Spectre

by William Shatner

  Now Kirk felt true anger begin to crawl up from some deep inner cave within him. And this time, it would not be denied. "Spare me the speeches, Ambassador. The plain and simple truth of it is you don't trust me. Starfleet doesn't trust me. After all I've done for them, for the Federation, for you . . . to be treated like this is . . . is unacceptable."

  "Jim, I remind you that you are no longer part of Starfleet. Since your return to this time and this region of space, you have shown little interest in the Federation."

  Kirk threw his hands in the air. "What about the virogen? The Federation was facing collapse. And I was there to stop that from happening."

  Spock was unperturbed. "The virogen threatened Chal. Your efforts to save the Federation are seen, in some quarters, as a mere offshoot of your efforts to save your new home."

  Kirk was more than insulted. He was outraged. But Spock kept speaking.

  "And, in this past year, when the Federation faced its greatest threat from the war with the Dominion, when virtually every retired member of Starfleet voluntarily returned to active duty, you remained on Chal."

  Kirk was so appalled by these accusations, he was almost incapable of speech. "Is this what the Federation has become in this century? Sparta? If I'm not a soldier, I'm not a citizen?"

  Kirk couldn't believe it, but Scott looked as if he was being swayed by Spock's argument. "The war with the Dominion, that was—that is— still serious business."

  "The Dominion was able to threaten us because of one passageway," Kirk insisted. "The Bajoran wormhole. Close the wormhole, the Dominion is no more dangerous than Cardassia. The Federation has fought worse enemies, stronger enemies, and won. The Federation doesn't need me to survive. Especially when Starfleet's got people like Ben Sisko."

  Scott seemed surprised by the familiar tone Kirk had used. "Do ye know Captain Sisko?" he asked.

  "We've met," Kirk said. "A long time ago." But he didn't elaborate. It was enough that when he had first seen an image of Captain Sisko in an update on the Dominion War he had finally realized the answer to the puzzling mystery of the disappearing lieutenant who had caused a brief flurry of excitement on his Enterprise a century ago. Kirk looked forward to someday comparing notes on time travel with the ubiquitous Captain Sisko.

  "They're not going to respond well to being refused," Kirk said to Spock, making it clear he referred to Janeway and her companions. "We could be in danger." Kirk looked over his shoulder at the sliding glass doors. They were covered by sheer curtains that glowed with the light of the suite. Kirk was a bit surprised that Janeway hadn't come marching through those doors by now, demanding to know what the delay was. In his brief experience of her, she was always in a hurry.

  "We never have been," Spock said. He removed a Starfleet comm badge from his robes. "The moment we stepped onto this balcony, Janeway, T'Val, and my counterpart were beamed to detention cells on Spacedock."

  Kirk felt the bitter shock of betrayal. "Why didn't you beam me up, too?"

  Spock fixed Kirk with an unblinking gaze. "Starfleet wanted to. I convinced them otherwise. You are free to go. Provided you go to Chal."

  "You'll forgive me if I don't sound properly grateful," Kirk said angrily. If it had been anyone else but Spock, Kirk would never consider leaving this balcony without satisfaction of some kind. But he, at least, believed friendship and loyalty must stand for something.

  He spun around before Spock could say anything more. He ignored Scott's plea to return. He strode to the doors, slid them open, and stepped through the suddenly billowing white curtains.

  The chairs were empty. Spock had meant what he'd said. Starfleet had struck.

  And then he realized that one person still remained in the suite. A slightly built man at the bar, in Starfleet's latest uniform, his back to the balcony as he appeared to be mixing a drink.

  "Did you change your mind?" Kirk asked in challenge. "Are you going to beam me to detention, too?"

  The thin man turned slowly, and Kirk felt a shock of surprise as he suddenly recognized him.

  "Bones?"

  At 148 years old, hand trembling slightly, Dr. Leonard McCoy held up what could only be a mint julep. "Hi there, Jim. I was beginning to wonder if Spock was going to be keeping you out there all night."

  "Bones!"

  McCoy ignored Kirk's reaction and carefully placed the mint julep on the bar beside a second one. "When your vocabulary recovers from whatever Spock has done to it, maybe we could have a talk."

  Kirk crossed the suite and held back from hugging McCoy, only because he looked so frail that Kirk was afraid he might injure him. "I . . . I can't believe . . ."

  "That I'm still alive?" McCoy completed helpfully.

  "Nooo," Kirk said, though he had to admit to himself that that was part of it. A healthy Vulcan could live more than two hundred years. Kirk and Scott had reached the twenty-fourth century by the intervention of science and inexplicable temporal effects. But McCoy had arrived in the future as most humans do—one long, hard day at a time. Even given the medical breakthroughs of the age, McCoy was among a handful of humans breaking the records of human longevity. And Kirk believed few people deserved it more.

  "I can't believe you look so good." Kirk stepped back to take in the sight of his old friend. McCoy was dapper in the new uniform—it was the best word to use; his white hair almost glowed against the dark gray and black. "The last time I saw you, you had the . . ." Kirk gestured at McCoy's legs.

  "Exoskeleton," McCoy said. "Implants now. Artificial muscles grafted over my own. My fifth set of hips—they tell me these ones are going to last. And a new pair of cloned lungs. I'm not a doctor anymore, I'm a medical experiment."

  Kirk was overcome. But he was also suspicious. "So, are you in on this, too?"

  "On what?" McCoy asked.

  Kirk looked toward the balcony as Spock and Scott reentered the room, and reacted to McCoy's presence with as much surprise as Kirk had displayed.

  "All right," Kirk said after the highly charged greetings were exchanged, "now I am confused. Bones, you knew . . . the ambassador and Scotty were here, but they didn't know you were going to join them."

  " 'The ambassador'?" McCoy repeated. "Do I detect a chill in the environmental system?"

  "Somebody better tell me what's going on," Kirk said.

  McCoy sighed, steadied himself against the bar, then handed Kirk one of the mint juleps. "Drink this," he said.

  Kirk took the drink, sniffed it. Real bourbon. "I . . . gave it up."

  McCoy gave him an inquiring look. "Any particular reason?"

  Kirk shrugged. He gave up alcohol at the same time he removed tissue regenerators, computers, replicators, and communicators from his life. "Simpler," he said. "And healthier."

  "Well, I'm your doctor," McCoy told him. "And I say, drink it."

  Kirk had to admit it did smell good, and the mint was fresh. After a year on Chal, he knew the difference between plants just picked and those a day or more older. One was a sensory experience, the other was just food.

  He sipped the drink. Sweet and cool, the flavor and delicate chill released a flood of memories from the first Enterprise, the long nights in his cabin, talking through to ship's dawn with Bones and Spock, as if no other life would ever be possible.

  "What are you, a cadet?" McCoy said. He downed half his own drink, then blinked in surprise as if he hadn't intended to swallow so much.

  Kirk decided his long fast was over. He took a long swallow too, amazed at the forgotten but pleasurable sensation of the liquid burning down his throat and into his stomach.

  Then he exhaled slowly and placed the glass on the bar. The sugar and alcohol were hitting him that quickly.

  "You all right?" McCoy asked.

  "You're my doctor," Kirk told him. "What are you doing here?"

  McCoy put his glass down beside Kirk's. "Bad news, I'm afraid, Jim. From Chal."

  The effects of alcohol and sugar left Kirk at once. "Teilani . . ."

>   McCoy nodded. "Someone . . . took her."

  Kirk felt his heart start beating again. McCoy said "took," only "took," nothing worse.

  "Who? Took her where?"

  "No one knows. There was a message left, telling you that if you helped the intendant, Teilani would be . . . well . . ." McCoy hesitated, but Kirk left McCoy no room for doubt that he wanted to hear it all. "If you helped the intendant, they'd kill Teilani."

  Kirk could tell that wasn't all of it, either. "What else, Bones? What else?"

  McCoy looked all of his near century and a half in age. "If you want Teilani back, they will trade."

  "The intendant?"

  McCoy nodded. "And his lieutenants."

  "Janeway and T'Val."

  "They weren't named, but . . . Starfleet Intelligence agrees that's who the message refers to."

  Kirk turned accusingly to Spock. "Did you know any of this?"

  "No. Nothing."

  "Scotty?"

  "Nae, laddie. I've no truck with none but Engineering at Command."

  "Starfleet wants to talk with you, Jim."

  "I don't care what Starfleet wants, Bones. Two hours ago, Starfleet was ready to beam me into detention."

  "When haven't they wanted to do that?" McCoy asked with a wry grimace. He took another sip from his drink.

  "This isn't the time, Bones."

  "At my age, it doesn't make sense to put anything off."

  "And I'm not going to. Two hours ago, Spock, I was ready to turn the intendant and his lieutenants over to you and Starfleet, wish everyone good luck, and go back to Chal. Two minutes ago, after what you told me, I was still going back to Chal. But not now."

  "I think that's what Starfleet wants to talk to you about," McCoy said again.

  "Bones, you're dealing with Starfleet Intelligence. Spock's dealing with Starfleet Intelligence. But whoever you're talking to there aren't talking to each other. I'm not getting caught up in that. I've had it with Starfleet's bureaucracy and channels. Someone has Teilani. I'm going to get her back. It's as simple as that."

  Scott looked from McCoy to Spock and back again, then stepped forward. "Well, you'll nae be goin' alone."

  "Hell," McCoy said, "I haven't done anything exciting in . . . I can't count that high. I'm in." He put his drink down on the bar.

  Kirk looked at his friend, said kindly, "Bones, no. At your age—"

  "At my age I've got so many damn artificial body parts that if someone cut off my head the only difference'd be that my bedside manner would show a remarkable improvement. Besides, at your age, how many friends do you have left stupid enough to go off on one of your harebrained adventures?"

  Kirk forced a smile. "Thank you for that vote of confidence."

  "May I inject a note of reason into these ill-considered proceedings?" Spock asked.

  But Kirk had no more time to waste. And he certainly had no time for those who would try to waste it for him. "No, Mr. Spock, you may not. I've had it with reason. This time, I'm just going to get the job done."

  Kirk started for the door, aware that McCoy and Scott were following close behind.

  Hand on the doorknob, Kirk looked back at Spock. "What about it? Are you coming with me?"

  "I believe the question is: Are you coming with me?"

  "And why would I do that?" Kirk asked.

  Spock pulled out his comm badge. "Because you have a firm grasp of logic, for a human. And I, whatever your feelings toward me are right now, have a ship."

  Kirk hesitated, tempted. Getting a ship had become his first priority, though how one went about doing that, in an economy that used no form of currency or system of economic exchange, remained a mystery.

  "What kind of ship?" Kirk asked.

  "You may inspect it yourself," Spock answered. He squeezed the comm badge so it gave out its familiar chirp.

  "Spock to Sovereign," he said. "Four to beam up."

  THIRTEEN

  There were conditions for saving Teilani, of course. With Starfleet, Kirk knew, there were always conditions. And the worst of them was the uniform.

  He stood in front of the holographic mirror projected from the bulkhead in his quarters on the Sovereign, adjusting the jacket for the tenth time, at last understanding why Picard kept tugging on his. Kirk had worn one of these new ones before. It had been part of his disguise when the Vulcans had arrested him during the virogen crisis. But last year, it had simply been a costume.

  Today, it was an actual uniform, a sign of his reenlistment in an organization he once had been glad to leave. Where Starfleet had been eager for James T. Kirk, civilian, to return to his backwater retirement home on Chal, it now was even more willing to put its resources at the disposal of James T. Kirk, Starfleet officer.

  On the bridge of the Sovereign, Fleet Admiral Alynna Nechayev had, with an insincere smile, given Kirk exactly thirty seconds to make his decision. The admiral had left him no choice, and she had known it.

  Kirk fingered the four pips on the right side of his collar. At least there he had managed to draw the line. He'd rejoin, he had told her, but not as an admiral. That would only guarantee him another instructor's post at the Academy. So he had held out for captain, the only rank that had ever suited him. The rank that had once given him a starship, and might again.

  Nechayev had agreed as if that had been her plan all along, told Captain Kirk to report to the observation lounge in one hour, and then had spun around in her chair to grill two technicians on the half-percent deviation in warp efficiency she had noticed at factor seven point six.

  Spock, who knew his way around the impressive ship, the first of her class, had wasted no time escorting Kirk, Scott, and McCoy from the bridge. Kirk interpreted Spock's prompt action as confirmation of his own suspicions that Nechayev was one of those officers of whom it was unwise to remain in her sights any longer than necessary.

  Now, in his quarters, Kirk heard a chime that to him could only mean someone was at his door—though he was still not entirely familiar with all the technology of this latest of Starfleet's vessels.

  "Computer, mirror off," he said, and the virtual reflective surface before him vanished. Its absence revealed a pale wall decorated by an art screen. The screen, which could display any one of hundreds of thousands of different images stored in the ship's computer, had been set to show a fancifully colored painting of an old Constitution-class starship, which might even have been of the first Enterprise. Kirk had checked the artist's signature and was pleased to see the work was a Jefferies. It was good to know that one of Starfleet's greatest shipwrights had not been forgotten in this age.

  Kirk walked over to the door—his quarters were that large—stood before it, and said, "Come."

  The door slid open. Spock and McCoy waited outside, and for a moment it was as if all three had suddenly been thrown back a century.

  Kirk took in the sight of Spock in one of the new uniforms, and read the insignia at his collar. "Admiral Spock? Were the robes getting drafty?"

  "As I mentioned, the war with the Dominion has brought many of Starfleet's retired officers back to the service."

  McCoy stepped through the doorway, surefooted, no sign of age or hesitation, his implants and artificial muscles working perfectly. "Have you seen yourself in that new getup?" he asked.

  Kirk shook his head, admitting to nothing. "It's just a uniform. They'll have another one in a few more years. They always do."

  "The Hawthorne effect," Spock said, stepping through the doorway after McCoy. "A twentieth-century insight in Earth sociology. Inconsequential, though regular modifications in the workplace lead to employees feeling that their management is concerned about their well-being. Consequently, they exhibit greater job satisfaction, and thus function with greater productivity."

  Kirk stared at Spock. "Spock, if no one in Starfleet is getting paid anymore, how can we be employees?"

  "Admittedly, the economics of the twenty-fourth century do appear complex on the surface, but a sys
tem devoid of any instrument of exchange is inherently logical and deceptively simple."

  "If it's so simple, explain it to me in twenty-five words or less," Kirk said.

  Spock's face remained blank for several seconds, then he admitted, "I cannot."

  "That makes me feel much better." Then Kirk noticed his missing shipmate. "Where's Scotty?"

  "Mr. Scott is on duty and will join us in the lounge," Spock said.

  "On duty? On this ship?"

  "The Sovereign is Captain Scott's current assignment. He adapted a great many of her engineering breakthroughs for use in his designs for the Enterprise- E, and is now working on further refinements for the new Constellation."

  Kirk took a moment to absorb that revelation. "Scotty . . . designed the new Enterprise?"

  "Portions," Spock said.

  "They don't design themselves, you know, not even these days," McCoy added.

  Kirk decided not to be surprised. He had always known Scott's talents were considerable, though he probably didn't tell him that as often as he should. "Impressive, as always." Kirk tugged down on his jacket, then started forward "Shall we join the admiral?" But he stopped as he saw McCoy grinning at him. "Yes, Doctor?"

  "I saw that tug. You've been standing in front of a holographic mirror admiring yourself in that uniform, haven't you?"

  "A what kind of mirror?"

  "You can't fool me, Jim. You're glad to be back in the Fleet."

  First Teilanl Now McCoy. Why does everyone insist on believing they know what I'm feeling better than I do? Kirk thought.

  "I was blackmailed, Bones. All I care about is getting Teilani back. And then I'm going to burn this uniform on Chal."

  "That is not the arrangement you agreed to with the admiral," Spock pointed out. "You have rejoined Starfleet for the duration of the war, plus one year."