by Rick Barba
“Do you agree that a brutal serial killer would not say this to the potential rescuers of his victim?” she asked.
The computer whirred, then said, “I cannot respond to speculative queries.”
Uhura nodded. “That’s because you’re a computer,” she said.
She’d now winnowed the list to just twenty or so likely candidates. Fifteen of those were variations of the same phrase:
“‘Your [NOUN] has already been [PAST TENSE VERB].’”
Uhura glanced at the time. It was almost nine p.m. She smiled.
When Commander Spock left after his brief visit earlier, he’d promised to return before nine, giving them enough time to review any new findings before her ten o’clock hall curfew. One thing she’d learned about her Vulcan instructor: He was always on time. It was a trait she found most agreeable.
Another thing she found agreeable: Commander Spock’s high opinion of her abilities. When downloading the 911 call recordings from the SFPD data stick she’d gotten from Detective Bogenn, Uhura also found some background files that included a copy of Spock’s note to the commandant of midshipmen:
Admiral:
Cadet Nyota Uhura has my highest recommendation. Without a doubt, she is perfectly suited for this assignment.
Nyota is unmatched in xenolinguistics and has displayed an unparalleled ability to identify sonic anomalies in subspace transmission tests, a critically important trait for any Starfleet bridge communications officer. Given the requirements of this assignment, her skill set would seem to be a perfect match.
I shall endeavor to assist Cadet Uhura in whatever she needs. Be assured that I will give her investigation my highest priority attention.
Commander Spock
Yes, this was agreeable, all of it: Spock’s deep well of knowledge; his uncompromising personal and professional integrity; his careful attention to her academic progress and training. And now the wording of this recommendation seemed to validate all of her secret hopes for the future. Bridge communications officer on an expeditionary starship! This had been Uhura’s dream job since she was a precocious little girl.
She checked the time again: 8:56 p.m.
“Okay, where is he?” she asked aloud.
“More parameters required,” replied the console.
Uhura applied a quick coat of lip gloss. “That was a rhetorical question, computer,” she said.
“Rhetorical question,” repeated the console. “A question posed for dramatic effect without the expectation of a reply.”
“Correct,” said Uhura.
“You do not require knowledge of the subject’s location?” replied the console.
Uhura thought about this. “Okay, so maybe it wasn’t quite rhetorical,” she said.
“Please input parameters for the subject,” said the computer. “Once target is identified, I will run a search subroutine scan.”
Uhura was amused again.
“Computer, you are becoming my most entertaining companion,” she said. Then she frowned a bit. “I guess that says something about my personal life.”
As the computer processed this confusing information, Uhura’s communicator beeped. She flipped it open.
“Hello?” she answered.
“This is Commander Spock,” replied Spock.
Uhura smiled. “Hello, Commander.”
A short pause. “I apologize for the late call. I’ve had meetings in Admiral Tullsey’s office. Starfleet Medical has presented some new and very fascinating information about the attack on Cadet Gaila. I’ll brief you when I arrive in approximately fourteen minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” said Uhura.
“Are you making progress, Cadet?” asked Spock.
“Good progress, sir.” Uhura nodded.
“Excellent,” said Spock. “Well, then. I’ll see you shortly.”
“Yes, Commander,” said Uhura. She listened as Spock clicked off the connection.
Uhura flipped the communicator shut. She smiled to herself, and then turned to the computer console.
“Please cancel the search,” she said.
“Search canceled,” replied the computer.
Uhura made sure things were in order at the console. She checked her hair in the mirror. With thirteen more minutes to kill, she got back to work, thinking she’d be thirteen minutes more prepared when Spock arrived.
She ran a search string on Romulan sonic fragments.
As she did so, a thin trail of black smoke slowly drifted through the window behind her.
Oddly enough, the window was closed tight.
CH.7.12
Shadow Hours
At 9:10 p.m., Kirk and McCoy were walking into the campus residence plaza. They could hear laughter drifting out of open dorm windows on this unusually clear, warm summer night. A full moon, rarely seen, cast its pale glow on the main quad.
“What a long day,” said Kirk.
Three dark figures crept past in the hydrangea bushes along the plaza walkway. One carried a live, flapping chicken by the feet. All three wore green, glowing skull masks.
“Apparently, it’s not over yet,” said McCoy, watching them.
“Kirk!” hissed one of the figures. “Over here!”
Kirk rolled his eyes. He walked over to the bushes.
“Nice chicken,” he said.
“Yes, I’m convinced it’s a good one,” said the figure.
“Ah, Rodriguez,” said Kirk. He gave McCoy a look. “I’d know that voice anywhere. What’s going on?”
“We need your help,” said Rodriguez. “We’re trying to chicken this dude over in Nimitz Hall but his window’s locked.” Rodriguez pulled off his skull mask. “What kind of idiot would lock his window on a beautiful night like tonight?”
Kirk smiled. “Think, Rodriguez,” he said. “Why would a guy lock himself in his room?”
As Rodriguez rubbed his chin, thinking, the chicken began to squawk and flap wildly.
“It’s pecking my hands!” cried the skull-face holding it.
“I told you to bring the Kevlar gloves,” said the third skull. He looked at Kirk and shrugged. “I told him. The guy never listens.”
Kirk nodded. “Sure you did, Sweeney,” he said.
“Whoa, you know my voice?” asked Sweeney. He pulled off his mask.
“Deaf guys know your voice,” said Kirk. “When you talk, dogs run away. Ever notice that?” He turned back to Rodriguez. “You got an answer for me yet, genius?”
Rodriguez grinned big. “He’s got a girl in there,” he said.
“Bingo,” said Kirk. “You can graduate now.”
“Wow,” said Rodriguez with moonlight glinting in his eye. “It’s too perfect. But man, how do we get in?”
Kirk turned to McCoy. “Is it like this over in the medical wing?”
“Worse,” said McCoy.
“Worse?” said Kirk. “Really? But you guys are so much older.”
“Exactly,” said McCoy. “We’ve had more practice.”
Students in the medical college had already earned MDs before beginning their Starfleet training. Thus they were typically four to five years older than cadets in the Academy’s other colleges.
“So can you give us a hand, Kirk?” asked Rodriguez.
“Guys, I’ve had a long, hard day,” replied Kirk. “Sorry.”
Rodriguez nodded and pulled the skull back over his face. “Okay, let’s move out, squad,” he said to the others. “Don’t drop that chicken, Bartley!”
“It’s pecking my hands!” cried Bartley.
Kirk turned away but asked, “Who’s getting this chicken?”
“Tikhonov,” said Rodriguez.
Kirk stopped in his tracks. He turned back.
“Viktor Tikhonov?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Rodriguez. “I hate that guy.”
McCoy stepped up beside Kirk. “Jim, you’re getting that look in your eye,” he said.
“What look?” asked Kirk, grinning at Rodriguez.
>
“The one where you end up in front of the Cadet Oversight Committee and plead for one more chance to stay in Starfleet,” said McCoy.
Kirk nodded, still grinning.
On-campus social life often had a commando-like, competitive edge to it. Plots were hatched. Strike teams formed. Alliances made, then shifted. Coveted objects were stolen, recovered, and then stolen again. Unwanted objects delivered.
One example: A holo-bust of the infamous twenty-second century naval commander Rear Admiral Carleton Schiller had been trading hands for the past fifteen years. Originally nabbed from a nook in the Academy library as a prank, Schiller was subsequently stolen by another cadet squad in a daring daylight raid. Since then, Admiral Schiller was considered an object of immense value in the Academy residence halls. Even the briefest possession would bestow great prestige on the holder. He often made dramatic appearances at public events, usually followed by a power blackout. This led to the traditional shout of “Schiller!” and a mad scramble to track him down. Insane amounts of logistical planning went into these appearances. Some said Schiller was responsible for training many of the brightest tactical minds in Starfleet.
Many such activities occurred during what Academy cadets traditionally called “shadow hours.” These were the two hours every weeknight between 8:00 p.m., when all formal activities ended, and 10:00 p.m., when curfew went into effect. They were supposed to be study hours. Sometimes they were; sometimes they weren’t.
Cadet residence halls were not like typical college dorms. Codes of conduct were strictly enforced. Weeknight curfew was 10 p.m., with lights out by midnight. Formal rules of behavior applied—at least in the settings of training, assembly, and classroom. Rank was respected. Cadets also generally ate and exercised together in what Academy literature called “an enhanced morale and team-building atmosphere.”
But smart cadets figured out creative ways to have fun inside the margins. Shadow-hours activities frequently stretched outside the bounds of Academy rules and regulations. Cadet James T. Kirk embraced this tradition, and usually pushed it to its limits.
It should be noted that Starfleet cadets had more personal freedom than typical military cadets—after all, Starfleet did see exploration and pursuit of knowledge as its primary missions, not war. Inventiveness, intellectual curiosity, and original thinking were valued traits in Starfleet cadets.
And it was no Spartan bunkhouse existence, either. Upperclassmen lived in roomy, well-appointed apartment quarters. First- and second-year cadet quarters were more dormitory style, but the residents were free to personalize their spaces. All residence halls were coed; male and female cadets would soon be spending months or even years at a stretch as shipmates on expeditionary voyages, so it made sense to get everyone used to it now.
Kirk sauntered down the corridor, whistling. This was the second floor of Nimitz Hall. He’d never been here before, as far as he knew.
A girl wrapped in a towel stepped from her room into the hallway. She stopped when she saw him.
“Jim?” she said.
Uh-oh, thought Kirk.
“Hey there,” he said. Tara. Teran? Taysha. Starts with a T . . . ?
“Where’ve you been?” she asked.
“Trying to stay afloat,” he said. “You know.” Tracey, maybe?
She gave him a look. “I don’t know how you do it,” she said.
“Neither do I,” said Kirk. He had no clue what she was talking about. “Say, I’m looking for Viktor Tikhonov. I think his room is somewhere on this floor, right?”
Now she smiled. “What do you want from that idiot?” she asked. “Another beating?”
Kirk smiled wryly back.
“Ouch,” he said. He mimicked a knife jab into his heart, then twisted it.
She turned and strolled down the hall. “You’re at his door,” she said.
Kirk turned to the door next to him. “Ah, thanks,” he said. “Thought it looked familiar.”
The girl snickered as she stepped into the women’s shower room.
“I’m Holly, by the way,” she called as the door closed.
Ah, now I remember, he thought with a smile. “You look good in that towel, Holly!” he called back.
The door clunked shut behind her.
He glanced up and down the corridor. Deserted. Odd for Nimitz, a notoriously crazy hall, but whatever, he’d take it. He put his ear to Tikhonov’s door. Good old-fashioned American metal thrash-rock was throbbing loudly in the room.
Real romantic there, Viktor, thought Kirk, amused.
He pulled a sealed envelope from his pocket and slid it into the side doorjamb. Then he pounded loudly on the door and hurried down the corridor to the men’s restroom. He peeked out to see Tikhonov’s door hiss open; the shirtless Russian emerged, flushed and angry. The envelope fluttered to the floor in front of him. He picked it up, tore it open, and read the note inside. Then he withdrew into the room.
As the door hissed shut, Kirk started counting: Ten, nine, eight . . .
Before Kirk could get to five, Viktor burst out of the room fully dressed and obviously pissed. He turned back and said, “Just relax! I’ll be back in ten minutes.” As his door hissed shut again Tikhonov pounded down the corridor to the stairwell.
Kirk waited a few seconds. Then he strolled down the hall and tapped on Tikhonov’s door.
“Yes?” called a female voice.
“Campus security, ma’am,” replied Kirk.
When the door opened, he flashed a phony badge. The girl inside wore a skimpy white robe and was very attractive. Kirk nodded in approval.
“You’re not Cadet Tikhonov,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” asked the girl.
“Just a seal check,” said Kirk. “Routine.”
“A seal check?”
“Window seal, ma’am.”
The girl’s face twisted a bit. “Why now?” she asked.
“We wait until shadow hours to increase the likelihood that cadets are in their rooms,” said Kirk, trying to sound authoritative. “We try to avoid unauthorized keyless entry whenever possible so as to respect the privacy of the cadet corps, as it were.”
The girl rolled her eyes. “Whatever,” she said.
She stepped aside and Kirk walked to the room’s only window. He unlatched it, then started opening and closing it loudly, again and again. Each time he lowered the sash to the sill he slammed it with gusto.
He looked back at the girl, who was busy examining her manicure. Kirk raised the sash and pretended to examine the side jambs. He ran his finger along the sill.
“Looks good!” he bellowed.
He closed the window, neglecting to relock the latches. Then he strode back through the doorway into the corridor and spun smartly to face the girl.
“Thank you, Cadet,” said Kirk. He snapped a salute and held it, gazing at the girl.
After a few seconds, she shook her head in disbelief and saluted back.
Kirk whipped down his hand and marched off down the hallway.
Outside Nimitz, Kirk walked toward a clucking tree.
“Load the chicken,” he said to the tree.
“Do we have a clear launch vector?” asked a voice in the tree.
Kirk looked around.
“Yes,” he said.
“My hands are totally pecked,” whined a second voice.
Kirk patted a lower branch.
“Good luck, gentlemen,” he said. “I want reports on my desk at 0700 hours.”
“Roger that,” said voices in the tree.
Kirk walked toward his dorm, Farragut Hall, with an extra bounce in his step.
In Kirk’s room, McCoy took a swig from his miniflask and then held it out. Kirk nabbed it and took a swallow, then grimaced.
“My god, Bones, what is this swill?” he asked.
McCoy nodded at the flask, grinning. “A little home recipe from Mississippi.”
Kirk stared at it. “I’m drinking moonshine?”
M
cCoy grinned. “You’re a lucky man,” he said. “So let’s think ahead for once, shall we, Jim? What if Mr. Tikhonov finds out about your window caper?”
Kirk took another swig and started coughing.
“It is my fervent hope,” he said between gasps, “that he comes looking for me.”
McCoy frowned. “Are you kidding?” he exclaimed. “He’s not only an animal, he’s feral.”
Kirk wiped his mouth and handed back the flask, which McCoy stashed in his hip pocket.
“Listen, Bones, let me tell you something about Viktor Tikhonov,” he said. “He’s a damned good cadet, and if I ever get jumped by a squadron of cloaked Romulan birds of prey, Viktor’s the guy I want leading my security team.”
McCoy nodded. “But . . . ?” he asked.
“But he’s under the mistaken impression that he’d be a good starship commander,” said Kirk.
“He’s doing quite well in the ATT testing,” said McCoy.
“Yes, he is,” said Kirk. “He’s an excellent away-team leader. His tactical thinking is sharp. Better than mine, Bones. I admit it.”
McCoy smiled. “Again, but . . . ?”
“But that’s different from commanding a Constitution-class heavy cruiser with a crew of hundreds and a mandate to make peaceful contact with whoever or whatever you meet out there,” said Kirk gesturing toward the sky.
“Yes, that’s true,” said McCoy. “And I have no doubt you’re destined to be that starship commander, Jim, and maybe Viktor Tikhonov isn’t. But that doesn’t explain to me why you want him to come looking for you.”
Kirk folded his arms.
“So Viktor and I can have a little heart-to-heart talk about . . . the qualities of leadership,” he said.
McCoy laughed. “I don’t think that’s what will happen, my friend,” he said. “Not if he comes after you with boiling blood and a pair of chicken-scratched hands.”
“Bones,” said Kirk, leaning toward McCoy for emphasis, “I can take care of myself.”
“I know,” said McCoy. “But just in case . . . well”—he pulled out the flask again—“I suppose I’ve got your back, you crazy Iowa pig farmer.”
Kirk grinned. “We grew wheat,” he said.