Star Trek: The Original Series - 162 - Shadow of the Machine

by Scott Harrison

  Weren’t the first years of a child’s life the most crucially important for bonding with its parents? Sulu was sure he’d heard that somewhere, probably from Doctor McCoy; either that or he’d read it in that book on parenting Uhura had given him. Whether it was true or not, those years were certainly crucial to him, and he was going to miss them.

  Sulu rested his elbows on his desk, chin on both fists, and tried his best to tune out Pavel Chekov’s excited jabbering. The Russian had been talking virtually nonstop for the past twenty minutes. He’d appeared at Sulu’s door clutching breakfast in one hand and a data slate with a map of his beloved Russia in the other, and it was starting to make the dull, aching throb in Sulu’s head much, much worse.

  An early start—that’s what Chekov had told him was needed. Get the day’s duties out of the way as swiftly and efficiently as possible. They could be down in the shuttlebay early enough to guarantee a place on the first flight to Earth.

  “Of course, if we shuttle into Smolensk it would then give us enough time to take a tube across country to Podolsk, but we do run the risk of missing Uhura’s connection,” Chekov was saying, somewhere in the background. “If only she was flying out to southern Africa after our trip across Russia, as I’d originally suggested, then we would not have this problem. We could have had enough time to take the passenger express up to Tula and Ryazan first. But did she listen to me? No, of course she didn’t, no one ever listens to me.”

  Sulu sighed wistfully as he gazed about his empty cabin. Every personal item that belonged to the helmsman, everything that he had hung up on the walls and arranged upon shelves to hide the bland characterlessness and uniformity of a starship cabin, was now packed carefully into three holdalls stacked neatly along the bulkhead by the door.

  “Tell me again why we have to pack up every single item and cart it all down to Earth with us.”

  Chekov glanced up quickly from the map. He frowned. “You know exactly why we have to take our belongings with us.”

  “Because, my dear Hikaru, they need to do a sweep of the entire ship, and the equipment uses a high-frequency radiation field.”

  This new voice was female and seemed to come from directly behind them, momentarily startling both men.

  Nyota Uhura was standing in the open doorway of Sulu’s quarters, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe. Instead of her pastel yellow uniform she was clad in a light mauve tunic and skirt, a white silk sash tied loosely around her waist.

  “Unless you want to be wearing irradiated underwear for the next five years, I’d follow orders,” she said.

  “What’s with the civvies?” Sulu asked, waving a hand at her clothes. “You know, if I wasn’t such a nice person, and I didn’t have a million and one things to do, I’d put you on report.”

  “Maybe some of us aren’t on duty anymore,” Uhura said. “Maybe some of us are so wonderfully efficient that they finished up all their duties last night and handed over to Yard Control, leaving them free to catch the shuttle this afternoon.”

  “That is not fair,” Chekov said.

  “I think someone’s a little jealous,” Uhura said, a smile on her lips.

  Chekov bristled. “Pah! Not at all. Everybody knows that working in communications is child’s play. A Drac’nen tree monkey could operate that equipment with three of its six arms tied behind its back. Now, weapons, on the other hand—that is a skilled post.”

  Uhura took the bait. All jocular pretenses were cast aside as she stormed into the room to confront her Russian colleague.

  It was at that point that Sulu, in a moment of crystal clarity, suddenly realized how their forthcoming trip together was about to play out: Chekov and Uhura constantly baiting each other until, inevitably, one would flare up and all-out war would be declared, leaving him to play the role of peacekeeper.

  He blamed Susan. It had been her idea that he go on the trip with them. At the time it had seemed like a good idea and he’d readily agreed. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “You should take Hikaru with you,” Susan had said, the last time the four of them had been together for dinner. “He’ll only be getting under my feet by the second week of shore leave.”

  Sulu had almost choked on his sushi. He’d glanced across the table to find Susan smiling at him.

  “It’ll be much better for you than hanging around the house,” she had told him. “You’ll have plenty of time to do that once the bump here puts in an appearance.”

  Uhura and Chekov continued to bicker like little kids in a school yard, causing Sulu to throw his hands up in desperation. He really wasn’t in the mood for this, not today. The dull, throbbing pain in his head was showing the first signs of becoming a migraine, and the breakfast he’d just shared with Chekov was sitting heavily in his stomach.

  For a brief second he felt like walking out and leaving them to it.

  “Will you two knock it off!” Sulu shouted. “If you think for one minute that I’m going to play nursemaid to the pair of you for seven days, then you’re sadly mistaken. I’m starting to regret ever agreeing to come on this trip. You know, I just wish that I had an excuse not to—”

  The communication console on the far wall trilled softly, interrupting him.

  “San Francisco Yard to Lieutenant Commander Sulu.”

  Instinctively Sulu straightened in his chair, snapping to attention regardless of the fact that he couldn’t be seen by the caller.

  “Sulu here.”

  “Sir, there’s an urgent transmission for you from a Doctor Hautala at Starfleet Medical, San Francisco.”

  A ripple of panic ran through Sulu’s body like an electrical charge, leaving a strange coppery taste at the back of his throat. His first thought was that something had happened to Susan: an accident, while she was out.

  His second thought was: The baby!

  At first Sulu was unable to speak, his mouth silently opening and closing like a landed fish. Finally he looked to Uhura for help.

  “Put the doctor through, please,” Uhura said, stepping in quickly. Then, to the ship’s computer, she said, “Viewer on.”

  The screen on the wall to their right sprang immediately to life. A gaunt, dark-haired woman in her mid- to late thirties was staring out at them, the hustle and bustle of hospital life going about its business behind her.

  “Commander Sulu?” the doctor asked when it became apparent that none of the three officers were about to introduce themselves.

  “I’m Commander Sulu,” he said, slowly climbing to his feet. His legs felt numb beneath him, so he reached out toward the desk for support.

  “Doctor Linzi Hautala, Starfleet Medical, San Francisco.”

  Sulu swallowed. “Is this about—Susan? I need to know, is she . . .” Here he paused, not knowing how to end the sentence. He couldn’t bring himself to say “Is she dead?” or “Is she seriously hurt?” He finally asked, “Is she okay?”

  “She’s stable, Commander. She was rushed to Emergency about fifteen minutes ago with what was thought to be severe Braxton Hicks. She’s gone into labor.”

  “But . . . but that’s not possible,” Sulu replied. “The baby’s not due for another four and a half months. Doctor Oliver assured Susan at her last visit . . .”

  “I’m sure he did, Commander, but Susan waited too long for us to medically intervene. The baby’s on its way and you need to get yourself down here as soon as you can.”

  “I’m on my way. Thank you, Doctor,” Sulu murmured. His voice now sounded odd, almost lifeless, as though a switch in his head had flipped and the words were coming from some scratchy, automatic recording.

  Hautala cut the link and the screen went dead. In the silence that followed Uhura whispered, “Viewer off.”

  As soon as the conversation was over, Sulu slumped back down into his chair like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

&nbs
p; Slowly, Sulu glanced across at his friends; he felt suddenly very small and fragile.

  Very carefully the helmsman cleared his throat and said, “I guess I should be careful what I wish for, huh?”

  • • •

  The turbolift doors slid shut with a soft whoosh of air, immediately sealing the two men within a cocoon of contemplative silence. Neither of them had spoken since leaving Kirk’s quarters, and there was a growing air of uneasiness between the two old friends.

  He was not sure why, but since Spock’s return to the Enterprise, Kirk had noticed a renewed sense of awkwardness between them. Naturally, this surprised him, not least because he’d assumed that they’d put that behind them. Spock had served under Chris Pike for so long that Kirk had assumed the Vulcan would find it difficult to accept him. But Kirk had been wrong and Spock had shown nothing but unswerving loyalty to him since the first moment that Kirk had stepped onto the bridge.

  He found it strange to be feeling this unease again after all these years. It was as though the two had only recently met and the V’Ger incident had been their first mission.

  Yet, in a way, this was true.

  Kirk had not seen his old friend since he’d left Starfleet some two and a half years before. Spock had not given him an explanation for why he had resigned his commission and returned to Vulcan. He’d mentioned something about Kolinahr, which, at the time, had meant very little to Kirk. It wasn’t until later, during his time at Starfleet Operations, that he researched the ancient Vulcan ritual.

  The admiral wondered if something had gone wrong. Why else would Spock have returned to Starfleet and requested a return to active duty aboard the Enterprise? Kirk had tried to raise the subject with Spock while they were heading to Earth for repairs. He hoped that the mind-meld with V’Ger might encourage him to open up, but the Vulcan had remained adamantly tight lipped.

  As the turbolift continued its ascent through the decks toward the main bridge, Spock suddenly reached forward and touched the control panel, bringing them to an abrupt halt.

  “Admiral.” Spock stopped, then began again: “Jim, may I speak freely?”

  “Of course,” Kirk replied warily. “What’s on your mind?”

  Spock said, “I feel that I must clarify my earlier statement.”

  “I see.”

  It seemed that Spock was determined to have this conversation after all, despite his commander’s reluctance.

  “I fear that I may have been somewhat tactless in regard to the deaths of Commander Decker and Lieutenant Ilia,” Spock admitted. “I believe that my attempt to engage you in a discussion on the subject may have gone slightly awry.”

  Kirk stared at him for a good long while before replying. “In other words, you were only trying to help but ended up putting your foot in it?”

  “A rather crude metaphor, but an apt one, nevertheless,” Spock said. “If I have upset you, then I offer my sincerest apologies. It was not my intention.”

  “I know you were only trying to help, Spock. I also know that I’ve been preoccupied since the V’Ger mission.” He smiled at his friend. “It’s not been easy for any of us. A lot of water has flowed under many bridges since we last served together. I guess we’re all a little rusty at this.”

  Once again Spock reached out a hand, only this time it was to clutch the admiral’s arm. The gesture was meant to be comforting, to reassure his old friend, but its execution was clumsy, the grip just that little bit too hard.

  “Jim, you made the correct decision. In my opinion your judgment was sound; there was no other option open to you. Commander Decker wanted to be with Ilia, and joining with V’Ger was his only way to do so. Whether Decker is now alive or dead, it was his choice and his alone.”

  “Thank you, Spock,” the admiral said. He knew now that the awkwardness between himself and Spock was his fault.

  One more thing, Kirk thought

  By the time the turbolift had reached the bridge, all he wanted was for the day to be over and done with, and to escape, to be as far away from the Enterprise as was possible.

  Chapter 2

  STARFLEET ORBITAL SHUTTLE

  “How long’s it gonna take?”

  Leonard McCoy shifted impatiently in his seat, trying desperately to resist the urge to drum his fingers against the sleek buckle of his safety harness. McCoy hated riding in these orbital shuttles. “Boneshakers,” he called them. Or “flying tin cans.” It all depended on his mood at the time. Either way, having to use the things to get to, and from, the Enterprise scared him out of his wits.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” Scott had assured him the last time McCoy had raised the subject in the mess. “They may be a wee bit rickety, but they’re as tough and as solid as a fully armored Gorn warrior. You’ll come to no harm in one of those beasties.”

  McCoy was unconvinced. He had similar misgivings about transporters. If one of those were to malfunction, they could unzip you faster than a man peeling a banana, and before you realized what was happening you would be lying in a pool of your own organs. The doctor had been assured countless times over the years that the transporter was safe. But he knew full well the Enterprise’s new, improved transporters had malfunctioned recently, killing Commander Sonak and Vice Admiral Lori Ciana.

  For the fifth time since boarding the shuttle, McCoy checked that the buckle on his harness was secure and the emergency life-support mask was fully primed and in working order.

  “For heaven’s sake, can’t you relax, Bones?”

  Kirk was becoming irritated by McCoy’s constant fussing and fidgeting. It was difficult enough flying with him at the best of times, but today he was practically unbearable.

  “I just don’t like the idea that there are only a few inches of metal between me and a sheer drop,” McCoy confessed. “It’s bad enough having your molecules scattered around the galaxy at faster than the speed of light, but having to be locked up in these damn contraptions . . . ”

  Kirk shook his head. “How long have you been in Starfleet?”

  “Too damn long,” McCoy growled.

  “Exactly. When a Starfleet engineer of Mister Scott’s caliber says you will be okay, you will be,” Kirk told him.

  At the extreme lower edge of the forward port, a white, wispy canopy of cloud was taking shape. The nose of the orbital shuttle had begun to tilt sharply downward, dropping a dozen kilometers before leveling.

  McCoy gripped the armrests of his chair as his stomach lurched violently, despite the artificial gravity, with each dip and rise that the shuttle made.

  “I hate it when it does that,” he murmured from between tightly clamped lips. “Makes my stomach feel like it’s doing loop-the-loops.”

  Despite himself, Kirk smiled. “You didn’t have to come. You could have stayed on board the Enterprise with Mr Scott.”

  McCoy ignored the playful gibe. “What I want to know is why, for the past few days, you and Spock have been stalking around the Enterprise with faces longer than the Antares Nebula.”

  “We have our reasons, Bones,” Kirk said. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

  “Come to think of it, where is Spock?”

  “On his way to Vulcan,” Kirk said.

  “Vulcan?” McCoy repeated. “I thought he’d decided to turn his back on all that Vulcan mystical stuff.”

  Kirk just shrugged. “Maybe he has and maybe he hasn’t. Spock didn’t say what it was all about, and I didn’t feel that it was my place to ask him.” He paused, then turned slowly toward his friend with a smile. “ ‘Vulcan mystical stuff’? Kolinahr is an ancient Vulcan rite—”

  “He’s trying to eradicate his emotions, his human half,” McCoy said.

  The admiral was reminded that McCoy might play the “old country doctor,” but he was one of the best medical officers in the fleet. “Touché, Doctor.” Hoping t
o distract McCoy, Kirk asked, “How is Joanna?”

  McCoy thought for a moment. “Fine. She and my grandson are meeting me in Atlanta.”

  “Joanna had a son? Bones, that’s wonderful.”

  “He’ll be coming up to his fourth birthday pretty soon. Was only a baby when I saw him last,” McCoy said, with a faint trace of sadness in his voice. “My own damn fault—I shouldn’t leave it so long between visits. I’m a stubborn old fool who’s set in his ways, and most of the time the only person I’m hurting is myself.”

  Kirk stared silently across at his chief medical officer. “We’re all guilty of stubbornness to one degree or another, Bones. I guess that’s why we’re all going home: to try to fix things that have broken somewhere along the line.”

  Kirk turned toward the port and watched the cold black sliver of space slowly turn a deep rich shade of blue. The canopy of ivory-white clouds was drawing ever closer. The admiral could now see the gleam of the sun dancing across San Francisco Bay as they neared Starfleet Headquarters.

  “I only hope I’m not too late,” Kirk whispered to himself.

  SAN FRANCISCO

  Four and a half months premature!

  The words wheeled incessantly through Sulu’s mind like a rodent in a squeaky running wheel. He hopped out of the taxi and made his way slowly down the sidewalk toward the nest of tall buildings.

  Four and a half months!

  The Starfleet Medical building was nothing like Sulu had expected. It wasn’t the usual Federation architecture. It was a red-brick building, vast and clearly ancient, but somehow modern. Had it been part of the ancient base . . . the Presidio?

  He spent the first fifteen minutes trying to find the reception desk. When he finally found it, the attendants gave him a complicated set of directions that led him up several flights of stairs and along a seemingly endless corridor to a vast new wing on the other side of the facility.

  Sulu gave the woman behind the desk his details and then took a seat in the waiting area as he was instructed.