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

by Scott Harrison

  He hadn’t been waiting long when Doctor Linzi Hautala, the chief ob-gyn officer, appeared from one of the side rooms a little way down the corridor. She strode across to meet him.

  Hautala was all smiles as she approached, which for some reason made Sulu feel all the more anxious. He started to rise, but the doctor indicated for him to stay seated.

  “Lieutenant Commander Sulu,” she said, taking the seat next to him. “Doctor Hautala.”

  Sulu nodded. “Please, I need to know what’s happening with Susan and the baby.”

  “She’s fine,” Hautala told him, “though understandably exhausted. We’ve given her a mild sedative and she’s sleeping now.”

  “The baby?” Sulu asked, fighting down a sudden wave of panic.

  The doctor hesitated, her smile faltering slightly. It was only the briefest flicker, but Sulu saw it nevertheless.

  “You have a beautiful little baby girl, Commander. As I told you, we could not safely stop the labor. Obviously, as she’s a preterm birth, there is a chance of complications. She’s in the NICU. We’ll monitor her condition closely for the next few weeks.”

  A violent flush of panic rose from the pit of Sulu’s stomach, threatening to engulf him. Doctor Hautala must have seen it in his eyes, for she reached across and placed a hand gently upon his arm.

  “Please, you mustn’t worry yourself needlessly, this is all routine procedure. The coming days will be critical for your daughter. But both mother and daughter are stable and as comfortable as we can possibly make them. They are in the best hands.”

  My new daughter.

  The words sounded strange when he thought about them. Later, when he was away from the hospital and back in Susan’s apartment, he would say those three words out loud, over and over. My. New. Daughter.

  My daughter.

  He had a daughter. He, Hikaru Sulu, was a father. Yesterday they were only a couple, but today they were a family.

  Doctor Hautala patted him gently on the knee, then climbed to her feet, the smile firmly on her lips.

  “So, would you like to see her?” she asked.

  Sulu stared up at the doctor, eyes wide. “I . . . I can see her now?”

  “I can’t see any reason why not,” Hautala said. “We’ll need to get you in a mask and gown; after that, I’ll take you to the NICU so you can meet your daughter.”

  U.S.S. POTEMKIN

  The transporter chief snapped to attention the moment Spock had finished materializing, causing him to raise an amused eyebrow in response. As he stepped down from the platform, the transporter room door slid open and a very young, very pale lieutenant stepped into the room. He stopped a few meters away from Spock, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other as though he were unsure how to proceed.

  “Permission to come aboard,” Spock said, breaking the silence.

  “Permission granted, Commander,” the pale young man replied. “Good afternoon, sir, I am Lieutenant Gareth MacNeil. The captain has asked me to apologize for his absence but he is currently in a meeting with the security team on the station. He has asked me to show you to your quarters.”

  The lieutenant turned and began to make his way back toward the corridor. When his Vulcan guest failed to follow, MacNeil clattered to an abrupt halt, pausing comically, frozen in midstep. He gestured nervously toward the door.

  “Please, this way, sir. We have assigned you a suite; a meditation stone has been provided should you wish to prepare yourself mentally on the journey home. Or you may simply wish to rest—the choice is yours.”

  “Your attentiveness and generosity are most appreciated,” Spock told him. “But quite unnecessary. The captain need not have gone to so much trouble. The journey is a relatively short one.”

  MacNeil glanced toward the door again, as though hoping to find help there. When none came he began, “But the captain, he’s—”

  “On the orbiting station below,” Spock finished the sentence for him. “You have already informed me of this.”

  The lieutenant’s mouth flapped silently open and closed for a brief moment. Then he seemed to regain his composure.

  “Does my presence aboard the Potemkin make you nervous, Lieutenant?” Spock asked.

  “Yes, sir.” MacNeil’s eyes widened as he realized what he’d blurted out. “I mean, no. Well, yes, you do make me nervous, but not in the way you’re probably thinking.”

  In response Spock clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his head quizzically, waiting for the young officer to compose himself.

  After a while Lieutenant MacNeil tried again: “What I mean to say is, I’m nervous because you’re Commander Spock: Ambassador Sarek’s son and first officer aboard the Enterprise, the flagship of Starfleet, commanded by James T. Kirk. I read about your missions as a kid—it was what made me want to enroll in Starfleet Academy.”

  “Have I lived up to your lofty expectations, Mister MacNeil?” Spock asked suddenly.

  “Uh . . . uh . . . well . . .” MacNeil stammered.

  But before the man could say any more, Spock continued: “Believe me, Lieutenant, it is always a mistake to meet your hero. Many years ago I was afforded the opportunity of spending three weeks aboard a terraforming vessel with the celebrated agronomist and biotechnician Elliot Tarrall. His proposal for developing closed-system exofarming on the outer colonies was a work of inspired brilliance and required reading when I was at the Academy. During my time aboard ship, I made three attempts at engaging Doctor Tarrall in conversation regarding sustainable development, and each time I found him to be rude, arrogant, self-opinionated, and more than a little narcissistic.”

  Spock motioned toward the doors behind Lieutenant MacNeil. “I believe you were about to show me the way to my quarters.”

  Somewhat nervously, Lieutenant MacNeil led the Vulcan commander out of the transporter room and into the corridor.

  • • •

  The short, somewhat rotund Vulcan seemed to appear from out of nowhere. The crowd of off-duty crew members parted before him like dissolving mist as he stepped forward, his hand already raised in the traditional Vulcan salute.

  “Live long and prosper, Commander Spock. I am Syvar, captain of the Potemkin. It is an honor to have you on my ship.”

  Spock returned the salute. “Peace and long life. The honor is mine, Captain. The Potemkin is a fine ship. I have been made most welcome, particularly by Lieutenant MacNeil.”

  “A most promising officer,” Syvar returned.

  “He has not been aboard the Potemkin long?” Spock asked.

  “He was assigned to us two days ago. First time aboard a starship. He was a communications officer on Starbase 35, since graduating from the Academy eighteen months ago. After the V’Ger event,” Syvar said, “he requested a transfer. He felt that he ‘needed to get out from behind a desk and make a difference.’ ”

  These words sounded all too familiar to Spock. “I have heard another human voicing a similar sentiment of late.”

  “Lieutenant MacNeil is learning quickly, and I am satisfied with his progress.” Syvar leaned in closer, his manner almost conspiratorial. “When you have a crew that is seventy-five percent Vulcan, one realizes that there are certain preconceptions. I prefer not to be the ‘exception that proves the rule,’ as the old Earth saying goes.”

  “Indeed,” Spock replied.

  The Vulcan captain swept a hand at the empty patch of floor in front of the observation port at the other end of the recreation deck. The two men began to make their way through the crowd.

  “I am surprised to find you here, Commander, rather than in your quarters preparing yourself,” Syvar said.

  There was something in the captain’s words, a curious tone, that caused Spock to stop suddenly in his tracks.

  It took Syvar a moment to realize that his guest was no longer walking
beside him. After hesitating for a second, he returned, stopping in front of Spock.

  “What would I wish to prepare myself for, Captain?” Spock asked at last.

  “Now that the crisis has passed and you are returning to Vulcan,” Syvar said, “there can be only one reason.”

  Spock nodded thoughtfully at this, suddenly comprehending the captain’s words. “Now I understand: the generously appointed quarters, the meditation stone, even volunteering the Potemkin.”

  The Vulcan captain clasped his hands behind his back and peered up at his guest. “I wanted the honor of escorting you personally. Call it an indulgence on my part.”

  Spock leveled a quizzical expression at the man opposite him and waited for him to explain.

  “I once undertook the Kolinahr ritual,” Syvar explained. “No one more than I understands, or fully appreciates, the discipline and devotion to which you have committed yourself in the pursuit of total logic.”

  “You climbed the steps?” Spock asked.

  Syvar nodded slowly, and when he replied, Spock noted that there was a touch of sadness in the captain’s voice. “I did, but I did not have the will. I failed.” Syvar directed a stern gaze at the Enterprise’s first officer. “You have been given a second chance, an opportunity to return and complete the ritual. For the masters to allow such a thing is unprecedented. But, then, you are Sarek’s son—”

  “You are mistaken, Syvar,” Spock said, cutting off the Vulcan captain. “I do not return to Vulcan to continue Kolinahr, but the opposite.”

  Frowning, Syvar said, “I do not understand. The V’Ger threat is nullified. The Enterprise is safely in spacedock, surely your business with Starfleet is concluded.”

  “The crew has been granted two weeks’ shore leave while the Enterprise is readied for relaunch,” Spock told him.

  There was a marked change in Syvar’s demeanor. The broad shoulders encased in the white, short-sleeved tunic slowly began to slump, and he folded his thick arms behind him. The captain was displaying Vulcan disappointment in his honored guest.

  “Why would you choose to abandon Kolinahr?” Syvar asked.

  Spock took time to consider the captain’s words. “As much as I wanted it, it did not want me.”

  Chapter 3

  IOWA

  Daylight was filling the skies as James Kirk stepped down from the shuttle and onto the winding dirt track that led to the Kirk farm. The last few heavy drops of rain had ended, freshening the fields.

  He glanced down at his chrono: 08:55 Central Time.

  Iowa was two hours ahead.

  When he’d boarded the connecting shuttle back in San Francisco, Kirk had miscalculated, assuming that he’d arrive in Iowa before seven in the morning, just as the family were starting their morning chores. The moment he realized his error he’d sent a message off to Hanna, letting her know when he’d be arriving.

  But Kirk didn’t tell her the reason why. He knew his mistake would really tickle his aunt. Also, he’d never hear the last of it, especially from Uncle Abner.

  It was an easy mistake to make, especially when you worked at Starfleet Operations and seldom left the San Francisco area. Starship captains were used to Command contacting them at all hours of the ship’s “day.” Starship clocks were synced to local bases and, if time permitted, the cities on the planets they visited. It was easy to forget about planetary time differences.

  It was a long time since Kirk had been back to the old family farm, six or seven years, not since the memorial for Sam and Aurelan. They’d been attacked and killed by a swarm of neural parasitic creatures while living on Deneva. Peter had survived, but he had lost both of his parents in horrific circumstances.

  Was that why he had avoided the farm? Too many ghosts?

  • • •

  Of course, there were the good memories too, of happier times when he and Sam were kids. Swimming in the creek when the weather was hot. The tire swing hanging from the branches of the big gnarled old bur oak that grew at the edge of the water, just at the spot where the banks began to narrow.

  There was the time when Kirk was seven years old, Sam would have been eleven. They were playing explorers in the old barn on the top of the hill behind the farm. Sam was Zefram Cochrane. He always insisted on being Zefram Cochrane when they were playing explorers, and he’d never let anyone else be him. Kirk was Lil’ Sloane. He didn’t know who Lil’ Sloane was, not back then, but Sam told him that Lil’ was Cochrane’s right-hand man.

  “Lil’ was this huge guy,” Sam told him with a knowing smile, throwing his arms out to either side of him, to show he meant big.

  “Was he a giant?” Kirk asked.

  Sam nodded eagerly at this. “As good as. He was nearly as tall as the old barn door. That’s why they called him Lil’ Sloane, as a joke. And he was loyal too! In fact, he was Zefram’s right-hand man.” Sam squinted down at his little brother then, asking, “Do you know what a right-hand man is, Jimmy?”

  Kirk didn’t know, so he shook his head.

  “A right-hand man is like your best pal,” Sam explained. “He goes everywhere you go, keeps you company when you’re away from home, sticks up for you against bad people.”

  “Like you and me, Sammy?” Kirk asked.

  “Yeah, just like you and me.”

  It wasn’t until the next year in school that Kirk discovered that Lil’ Sloane was in fact Lily Sloane, a woman of normal stature, who’d helped Cochrane build the Phoenix, the first warp-capable craft. He never got Sam back for that one.

  Once when they were playing in the old barn loft—only it wasn’t a loft, it was the surface of an alien planet on which Cochrane and Sloane had crash-landed—Kirk accidentally fell through a rotting rail. He tumbled down the loft stairs, crashing onto the floor below. He hit his head and broke his wrist. Sam flew down the stairs, and when he saw that his brother was hurt, he carried him all the way back down the hill and back to the house.

  They did not play in the old barn again that summer. Kirk wanted to, but Sam said no, that it was too dangerous. He said that last time they’d been lucky, and that if one of them fell out of the loft this time, someone could be killed.

  • • •

  Kirk paused by the water’s edge, at the spot where he and his brother used to swim. The old oak was still there, but the tire swing was long gone. Looking carefully, he could see the section of branch where the rope had worn the bark away. The water was low at this time of year, the flow nowhere near the raging torrent it would become once the last of the winter thaw had filled it. At the moment it was a trickle, splashing across the four big stones that formed a rough path from one side of the bank to the other.

  “Stepping-stones,” Sam had called them, although it took more than a step to get from one stone to the other, as Kirk discovered to his peril many times, when he missed his footing and fell into the water. To a seven-year-old James Kirk, the distance between each of those stones sometimes felt like the width of the Grand Canyon.

  From where he stood, Kirk had only to turn his head to the left to see the old barn standing on the hill beyond the farmstead. It was in ruins now, nothing more than a weed-choked rotting frame, with no roof and gaping, broken windows.

  “Race you,” Sam would shout over his shoulder as they tore across the fields toward the hill. “Race you, Jimmy Slowpoke. Race you!”

  Kirk sighed. He hadn’t realized it until that very moment, but the wound was still wide open. The memory of his brother’s death was still raw.

  Too many ghosts.

  • • •

  “It’s just not me, Jim, I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “Four years in the Academy. One year on a ship—and you’re done?”

  “Jim, give it a rest!” Sam shouted. “I’m done with Starfleet!”

  “Sam, all you ever talked about was exploring. H
ow Starfleet was the perfect way to become—”

  “A famous explorer. It’s not me, Jim. Flying around in a tin can, letting someone else do all the exploration, handing me samples to study. I wanted to be out there, getting my hands dirty, doing it myself. I’m joining a scientific study to an Andorian colony, and Aurelan is joining me. We want to start a family, another thing that we can’t do in Starfleet: I’d have to leave them for months or years on end.” Sam bent down and started skipping stones across the stream.

  “Baby brother, you were born to be in Starfleet, to be a starship captain.”

  Sam turned and told him, “I just have this feeling, Jimmy, that if I don’t do it now, I might never get the chance.”

  • • •

  There was a splash in the water down to his left, and Kirk turned in time to see a momentary flash of color. It broke the surface, then was gone. A brook trout, Kirk decided. Sam and he had caught enough of them out of that stream.

  He adjusted the straps at his shoulders, shifting the weight of the bag until it was a little more comfortable, then continued up the dirt road. After a time he came to a natural bend in the path, which afforded him a much better view of the old farmhouse sitting in the clearing beyond.

  Out in the front yard he could see Abner’s dog, a shaggy old bluetick coonhound, Benchley, lying sprawled on the porch, his tongue lolling wetly from the corner of his mouth. The dog raised his head at Kirk’s approach and let out a rather listless aulf-ing sound that was probably the closest thing to an actual bark the ancient dog could muster.

  Yet he was an excellent early warning system. In response to the sound, the front door opened and Abner’s wife, Hanna, appeared, wiping her hands on the towel that was draped over one shoulder.

  She raised a hand and waved, then quickly ducked back inside before Kirk could respond.

  Aunt Hanna reappeared, shuffling out of the door onto the porch, coming to a halt beside the old coonhound. Standing there with her hands on her hips, she reminded Kirk of his mother, and just for a second he was a child again, on the razor’s edge of puberty.