This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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For Kimberly
A hope for a world
where there'll always be
some who are willing to
tilt at windmills
And in memory of
Harry Chapin
Who started to make
that hope a reality
Author’s Notes
Quite a bit has happened in the world of Star Trek since I began writing this novel. The major event, of course, was Star Trek: The Motion Picture. After all the year of anticipation, any movie would have been hardpressed to live up to our expectations. If ST: TMP fell short in some areas, it also excelled in others. (I’ll never forget the feeling of delight shared with Kirk when he—and we—saw the new Enterprise for the first time, cradled in its drydock.)
Critics didn’t like the movie much—but it still went on to become one of the biggest-grossing movies in Hollywood history. It certainly wasn’t perfect, and fan enthusiasm has declined some since then, but the essence of what made us love Star Trek before is still there.
That thought hit me recently while watching a rare prime-time rerun. There’s something about wee-morning or late-afternoon air times that demeans the repeats of great old TV series. On this night, however, “The Ultimate Computer” (one of my favorites) had a renewed glory, riding head-to-head with network competition, just like the old days. And it didn’t seem like a fourteen-year-old rerun. The writing and acting, the look and feel of the show were as fresh and crisp and real as any series currently on the air.
And that’s why Star Trek has survived—and why it will continue to survive. Gene Roddenberry did a wonderful job of creation, and we have done a wonderful job of being loyal, creative, and critical fans. We managed to keep Star Trek alive through the years of struggling to bring it back, and through whatever disappointments the movie or any of the other books may have caused.
It’s important to remember that every piece of Star Trek is just that—a part of a whole—and some parts are bound to be better than others. But none of the lesser stories or TV episodes can diminish the sterling quality of the good ones.
The sum of Star Trek’s parts is and always will be impressive. It has touched too many peoples lives in too many important ways to be any less. Star Trek has earned its niche of honor in entertainment and science-fiction history. Be proud that you’re a fan.
I owe a lot to Gene Roddenberry. Though I’ve only met him once (at a convention in Washington, D.C., where he graciously bought me a drink), in many ways, he’s changed my life.
After all, it was his TV series that made me think about being a writer (you know the show—the one with the guy with the pointed ears).
Some random memories. . . .When I used to rush to watch the reruns every night during high school, my mother would warn: “The world doesn’t revolve around Star Trek.” Not the whole world, Mom, but some of it.
On Saturday morning, September 7, 1974, it did-when the second animated season kicked off with “The Pirates of Orion” and thirty people and one dog crammed into my college dorm room to watch, and everyone applauded (except the dog) when the screen flashed “Written by . . . ”
That turned out to be a great way to impress a girl on a first date the night before: “Gee, if you’re not doing anything tomorrow morning,” I said shyly, “would you like to come over and watch my TV show?” That really happened.
Since then, I’ve been a guest at more than a dozen Star Trek conventions, talked at libraries and schools, and had a lot of fun. (I’m still available for all these things. . . .)
I’ve gotten to meet many of Star Trek’s cast members, found out they’re real people with ups and downs, and marveled at the way they can patiently and consistently charm hordes of eager fans.
Most of all, I’ve made so many friends through Star Trek, many of whom also want to be writers. There’s been a lot of mutual encouragement along the way.
More than a few people deserve special thanks. I wish I could mention them all, but here are some:
The Febcon and August Party Committees, for making me feel at home and bringing an outsider in; to Alina Chu and Bob Greenberger, for the “fan club” and friendship (and Bob’s editorial help); to Bonnie MacRitchie, for helpful comment when this was just a wee, scribbled outline; to Frank Pellegrino, whose freshly hatched Honda gave its back bumper that I might shop for shirts in Virginia when all mine were left in New York; to Lynne Perry and the New York Diabetes Association, for the days off to write all this; to Allan Asherman, for commiseration; and Linda Deneroff for defending the cause of the semi-colon . . .
. . . Also to David Gerrold, for being a buddy and treating me like a real writer, and for contributing this book’s introduction; to my former apartment mate, Joel Pineles, whose slight midriff bulge (he is now svelte) suggested Chekov’s dilemma herein; to T. J. Burnside, for being an extra-special friend; to Cindi Casby, for love and encouragement even when I didn’t deserve them . . .
. . . And to my parents, who didn’t pack me off to law or medical school Not that there’s anything wrong with being a doctor or a lawyer, but I’d rather be a writer. Hope you’re not disappointed, Mom and Dad.
Last, I’d like to note that this is really for all the fellow-fans I’ve met, for the ones who’ve told me what they liked or didn’t like about past Star Trek novels and stories. I hope you all enjoy this one—let me know by writing to me c/o Pocket Books Inc., 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020.
HOWARD WEINSTEIN
January, 1981
Introduction
I told Howard that he would have been better off if he had had his mother write this introduction. She would have told you what a fine boy he is, intelligent, bright, alert, clean, respectful of his parents, and a perfect catch for some nice young Jewish girl. And she would have been able to say it a with a straight face.
Me, the best I can tell you is that Howard Weinstein is a credit to his species. Whatever that is.
I think my first realization that Howard Weinstein was a writer to be reckoned with occurred at the banquet of a Star Trek convention, when the Howard Weinstein monks, a group of neo-Hare Krishna worshipers, came marching into the room, all dressed in white robes (bedsheets, I think), threading their way through the tables of astonished banqueteers, chanting a strangely compelling mantra—the rhythm of which was frequently punctuated by the sound of the worshipers slapping themselves in the forehead with a Howard Weinstein book. It was at that moment I wished that Howard Weinstein had authored War and Peace.
I am not making this up.
Howard Wei
ntein was born on September 16, 1954. This is exactly two hundred and sixty-two years (to the day) after eighty-year-old Giles Corey, charged with witchcraft, was crushed to death in Salem, Massachusetts. I do not suggest that there is any connection between these two event. The facts speak for themselves. Also on September 16 (but of unknown year), Klaatu and Gort arrived/will arive in Washington, D.C. (Had Howard Weinstein been considerate enough to be born two days earlier, I could have noted that it was exactly two years to the day before the first successful prefrontal lobotomy was performed, and done all kinds of wonderful extrapolations on that particular coincidence. As it is, however, there is nothing particularly distinguished about Howard Weinstein’s birth, its circumstances, or the day on which it occurred. Which makes it all that much harder to demonstrate the portents and signs that herald his arrival as a serious writer in science fiction.)
Howard—Howie, to those of us who know and love him—graduated with a BA in communications from the University of Connecticut in 1975. All historical records of him from the time between his birth and his graduation have been lost (or burned) and there is no proof at all that he really exists, or that the person currently pretending to be Howard Weinstein actually is the one and the same infant who was assigned the name some twenty-one years earlier. For all we know, the current Howard Weinstein is an impostor. A doppelgänger. Perhaps even . . . a clone. (And if so, of whom? The real Howard Weinstein perhaps? Where is the real Howard Weinstein? Who is covering up?)
This pseudo-Howard person claims that he became hooked on Star Trek during its first season and fine-tuned his fannish instincts when the show went into reruns in September of 1969. (At that time he was fifteen years old. For those of you who think that all science-fiction writers are one step removed from gods, let me reassure you that this is not always the case. I have it on the best authority that Howard Weinstein—or the person pretending to be him—was just as much a painfully shy, spoiled-brat, four-eyed little acne-pocked bookworm as the rest of us were when we were fifteen. Perhaps even more so. That he later grew out of it is a source of inspiration for all humanity. Have hope. Everybody was fifteen once; but you don’t have to be fifteen forever.)
Because there were no more new Star Trek stories being written for television, he began writing his own.
For fun.
Let me digress a moment.
Many of those who are writing Star Trek novels today started out writing their own Star Trek stories for fun, because there were no more Star Trek stories being written for television. Kathleen Sky, Sondra Marshak, Myrna Culbreath, and so on.
These people would all be considered a little . . . well, eccentric, were it not for the fact that there are obviously millions of other people who share their desire for more Star Trek stories. (It’s a good guess that you are one of those persons. If not, what are you doing reading this book?)
In 1969, Star Trek was one of the few moments of hope in the American experience. The rest of it seemed to be drug overdoses, riots, demonstrations, clumsy politics, acts of terrorism, mass murders, tear gas, napalm, and war.
That Star Trek continues to be as popular today as it was ten years ago (before we solved all of those problems, remember?) is an indicator that there is always a market for hope.
And that is why Star Trek—as a dream—is still going strong today.
If nothing else, Star Trek is about hope. Hope for the future. Hope for ourselves, for our nation, for our world, for our dreams. Writing Star Trek stories is a small part of that hope. It’s not just a dream of your favorite TV series; it’s a dream of humanity among the stars, willfully choosing to be masters of our own destinies, captains of our own fates.
Sometimes you have to be a little bit crazy—uh, eccentric—to hope in the face of massive adversity.
I noted above that sometimes science-fiction writers—because of their aura of expertise about the future—seem as gods. Not bloody likely. At best we are a lesser breed of hero, because we are the men and women who listen to the future and report back what we hear.
To be heroic is to dare to be different. Very often, the hero is a social illiterate. If he were well-integrated into his culture, he would be content; he would have no need to be a hero. That he is not content, that he does not fit in, that he does not accept the circumstance of today, mandates that he look to tomorrow.
Dreamers may be misfits, but we are proud misfits.
Dreams are our most important natural resource. They are the source of hope.
End of digression. Now I can talk about Howard Weinstein again.
Howard had a dream.
And what distinguishes each of us is the size of our dreams.
Howard was co-editor of his high-school SF magazine, called Probe. He printed his original Star Trek short story in it, a piece called “The Pirates of Orion.” Two years later, in 1973, NBC decided to try Star Trek as an animated revival, so Howard rewrote “Pirates” as a script, having been hooked on the idea of scriptwriting after reading The Making of Star Trek way back in 1969. After a rather roundabout, confused journey that saw the manuscript travel to his agent, to Filmation with D. C. Fontana’s name on the envelope (then associate producer of the animated series), to D. C. Fontana, who was no longer with the show by then, who returned it unopened to his agent, who sent it back to Howard and instructed him to mail it to Norm Prescott at Filmation if he read that the show was renewed for a second season, in which case they would then be interested in actually reading it . . . which it was, and he did, and they did, and finally after he rewrote the ending several times (par for the television course), they bought it and “The Pirates of Orion” was the opening episode of the second season, which Howard is quick to point out is the season the show won the Emmy.
One long run-on sentence later, Howard Weinstein—or whoever he really is—had become a Star Trek TV writer at the age of nineteen, and as far as anyone has yet determined, he was the youngest person ever to write for the show—taking the title away from yours truly, who had previously held that distinction for having sold “The Trouble with Tribbles” at the wizened age of twenty-three.
I will pass over some of the details of Howard Weinstein’s and my friendship, they being of interest only to the morbidly curious. However, I should note that it is a sign of my devotion to Howard (at least, I think it’s Howard. Howard, is that you?) that I would interrupt my own writing schedule to take the time to tell you what a marvelous person he is. Suffice it to say that I like him anyway.
This novel that you are holding, The Covenant of the Crown, is Howard Weinstein’s first novel. (Those monks who were hitting themselves in the forehead with it were obviously time travelers visiting from the future, a sure sign that Howard Weinstein is destined for greater triumphs in the years to come else why bother?) Howard believes that this publication makes him the only writer from either the original or the animated TV series versions of Star Trek to also write a Star Trek novel, certainly the youngest to accomplish both. The first part of that distinction, he will be able to claim only until I can finish my Star Trek novel (untitled at this writing) and get it turned in.* The second part, he will undoubtedly keep.
Read. Enjoy. Tell friends.
DAVID GERROLD
Chapter One
“It’s gray, Jim,” said Dr. Leonard McCoy. The ship’s surgeon stood before the mirror on his office wall, scratching through his thatch of hair as if searching for the cause of some mysterious medical condition.
It was Captain James Kirk’s first inkling that the birthday party might be a major mistake.
At times, Kirk had the feeling the whole universe was aligned against him. There were the big things, like wars or supernovas, events so obviously out of his control he couldn’t take them personally. But when the little plans, best-laid as they might be, also went astray, he had to wonder what he’d done to deserve his fate.
In the grand order of history, his medical officer’s birthday might not mean much, but Kirk wa
nted it to be special. After all, McCoy had no better friend in the galaxy, so the captain was determined not to let the event pass unhonored.
Until he discovered that McCoy himself wanted it to pass not only unhonored, but totally unnoticed.
“Completely gray,” McCoy repeated, glowering.
“Oh, come on, Bones. A little silver around the temples is hardly completely gray,” Kirk said, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he stood behind McCoy.
McCoy glared at the captain’s reflection over his shoulder. “It’s not funny, Jim. I’m turning ancient and you’re in hysterics.”
“You’re exaggerating just a bit.”
“That,” said McCoy tartly, “is also a sign of old age.”
His mood failed to improve as he and Kirk stepped out of the turbolift near one of the ship’s messes.
“Do you realize how long it’s been since anyone’s called me ‘Lenny’ . . . or ‘son’?”
“Bones, do you really miss being called ‘son’?”
“No. I hated it when I was a kid,” McCoy said, pausing as a pretty yeoman came out of the messroom. She smiled at them and disappeared around the curving coridor. “But it was a whole lot nicer when two-thirds of the ladies on board weren’t young enough to be my daughters. There’s only one solution—swear off birthdays altogether. Just ignore them.”
Oops, Kirk thought as they entered to eat. Should he scrap the birthday plans? The invitations he’d had posted with the duty notices, appearing on everyone’s cabin computer screen but McCoy’s . . . the food he’d ordered specially programmed, with threats against anyone who might let the secret slip. . . . Cancel a potentially great surprise party just because the man whose birthday it was wanted no part of it?
THE COVENANT OF THE CROWN Page 1