The Autobiography of James T. Kirk

by David A. Goodman

  “Winona, what the hell’s been going on down here?” the man said, after they separated.

  “How did you get here so fast? The relief wasn’t supposed to be here for another three weeks.”

  “The Enterprise,” he said, with obvious pride. “Fastest ship in the quadrant. It was supposed to be another month before she was ready to leave spacedock, but I rushed it through. We contacted Governor Kodos a week ago …” He then noticed me. “Is this Jim?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Jim, this is Robert April. He’s here to save us.” I could see she meant it. And I felt saved.

  CHAPTER 3

  “WELCOME, CADETS, TO YOUR FIRST DAY at Starfleet Academy.”

  Admiral Reed, old, British, commandant of the academy, stood in front of us. It was Induction Day, I was 18, it was 5 p.m., and I was already exhausted, but knew not to show it. I was at attention with all the other first-year cadets, buttoned up in our silver cadet dress tunics, our shined black boots reflecting in the sun like spilled crude oil. We were on the Great Lawn, once part of the ancient military installation called the Presidio. I had spent the last ten hours being run ragged, yelled at by any and every upperclassman who had laid eyes on me; and it was still the greatest day of my life. It had all started five years before, when a starship captain beamed down to Tarsus IV and I decided who I wanted to be.

  After the death of Kodos, life on the colony would never fully return to normal. The trauma of what happened led many of the survivors to want to leave, and the news of the horror would keep new settlers away. Mom and I, however, stayed for another year; she wanted to complete her work before she left. (The results would lead to safeguards that prevented similar food disasters on other Federation colonies.) Eventually, however, it was time to go, and we were evacuated with the remainder of the population.*

  Several months earlier I had said my goodbyes to Tom Leighton, whose relatives on the Earth colony Planet Q were going to take him in. Tom and I had lived through a trauma together; we shared a bond. Though our lives went down different roads, we stayed in regular contact for the rest of his life.

  Mom and I returned to Earth, and my dad met us at the shuttle station in Riverside. I had been seeing him via subspace transmissions, but in person he was a bit of a shock. He had gained weight around the middle and gray around the temples. He greeted me with a handshake and a warm pat on the shoulder. He then turned and saw Mom. They gave each other a hello kiss and hug that somehow both conveyed affection and distance. The three of us returned home to live in the same house, but things were far from what they had been. Sam was off at school and seldom came home. Mom focused on her work, which sometimes took her away, but for only short periods. She never made another declaration about leaving or staying, and Dad seemed all right with that arrangement. But I suppose the biggest change was inside me.

  I’d been hardened by the events on Tarsus and couldn’t trust my parents, or any adults, to look after me anymore. I had been on my own; I was looking for some way to exert control over a world that could be cruel and merciless. Seeing how that starship captain and his crew had almost single-handedly restored civilization by their mere presence had made a strong impression. I wanted to be a part of that. Or maybe I needed to. So I focused on getting accepted into Starfleet Academy.

  My first goal was academics. Up to that point in my life, I hadn’t taken my studies all that seriously, but for the next two years I was determined to change. I had very good role models, my brother and mother were both academics, and they taught me a lot about focus and time management. My grades soon improved greatly.

  I also knew that self-defense techniques were seen as an important part of Starfleet training, so I began my own study of martial arts, including among other things karate, judo, and the Vulcan discipline of Suus Mahna.

  As my 17th birthday approached, I started thinking seriously about my application. The competition was fierce: Starfleet Academy had deservedly earned a reputation as one of the finest academic institutions in the Galaxy. The standards for acceptance were, excuse the phrase, astronomically high. I wasn’t just competing against humans; I was also competing with applicants from other planets, including Vulcans, who had received rigorous educations well beyond what humans considered normal. In 2251, the year I enrolled, Starfleet accepted fewer than 2 percent of its applicants.

  This didn’t deter me. I had the advantage that my parents were both graduates of the academy, and on my mother’s side I would be third generation; my maternal grandfather had been in the first graduating class and rose to the rank of captain of engineering. But none of that made me a shoo-in, and the fact that both my parents had discontinued their Starfleet careers would work against me. What I considered the tipping point of my application was that I had been vital in preventing a diplomatic incident. I just had to figure out how to make use of it.

  There was no notoriety for me in saving the Tellarite ambassador’s life; Starfleet kept the incident quiet out of worries that the Tellarites would be embarrassed that an Earthling boy saved one of their most important diplomats. My parents and I had been told that the matter was confidential, and that if we told anyone, Starfleet would deny it happened. However, Captain Mallory’s gratitude at the time led me to hope that he’d remember me and maybe help. All I had to do was track him down.

  Starfleet Headquarters would only tell me he was now a commodore, but they would give me no information on his whereabouts. I thought about sending him an electronic letter, but I was worried it wouldn’t find its way to him. So I embarked on what was, in hindsight, a ridiculously dangerous plan.

  In our attic we had a storage container that was filled with my dad’s belongings from his time in Starfleet: various pieces of equipment, tapes containing all his work, and, most important, his uniforms. When I was little, I would put them on and traipse around the house, always a little disappointed that no matter how “big” everybody said I was getting, they still didn’t fit. However, it had been a few years, and now when I tried the uniforms on, they seemed almost tailored.

  I made sure I wore the uniform with the rank of ensign, then found a recording disc with a Starfleet logo on it. I took it to my computer station and recorded a message for Mallory, reminding him who I was, and asking him to write me a recommendation.

  The next morning I jammed the uniform and recorded message into a rucksack and snuck out early, borrowing Dad’s hover car. I had told him that I was driving to Riverside to see friends and that I’d be back by noon, so I was on a tight schedule. I drove to the transportation station in Riverside and caught a Sub Shuttle to San Francisco.*

  The trip took less than two hours, and I didn’t want anyone on the Sub Shuttle to notice me in the uniform, so I stayed in my civilian clothes until about five minutes before we reached San Francisco. I then got up and changed in the bathroom, and waited until we pulled into the Starfleet Headquarters stop. I then quickly exited the bathroom and immediately got off the Sub Shuttle car.

  I marched through the station, found a temporary locker to store my rucksack, then took the escalator to the street level. I found myself in a shuttle port and was stunned. Shuttles and flying trams flew in and out of the port, over the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. People of all races and species in bright gold and blue uniforms walked with purpose to their destinations. I suddenly felt like a complete fraud, but I had committed to this course of action and had to see it through. I imitated the resoluteness of the people I saw around me and walked out of the spaceport.

  I had studied the mall of structures that made up Starfleet Headquarters, and immediately recognized the main building, the Archer Building, named for Jonathan Archer.**

  I walked into the large reception area, and where doubt had only crept into my mind when I entered the spaceport, it now completely consumed me. The lobby of the building was filled with officers, adult officers, of many different species and ages. The whole place had a sense of importance and dignity, and I was a kid playing d
ress-up. I was only a few steps inside when I decided this wasn’t going to work, and was about to turn around when someone blocked my way.

  “May I help you?”

  It was a young woman, not much older than me. She was petite, dressed in a blue uniform dress, had blond hair. Very beautiful.

  “I have a message,” I said, holding up the tape much too quickly. “It’s for Commodore Mallory.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Come with me.”

  I followed her to a reception desk, where she typed some information into the computer terminal.

  “Commodore Mallory isn’t here, Ensign,” she said. “Were you under the impression he was?”

  “Uh, no,” I said. “I mean, yes, I thought he was here, but no, I didn’t know for certain that he’d be here right now.” She looked at me like she didn’t know what I was talking about, which made two of us. “When do you think he’ll be back?”

  She laughed. “Not for several years,” she said. “He’s in command of Starbase 11, and they’re in the middle of an extensive upgrade and remodel.”

  It was a testimony to the lack of forethought that went into this plan that it never occurred to me that Mallory, an officer in Starfleet, might not be on Earth anymore. My fantasy of walking into Starfleet and handing him the message had vaporized, and I just wanted to get out of there.

  “Well, thanks for your help,” I said, reaching for the tape.

  “Don’t you want to get the message to him?”

  “Oh, um … I guess …”

  “I’ll have someone upload it to him,” she said. “I’m just going to need your daily comm code.”

  I had no idea what that was. She was looking at me intently now.

  “You know, I should double-check with my superior officer,” I said. She nodded.

  “Okay,” she said, “and you might want to ask him what the penalty is for impersonating a Starfleet officer. I think it’s five years on a penal colony.” I felt all the blood drain out of my head. Up until that moment, I had no idea that what I was doing was indeed a crime. I was lucky that Mallory wasn’t here; if he’d seen me in the uniform he probably would’ve made sure I never got near the academy. I was in a large amount of trouble. It was only her gentle hand on my arm that kept me from running.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m just going to review it myself, and unless there’s something objectionable, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

  Though I’d been unaware I was holding my breath, I felt myself exhale.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Don’t mention it,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Jim,” I said, holding out my hand. She took it in both of hers. The gesture completely calmed me down.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Ruth.” She looked me in the eye and I beamed like an idiot.

  Ruth later said she got the message to Mallory’s chief of staff (and never mentioned my ludicrous “spy” mission), and since everyone I knew was pretty astounded when I was accepted to the academy, I assumed Mallory put in a good word, although at the time there was no way to know what exactly happened.

  Nevertheless, a few months later, I was packed and ready to go. My parents took me to San Francisco. It was 6 a.m.; new cadets were lined up at the entry gates, waiting to go in. They were all saying goodbye to their parents, and I turned to mine. I looked at Mom and Dad. They’d both aged, but seemed happier, or at least more content than either had been in some time. Looking back, it was clear they’d found some kind of comfort in each other’s presence. But I was ready to go. I took a hug from Mom and a handshake from Dad, and said I’d see them at the winter break.

  “Get ready to suffer,” Dad said, and Mom chuckled. I would shortly find out what he meant.

  There is only one military institution left in the Federation: Starfleet. Though its “brand” is one of exploration, diplomacy, and civilization, the security of the Federation and its citizens is still an important part of its charter, and to look after it requires a military chain of command. So the one not-so-secret secret of its academy is that it makes sure its graduates can be soldiers when they need to be. And that starts on Induction Day.

  New cadets sign in, are handed a big empty red bag, and from that moment on they enter a maze of abuse. You’re sent on an organized scavenger hunt to acquire your needed equipment in different buildings. And around every corner there’s an angry upperclassman telling you you’re a stupid plebe who’s walking too slow; you shouldn’t be running, why aren’t you at attention, why are you standing there, get moving you stupid plebe, put your bag down when I’m talking to you, who told you to drop your bag, look at me when I’m talking to you, why are you looking at me, don’t you look at me!

  The bag gets heavier and heavier; you’ve got to carry it everywhere, and you very quickly have no idea where you’re going or where you’re supposed to be going, and that’s the point. If you get through the day, it’s because you finally realize you have no choice but to not think, just do, usually whatever the last thing the nearest upperclassman said. It’s arduous, humiliating, and stressful, and more than a few cadets don’t make it ’til sundown. I did, though just barely. I’d never been yelled at like this before, and it was only the beginning.

  The first eight weeks of your first year are called “plebe summer,” and they are designed to drive out those men and women who can’t handle the physical and psychological stress. The survivors learn discipline and skills they need not only to get along at the academy, but more importantly in Starfleet. It is the one thing that separates it from the rest of the Federation: cadets, crewmen, and officers know the importance of following orders, because it saves lives.

  At around noon, by which time I’d learned, among other things, to march in formation carrying a 50-pound bag, I was assigned to a company, the Second Cadet Corps, a barracks, and reported to my room. My section commander (there were eight of us in the section) was a cadet captain named Ben Finney. A few years older, big and fit, he commanded my attention immediately. He ordered me, two other humans, and an Andorian to stand at attention and hold our bags until further orders. We stood two on each side in front of our bunk beds for about an hour. My arms were shaking from the strain. I was looking straight ahead into the pale green eyes of the blue-skinned cadet. I’d never met an Andorian; I had dozens of questions for him, but one of the lessons I’d learned from that first day was not to speak until spoken to by an upperclassman.

  “Drop your bags!” It was Finney, who finally came into our room. We dumped our bags on the floor, and before I could stop myself, I let out a “whew.” Bad mistake. Finney went right up to me.

  “You tired, plebe?”

  “No sir!”

  “Glad to hear it! Pick up your bag; you can hold on to it for a little while longer. The rest of you, unpack. I want this room shipshape.” And with that, he left. While my roommates tried to navigate around me, I stood holding the bag. About an hour later, the roommates were now relaxing on their beds while I stood there, sweat pouring from me, my arms shaking.

  “Atten-shun!” It was one of my roommates, who saw another upperclassman come into the room. He was a cadet lieutenant named Sean Finnegan—a big, blond, smiling Irishman.

  “What’s been going on in here, boyos?” I hadn’t really heard an Irish accent as pronounced as this one, and felt it had to be somewhat affected. He looked at my three roommates. “You boyos should be getting down to lunch.” They left, and he then turned to look at me.

  “And what might you be doing?”

  “Lieutenant sir, I’ve been ordered to hold my bag, sir!”

  “What’s your name, Cadet?”

  “Lieutenant sir, Cadet James T. Kirk, sir!”

  “Oh, well, Jimmy Boy,” he said, pronouncing boy “bahy,” “if you don’t get unpacked, you’re gonna miss chow. See you down there.”

  “Lieutenant sir, yes sir.” I put the bag down, and Finnegan sauntered out, w
histling “Danny Boy.” I unpacked and made it down to lunch just in time. As I sat at the table, Finney looked up at me, stupefied.

  “Kirk! You stupid plebe, what the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

  “Sir, I was ordered to lunch, sir!”

  “Who ordered you?” Finney said, and he was bellowing. The whole room was quiet.

  “Sir, Cadet Lieutenant Finney—” I said.

  “There is no Cadet Lieutenant Finney!”

  “Sir, sorry, sir, I meant Cadet Lieutenant Finnegan, sir.” It wasn’t the last time I would mix up their unfortunately similar names. Finnegan stood up.

  “I gave no such order,” Finnegan said. “I think the day has been too much for the boy.”

  I went over it in my head. He was right; Finnegan had not ordered me to put the bag down. I had read into it.

  “What do you have to say to that?” Finney said.

  “Sir, I was mistaken, sir!” I was also starving, but Finney sent me back up to my room and told me to repack my bag and hold it until he got there. I followed the order, and about 15 minutes later, my roommates returned from lunch, followed by Finney. My roommates stood tall as Finney inspected my living space to make sure that I’d put everything back in the bag. I felt like passing out, but held on. He smiled.

  “Drop the bag, plebe.” I slowly lowered the bag to the ground, then returned to attention. “Stow your gear,” he said, and then left. As I started to put my gear away, I saw Finnegan standing in the doorway, smiling.

  It was not a good start for me.

  For the next two months we were put through a punishing regime of physical training: running with heavy packs, obstacle courses, battle simulations, survival training. The skills I had developed in my boyhood, considered primitive and unnecessary in our society, came in handy during this period: my mountain-climbing experience, my years camping with my father, and my knowledge of the Old West. Still, it was never easy, and there were always surprises.