Burning Dreams
Page 15
Spock noted with some satisfaction that Sulu was speaking to him from his quarters, not from the bridge. It was very possible he would delete the message trail once this conversation terminated.
“Imagine running into you out here…” Sulu mused, trying hard to keep a straight face. “Here we are in the middle of nowhere, field-testing some modifications to Excelsior’s warp drive, and what do our scanners show ping-ponging about among the asteroids, but a diplomat’s shuttle that, however indirect its route, seems to be eventually headed for one particular star system. Very difficult to explain.”
“Indeed,” was all Spock said.
“You’re going to have to stop wasting energy on evasive maneuvers if you want your ’cells to hold out until you get there,” Sulu said, dropping the light tone and going deadly serious. “And you have no contingency for getting back.”
Spock thought carefully before he answered. “Speculation, Captain. You have no way of knowing where I am going.”
Nor will I tell you, and implicate you in my crime, he was about to say, but Sulu cut him off.
“You’re on course for Talos IV,” Sulu said flatly. “It’s Pike, isn’t it?”
Spock said nothing.
“Come on, Spock, you can’t fool an old helmsman. I know where you’re going, no matter how much fancy maneuvering you do. There’s nothing else in that sector except the Talos star group.”
“If you say so, Captain.”
“You know there’s been talk of revising General Order 7. Essentially pretending the Talos group doesn’t exist. It’s remote enough so you’d have to go out of your way to get there. The Powers That Be can’t decide whether to delete it from the starmaps or put a security perimeter around it, the way we did with the Guardian of Forever, and removing the capital offense from the books. You couldn’t wait another few months for them to sort that out?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“So if it were to be known that you were defying General Order 7, you’d be screwed.”
“Indeed.”
“But you’d expect me to cover for you, just like old times. All for one and one for all, right?”
“I would rather we had not encountered each other at this juncture at all.”
“Then why—?”
“However, were my vessel to be seen returning from the Talos star group at some point in the near future—hypothetically, of course—”
“Of course.”
“—it would be to my advantage to encounter Excelsior during that part of my journey.”
“I don’t see how,” Sulu said, frowning.
Nor, entirely, do I, Spock thought but didn’t say.
“But if that’s what you want…” Sulu said carefully. “We’ll be in this sector for the next three weeks.” He weighed what he was going to say next. “In the meantime, I can have the sensors recalibrated. Obviously whatever we thought was bouncing around out here was just space dust. Or maybe just a ghost in the machine.”
Spock inclined his head slightly in gratitude. “Captain, I would be most appreciative.”
His finger hovered over the comm toggle, but Sulu wasn’t about to let him go just yet.
“You know, Ambassador,” he said dryly, undraping the beauregardis from around his neck and trying very hard not to smile. “Seems to me this isn’t the first time I’ve had to cover for one or more of my old crewmates from Enterprise. There are only so many times I can do that without buying some very bad karma.”
Spock allowed himself the hint of a smile. We who are about to die salute you.
“Captain,” he said, “I respectfully submit that the concept of a ‘karma’ or fate which predestines human lives to a particular course or outcome is at worst a fiction, at best an unsubstantiated hypothesis.”
Sulu pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and sighed. “I suppose there’s no way of knowing how long you’d be on Talos…if you were going to Talos. Hypothetically.”
Spock considered. “I would surmise not long. Perhaps a matter of days.”
“So if Excelsior happened to be heading back this way, and you happened to send out a signal, and we happened to meet again, that would be kismet.”
Spock raised an eyebrow. “First karma, now kismet? Captain…”
“All right, all right!” Sulu waved him off. “Get the hell out of here before I remember I saw you. Sulu out.”
Speaking to Sulu had a strange effect on Spock. Watching Excelsior’s signature move off scanners into oblivion, he was conscious of his own solitude for the first time. This was illogical, since he had been just as alone before speaking to Sulu as he was after. Was it Sulu’s incredulity at the sheer folly of this escapade that caused him to reflect on it, as he perhaps should have done before he agreed to it?
Others, many others, have commented on your loyalty to Christopher Pike, Spock mused. For what reasons are you so loyal to this man?
Spock knew Christopher Pike’s service record almost as well as he knew his own. Having graduated from the Academy in the ninety-eighth percentile, his rise through the ranks had been, if not meteoric—
The cliché gave Spock pause. Humans and their metaphors—! Did they not understand that a meteor did not rise, but in fact tumbled aimlessly through space until seized by some larger body’s gravity, whence it plummeted inexorably to its death, either burning up in atmosphere or being driven into the ground? To describe someone’s career as “meteoric” was, in actuality, to wish them destruction.
The closeness of the metaphor to what had actually happened to Christopher Pike disturbed him. What might have become of Pike had he not been stricken in his prime? Speculation was pointless.
A career not meteoric, then, but steady and impressive, as the handsome young man rose from ensign to lieutenant and, while still in his twenties, by a synergistic mix of talent, energy, proximity, and another man’s misfortune, found himself first officer aboard the space cutter U.S.S. Aldrin…
Spock was sixteen the first time he heard the name Christopher Pike. Traveling with his parents on a diplomatic junket, he was as yet uncertain of how he would fit into this world, following in his father’s considerable footsteps as was expected of him. Diplomatic channels were abuzz with the story of the near-disastrous events aboard the Aldrin and Lieutenant Commander Pike’s impending court-martial. Naturally it was the main topic around the table at a formal dinner at the Antarean embassy where even Sarek, ordinarily immune to gossip, was asked to contribute his thoughts.
“Mutiny aboard a Federation starship is sufficiently rare as to be almost without precedent,” the senior Vulcan offered thoughtfully. “Whatever else the outcome, Starfleet regulations will have to be rewritten to prevent such an unfortunate cascade of circumstances from occurring again.”
There had been murmurs of assent and dissent, and someone changed the subject. Afterward, in the ’car on the way back to their apartments, Amanda offered her opinion in private.
“If they have any sense, they’ll acquit that young man,” she said with not a little fire. “He was following regulations to the letter. And ultimately he not only saved the ship, but prevented an interplanetary incident.”
“Nevertheless, my wife, he could not have foreseen that outcome when he defied his superior officer and commandeered the ship,” Sarek countered. “The inherent weakness of the structure of any military command is that it does not allow for such circumstances as this officer faced.”
“Well, then, as you say, they’ll have to rewrite the regulations,” Amanda said pragmatically. “And instead of a court-martial, they should give that young man a commendation!”
“A not-atypically emotional response…” Sarek said mildly. Amanda responded as she often did to his teasing when no one but family was around—she stuck her tongue out at him. Lest he respond to that, Sarek turned his attention to Spock.
“You are pensive, my son. Have you any thoughts to share with us on the Aldrin affair?”
“I believe both the captain and his first officer were right, and both were wrong,” he blurted, remembering too late that whenever he offered so absolute an opinion, Sarek would invariably spend the next hour pulling it to shreds.
“Do you, indeed?” Sarek replied with a gleam in his eye. “Explain.”
11
2246: U.S.S. Aldrin
San Francisco’s city fathers, caught between those inhabitants who loved the region’s characteristic fog and those who didn’t, had promised that someday the city would have its own weather shield, but for now it was pouring rain on the grounds of Starfleet HQ as the command crew of the cutter Aldrin gathered in the main shuttlebay. Aldrin’s captain was already aboard, and regular crew had been beamed up in groups over the past day, but the command crew was by tradition to be brought up to the ship by shuttle so that they could appreciate her sleek beauty from space. The smell of damp uniforms was distinct as the senior officers packed themselves into the shuttle faster than the atmospherics could keep pace.
The weather contributed to an already dark collective mood. All but one of the officers crammed into the shuttle had been aboard Aldrin on her recently completed one-year mission. She had been due for a refit, and they for R&R, when a crisis in a habitually troubled sector of space required her presence as backup for ships already in the area. Less than a week after they’d returned to Earth, they were going back out again. There was not a little grumbling.
Seated in the last row of the shuttle, keeping his own counsel, Christopher Pike was the only one not complaining.
Less than forty-eight hours ago, he’d been kicking around Luna waiting to catch a transport for Earth, looking forward to a few days of desert trekking with Tango before his next assignment, wondering if he could persuade the cute young thing he’d met in the officers’ lounge (Hana, he reminded himself, Lieutenant Hana Flowers; like most comm officers, she had a particularly delightful voice, so delightful it had almost made him forget her name, but at least he’d gotten her comm code) to accompany him. He hadn’t expected to have his leave cut short and his next commission in place so soon.
Nor had he expected to see Lieutenant Flowers seated in the shuttle beside Aldrin’s science officer when he arrived.
In the five years since he’d graduated with honors from the Academy, he had managed to acquit himself ably wherever he was assigned, working his way up from ensign to lieutenant, rotating among assignments from comm to helm to navigator to science officer’s relief. Fate and an exceptionally strong pool of other officer candidates had conspired with him to keep him in the command loop without any danger of his actually being called upon to command anything larger than the occasional landing party until two days ago, when he’d found himself transferred from navigator on a science vessel to first officer on a front-line cutter, assigned to a deep-space mission on combat alert, in a move that made his head spin. He wasn’t sure if he should be honored or scared out of his wits, and tried to settle his thoughts somewhere in between.
Rumor had been rampant for days. The Vestios system was in turmoil, the latest civil war between two of its worlds threatening to spill over into Federation space. Federation ships had engaged Vestian ships before, and not to their advantage. Aldrin was being sent in to keep an eye on the situation, and provide backup if necessary.
As bait, some suggested, daring the Vestians to cross the line. As a stalking horse, Chris Pike preferred to think of it. To think otherwise was to break out in a sweat at the mission they’d been assigned.
Still, he told himself as he leaned back in his seat, hoping to be alone with his thoughts as the others joked with each other out of long familiarity in close quarters and he tried unsuccessfully to catch Flowers’s eye, he would enjoy the challenge of working with one of the fleet’s mavericks.
He knew Captain Kamnach by reputation. Charlie had served under him several times, including this last mission aboard Aldrin.
“He’s a character, Chris,” Charlie said. “There aren’t many Denebians in command positions and, like most colonials, they’re a prickly lot. Kamnach’s one of the last to work his way up the hard way. Never got into the Academy. So he’s got his quirks, and he loves ragging new officers, but he’s a good commander when it counts. Never guesses wrong in a combat situation. Still, mind your words around him. You say something he takes wrong, and he’ll never let you forget it…”
There were two levels of irony here, Pike thought. One was that Charlie had promised Hobelia he’d settle down after this, and had actually been breaking in a replacement, looking forward to stepping down, when the Vestios situation had flared up and he was heading back out there again, duration unknown.
The other was that he and Charlie would be serving on the same ship for the first time. It was a big fleet, and the odds were against it, but here it was. Aldrin was on comm lockdown until she left spacedock. Chris wondered if Charlie knew yet that he had kin aboard.
Captain Kamnach had noticed immediately.
Pike had stood at ease in front of the captain’s desk while Aldrin’s second officer, a portly Centaurian named Hanley about the captain’s age, stood off to one side to observe the interview. For a fleeting moment Pike wondered why the second hadn’t been promoted to first; he would figure that out on the voyage, he supposed. Still, the thought that he might have been promoted ahead of a more senior officer on his own ship was not an easy one.
“My former first officer had a death in the family,” Kamnach began, looking not at Pike but at his service jacket. He was a big, loose-limbed man gone soft in the middle, with thinning ginger hair and bushy eyebrows that seemed skeptical even when the rest of his face wasn’t. “Got home leave on one of those godsforsaken remote colony worlds before this crisis hit. Won’t get back on time, so they assigned you.” He sat back in his chair with his hands folded over his stomach and looked Pike over for the first time. “Admiral Straczeskie seems to think you can do the job. Thought I’d get an idea what you’re like before you show up on my bridge.”
He laughed then, a short, unpleasant sound, and Pike wondered what was funny.
“Buddy of mine on another ship—both of which shall remain nameless—just lost his first, too,” Kamnach started to explain, with a wink in the direction of his second. “His first is a Vulcan. Evoked some obscure regulation, said he was going home to get married. Didn’t look too happy about it. Not that Vulcans ever look happy about anything, but this one was particularly glum. Somehow I don’t picture shotguns being involved, but it had that sense of urgency, if you know what I mean. You like opera, Mr. Pike?”
His rhythm was wrong, Pike realized. He got you thinking about how to answer him without sharing his obvious prejudice against Vulcans, then threw you something completely different, with a twinkle in his eye and a little smirk that made you wonder what was so funny. It might be just his way of training his officers to think on their feet, but it was unnerving.
“Opera? No, sir, I don’t,” Pike answered after what he hoped didn’t sound like hesitation. He’d discovered long ago that the truth was far easier to keep track of than a lie, and he doubted he could be transferred off the ship because of his taste in music.
Kamnach’s little smirk widened. “Neither do I. Glad to see you weren’t trying to suck up to me because you thought I did. Crew list tells me I’ve got another Pike on board,” he said, changing course abruptly again, looking down at the report on his desk and then back up at Pike. “Any connection?”
“Yes, sir. Charlie Pike is my father.”
It had always been that way. From the moment they’d concurred on the adoption, it had never occurred to him to say “adoptive father.” Charlie was what had been missing from that part of his life.
“Mr. Pike is my transporter chief,” Kamnach said as if he wer
e correcting him. “Strange career path. Guy doesn’t seem to know whether he wants in or out. Your record, on the other hand, tells me you’re serious about your career. So like father, not like son. And I guess I don’t need to tell you I don’t care to see my senior officers fraternizing with crew.”
“No, sir.”
Kamnach leaned back in his chair again, swinging it from side to side. “Well, let me just emphasize that, Commander Pike, so there’s no misunderstanding. You’re not to communicate with my transporter chief unless and until you’re required to as a matter of duty. Not in person, not in private. Not only no ‘Meet you in the crew lounge after hours,’ but no ‘Stop by my cabin for a brandy,’ either. No comm chat, no passing notes in the hall. Am I clear?”
Clear that you’re being a hard-ass for no particular reason, Pike thought, wondering where this was going and why.
“Clear, sir.”
“As you were, then, Number One. I’ll expect you on the bridge with everybody else at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow.”
Pike felt a slight tightening in his gut as he stepped out of the shuttle after the others, feeling a little out of place, though Flowers’s turning to smile at him was encouraging, and faced Captain Kamnach for the first time aboard his ship.
The bosun’s whistle sounded, and the officers lined up in rank order. Out of the corner of his eye, Pike caught sight of Charlie standing at attention with some of the other engineering crew, but did not turn so much as an eyelash in his direction. He could tell without even looking at him that Kamnach was watching him narrowly. He wondered if Charlie had been given the same orders he had.
As Kamnach started at the end of the line, each officer in turn stood to attention and said: “Permission to come aboard, Captain.”
To which Kamnach responded to each with a little personalization—a smile, a nod, a clap on the shoulder, a wink to Hanley that said the two had gotten into some mischief together on at least one shore leave, an exceptionally warm smile for Flowers. He offered Pike an enigmatic smile and a brief handshake.