufficiently disturbed and uneasy—as, to her surprise, Mr. Spock appeared to feel also—that she wanted to end the conversation.

  “I’d like to think about what you’ve said, Captain.” Saavik put herself, and Spock, back into their relationship of subordinate and commander.

  “Very good, Lieutenant,” he said, acquiescing to the change.

  She stood up. “I must get back to the bridge, sir.”

  “Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

  She started to go, then turned back. “Sir—what about Cadet Preston’s tutorial?”

  Spock folded his hands and considered the question. “It must resume, of course. However, Mr. Scott has made a statement about the condition of the engine room which would be indelicate to challenge. I will wait a day or two, then suggest that the lessons continue. Do you find that agreeable?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  Saavik returned to her post. She had a great deal to think about.

  Chapter 5

  Peter Preston stood stiffly at attention. His shoulders ached. He had been there close to an hour, waiting for Commander Scott to inspect—for the third time today—the calibration of Peter’s control console.

  This is getting old real fast, Peter thought.

  His uncle had not cracked a smile or spoken to him in anything but a completely impersonal tone for two days. He was showing considerable displeasure in work that before the training cruise—and before their disagreement—he had unstintingly approved. Just now he was unsatisfied with Peter’s maintenance of the console.


  Finally the engineer strode over and stopped in front of him.

  “Ye ha’ stood here a considerable while, Cadet. Are ye so sure this is fixed that ye can afford to waste time lounging?”

  “The console was ready at eleven hundred hours, as you ordered, sir.”

  “So, ye think this time ye ha’ it working properly, do ye?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “We’ll see abou’ that.”

  Commander Scott ran it through a diagnostic or two.

  “Nay,” he said, “now ye ha’ a field imbalance; ye’ve overcompensated. Calibrate it again, Cadet.”

  In a hesitation of a fraction of a second, Peter thought: Dannan said there are times when you have to [100] stick up for yourself, but there are times when you have to prove you can take whatever they can dish out.

  “Aye, sir,” Peter said, “Sorry, sir.”

  “As well ye’ might be. Will ye try to do it right?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  This is definitely one of those times when you have to prove you can take it, Peter thought.

  And I can take it, too.

  He set to work on the console again.

  He was still at it when the trainees came back from lunch. Grenni sat down at his station.

  “Hey, Pres,” he said out of the side of his mouth, “the Old Man’s really got it in for you today, doesn’t he?”

  “Why’re you talking like you’re in an old prison movie?” Peter said. “He’s not going to put you on bread and water just for talking to me.”

  “You never know.”

  Peter snorted.

  “I told you you shouldn’t have pulled that dumb stunt with the admiral,” Grenni said.

  “Yeah, and I guess you’ll keep on telling me, huh?” Peter said. Grenni had all the self-righteousness of twenty-twenty hindsight. That was getting as old as Uncle Montgomery’s bad humor.

  “Geez, Pres, you’re working so hard it makes me tired just to watch you,” Grenni said.

  “Don’t worry,” Peter told him. “You won’t have to endure the torture much longer. Commander Scott’s tantrums never last more than three days. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “No,” Grenni said, “I hadn’t noticed. But then I haven’t had the opportunity to observe him like some people—not being his nephew and all.”