by Diane Carey
He thought he was helping the moment, but the captain’s voice told him there wasn’t any way to cotton-dab the sensation of dread they both had.
“Alma Roth’s not a kid, Jim,” he said. “She’s thirty-six . . . thirty-seven, by now, isn’t she?”
“A kid,” the captain sighed. “They’re all kids. All the midshipmen and ensigns who signed on my ships and let me risk their lives for them . . . they’re all my kids.”
McCoy grunted. “Maybe you’ve gotta be young to let somebody else make decisions for you. Beats me. It’s not like I remember after all these years. Like you said, Jim, things change. Styles change . . . starships change.”
“What is it you want, Bones?” Kirk said. “Want to hear me say I’m jealous of another breed of ship? All right . . . I’m jealous. I wish Roth was back on the engineering deck below just like she was for ten of those thirty-seven years, helping us get through this flushback. She gave me years of devoted service with no questions, and when she asked for a recommendation to command school, I gave her one. How many of those make it to a starship command? Two percent? Three? But she had the strong recommendation of a starship commander. I may have put more on her than she could carry. Now she’s out there, in the middle of whatever’s happening. Probably dead, along with four hundred and ninety other young crewmen. How many were mine, Bones? How many did I train to go out there and take these wild risks?”
McCoy squirmed self-consciously. “Didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject, Jim.”
“It’s not a sore subject,” Kirk said. “You know I don’t believe in wishes. But she’s out there, and her crew, and her ship, maybe in a million pieces, and that’s what I hate.”
His tone turned bitter, grinding, and his eyes grew harder. He glared at the screen, because he couldn’t give another person this look that had a captain’s despise at its core.
“They’re telling me the Enterprise and the entire Constitution-class of starship is going to be decommissioned, eclipsed by a new breed of ship, new technology, new everything. They’re saying skis can replace a toboggan. Or the other way around, for that matter. Depends on prevailing conditions. On who’s traveling. And what the mission is. Every design of ship has a unique purpose, and a balance of ability all to itself.”
McCoy groaned in some kind of agreement. “But you know as well as I do the Federation’s dazzled by all the labs and science and fancy analytical gear on those big ships. They’ve got exploration on their minds, and not much else. I don’t think they’re remembering how flexible a starship needs to be these days. Some people don’t want to face the facts.”
“Federation delegates haven’t been out in rough seas like we have, Bones,” Kirk agreed. “Damned few people see the back alleys of space. It took Starfleet to go out and get in the dirt. We were cavalry. We went out first.”
The doctor tried to conjure something to say out of his black bag of psychological potions, but he was too set back by the captain’s use of past tense. Went. Were.
Kirk broiled that hard glare of his at the panorama of passing space before them. He looked at nothing else.
“Not only Roth, but all the other people aboard that ship who started out on the Enterprise,” he said. “I owe them.”
“I think they owe you,” McCoy corrected.
Kirk tucked his lower lip and shook his head. “That’s not the way a captain sees it. When crewmen give their youths to a commander and a ship, they’re owed something back. Even if it happens later. No matter where it happens,” he added, “or how much later.”
Brow puckering with curiosity now, McCoy determined to fill in the holes that were still gaping for him.
“Do you know something about this place?” he asked. “I’ve never heard of Farmon.”
Kirk glanced at him, annoyed, then away again. “Faramond.”
“Jim, can’t you take a hint? I’ve been inside kicking distance of you for twenty-five years and I’ve never heard of this place. If I had to testify, I’d say you’ve never been there.”
“I never have been,” Kirk said.
Yet, his old friend could read that it wasn’t just evasion. It was some tainted sentiment at work. A memory of a burn.
“Never quite made it,” the captain added.
“Okay . . . why not?” McCoy prodded. “What got in the way?”
In spite of the storm cones fluttering in their heads, the alarms and whistles and horns going off all over the ship that somehow they could hear right through the soundproof decks—because their years here had better senses than their ears did—both men had their minds on something else entirely.
It shone in the captain’s hazel eyes . . . resentment of space, yet the inability to stay away from it. They had both been drawn to the fire. They had given up everything for it. Their youth. A chance for anchorage. Family. Home. Children.
Magnetism of space. Adventure always one light-year beyond wherever they stopped. Just one more light-year. Just one more after that.
The captain parted his lips and spoke to the flowing distance. “I was busy,” he said, “finding out I wasn’t perfect.”
SEVEN
“Well, George? How did you like seeing the ship with all her decals and insignia and emblems in place? Her name on her bow, her lights encoded—”
“Great. Fine.”
George tried to knuckle away a flop of his argumentative sienna shag as it fell in his face, but it wouldn’t go. He felt his facial features stiff as rock beneath it. That was all he needed. To stalk around the Enterprise looking like a chip that fell off Mount Rushmore . . .
“Sorry,” he said as they turned the corridor corner toward the turbolift.
“Not at all,” Robert brushed off.
George stepped aside to let the captain board the turbolift first. “Where’s the brat?”
“I believe Drake is showing him around engineering just to keep him busy. They’ll be meeting us on the bridge.” As the lift door gushed closed, Robert asked again, “Well? You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?” George groused. “Oh—the ship. She looks different, Robert, real different. Gorgeous . . . kinda scary.”
“Really? How do you mean?”
“I don’t know . . . pretty, but . . . she’s got authority now. She’s got all that Starfleet makeup on her hull now, all those red streaks and blue things, and all those lights shining, and her name right out there, and her construction contract number . . . you know, I didn’t remember her being so . . . so goddamned big.”
Robert chuckled. “You were right about letting Jimmy get a look at her in spacedock. A ship doesn’t look quite the same from inside, does it? A wise sailor,” he said, fanning his arms, “will one time stand upon the shore and watch his ship sail by, that he shall from then on appreciate not being left behind.” He grinned and added, “Eh?”
George gave him a little grimace. “Who’s that? Melville? Or C. S. Forrester?”
“It’s me!” Robert complained. “Can’t I be profound now and again?”
“Hell, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re still alive. Gotta be dead to be profound.”
“You’re unchivalrous, George.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“All that savage Celtic blood in you. Same color as your hair. Good thing Jimmy looks like his mother.”
“Mmm,” George grunted. “He’s still got the blood though. That’s the problem. Winona gave all her nice pink civilized blood to Sam.”
“Yes, how is Sam?” Robert asked affably.
“Qualified for the Science Academy in biosciences. Can you believe that? I can’t even spell it.”
“Same girlfriend?”
“Sure, same one. All the way through high school, two years of college, swears he’s going to marry her after they both graduate. What I wouldn’t give to see some of that consistency in Jimmy. Every week, a new scheme and a new girl.”
“Ah, well,” Robert si
ghed, “that’s because he’s—”
“A Casanova. I know, I know.”
“No, George, no.” Smiling and using that twinkle he kept in his eyes for just such moments, Robert leaned back against the lift wall and gave him one of those looks that made people think of him as a kindly uncle. “Not one of those at all.”
“Okay. Don Juan.”
“Oh, George, you’re missing my point.”
“What point? That my son’s a wolf? I don’t think he’s seen me and Winn together enough in his life, Robert. She and I were better off apart, but I never thought—” Unexpected pain came into George’s expression, and he sighed in a disturbed way. “I guess it’s one of the ways I . . . butchered my family life.”
“George,” Robert uttered with scolding sympathy. “You’re a bit clumsy at being a parent, but you want to catch the boy before he goes over the side.”
“Can you blame me?” George tried to keep control, but his voice rippled. He sighed to cover it. “In space one time, and that one time he witnessed a mass . . . mass . . . ”
“Execution,” Robert assisted, “by a man who thought thousands of lives could be better run from a central power. The lesson was well taken by the Federation, at very least. We saw in a painful manner that no power at the top can do better than thousands of individuals all scrambling and deciding and trying and sweating for themselves, not even in a situation as desperate as Tarsus Four that day. Better to starve with a bit of hope than be marched off and slaughtered in the name of nobility.”
Robert paused, stuck his hands into his sweater pockets, then pushed them out and poked along, gazing at his feet as though picking his way across cobblestones.
“Kodos the Executioner . . . they, um, never found him, did they?”
“No,” George choked. “I’d like to find the bastard—what he put my family through, and me through . . . wondering if my wife and sons would be found among the survivors or among the charred corpses—” He crushed his eyes shut and winced. “Nobody—nobody—should decide what somebody else’s sacrifice is going to be! Dammit, I wasn’t going to think about this—”
“Didn’t mean to fan an old flame, George, but you can’t beat some things down.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I don’t want to step out onto the bridge, talking about this.”
“All right, as you wish.”
The lift eased to a stop and the doors brushed open, and Robert stepped out first, but not before nipping, “We’ll talk about it later.”
George lingered in the lift until he gained control over his scowl of response. He was always surprised by that little bird of persistence nesting under the thatch in Robert April’s country cottage. It inevitably came out and flitted by him at moments when he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
The lift’s red doors almost closed again. The sound shook George out of his thoughts, and he jumped forward. The doors shot open again with a hissing automatic apology for almost closing on him.
Before him, Robert paused. “What’s burning?”
Someone from the port side said, “We’ve got a bad circuit here, sir. Electrical problems with one of the overrides. Some dock turkey misconnected it.”
Robert immediately stepped off in that direction.
Left alone in the “visitors’ section,” the porch in front of the turbolift, George drew a deep breath. It came out shuddering.
The bridge of the Enterprise. A place with a real, audible, tangible heartbeat. A living, breathing place that was the envy and desire of every cadet. The first of its kind.
Oh, there were other starships on the move out in space these days, or having their hulls laid even now, but this was the first. There wouldn’t ever be another first starship Enterprise. There would never be another ship whose diagnostic panels pulsed back to the earliest date of starships, and at some point this ship would be known as the oldest of her kind. Someday . . . she’d be history.
Today she was the future. She seemed to know it too. Her diagnostics and subsystems monitors twittered and chirped and pulsed in beautiful but seemingly senseless patterns, like jungle birds singing. Little squares of red and blue, white and yellow lights and colored bands on black backgrounds patched the circle of black computer control boards all the way around the middle of the bridge in a big headband, flashing in happy nonsynchrony. Each pattern was reporting from some remote part of the ship, blinking diligently and waiting to be needed. Above them, mounted on the blue matte walls under soft ceiling lights, were displayed sectors of the known galaxy, known star systems and nebulae, anomalies and gas giants, maps and charts, prettier than any art.
There were shadows too. The lights here were deliberately subdued to allow for shadows. Shadows of overhanging panels, shadows of chairs, shadows of people standing, turning, walking. Life-forms who grew up on worlds with trees and mountains liked shadows, liked a sense of depth, a memory of sunrise and sunset. The starship’s designers hadn’t ignored that. Because of the shadows, the bridge was a warm place that allowed for retreat and thought.
George figured there would have to be a lot of thought going on here over the next few decades. A lot of decisions would be made here, about many lives, and it was fitting that the place where those decisions happened should remind people about life. Shadows and soft lights could do that. The bridge did that.
As he watched Robert move around, George gazed at the luminous arena, the braintrust of the starship, and all the memories of trouble stirred up by this ship came flapping back at him. The ship’s an example of how machines don’t need humans anymore. It’s too powerful. It’s a big weapon that flies. It’s a big computer that thinks. It’s a flying bomb. It’s a sign of mankind writing himself out. The wrong people will get their hands on it, it’s too big to handle, it’s going to get out of control, it can kill a whole planet on a whim, humanity’s a kid and kids can’t handle anything with an impact over two years, gripe, gripe, doom, doom, doom.
Hadn’t happened. None of it. The ship had been out on a few trial stressing runs for spaceworthiness, and while the designers were at it, they’d executed a few darn nice missions and proven that humanity could make a wise decision, in fact a lot of wise decisions, and perfectly well understood the future impact of things present.
But today George wasn’t concerned about the future of humanity. He was concerned only with the future of one boy on the edge. He shook all the memories out of his head and tried to focus.
The bridge had more people on it than the last time George was here—one, two, three—helm, science station, navigation, engineering, two guys at tactical, a girl up to both armpits in an access on the floor, and over there just a pair of legs sticking out of a hatch under the impulse propulsion systems console. Except for one man picking at the helm station, George didn’t recognize any of these people at all.
They all looked so young. . . .
Suddenly he became aware of how long five years could be.
He stayed on the back of the quarterdeck, overwhelmed by his thoughts, watching Robert step down the two little stairs to the command deck. The captain caressed the parrot-red bridge rail, then the black and gray command chair. He looked like a visiting dignitary, his ivory sweater still hiding most of his command uniform.
Somehow it was comforting to see him down there.
Another deep breath let George inhale the crisp electrical smell, the scent of people at work, and he started to relax. In its way, it was a good smell. The smell of correction, accomplishment.
He hadn’t expected to come back here. He’d been her first officer for a couple of minutes, but knew it was temporary and never anticipated coming back. He hadn’t been ready to be second in command of a ship like this back then, and he knew he still wasn’t—
A terrible thought almost knocked him over. He unclenched his fists, leaned forward on the red rail, and crouched to speak to Robert without anybody else hearing.
“Rob—Captain!” he snarled, just in
case anybody did hear.
Robert turned, brows up. “Yes, George?”
“You haven’t—I mean, you don’t expect me to—I mean . . . have you got a first officer?”
“Oh,” Robert said, and gave him a reassuring nod. “Yes, we have a wonderful first officer. You’ll like her.” He winked conspiratorially. “Don’t worry. You’re not on that hook this time.”
“Who is it?”
“You don’t know her. She’s been out on policing missions between Federation colonies. You know, I thought she was here—” He glanced around the bridge, then finally addressed one of the men working at tactical. “Bill? Excuse me.”
The larger of the two turned. “Sir?”
“Where’s Lorna?”
“I’m under here, sir,” a voice called from the floor. One of the feet sticking out of the impulse propulsion hatch rose and wagged.
Robert bent down and asked, “Getting the ship all natty and trim, are you?”
“Some last-minute trouble with the deuterium flow to one of the reactor chambers. We’ve almost got it, sir.”
“Why are you in the hole instead of having one of the impulse engineers go down there?”
The engineers on the deck looked around guiltily, but the voice in the hole said, “Happened to be here, is all.”
“I see,” Robert droned. “I have someone for you to meet.”
“Sorry, can’t hear you.”
“I have someone here I’d like you to meet!”
“Oh—”
“George, that’s First Officer Lorna Simon down there. Lorna, Commander George Kirk.”
The foot wagged again and a voice croaked, “How are ya?”
“I’m,” George called from the back, “just great. You?”
“Arthritis. And I can barely breathe down here—”
Robert smiled and stood up again. “George, meet the rest of the officer complement and the bridge crew. Bill Thorvaldsen and Larry Marvick beside you at engineering subsystems, our chief impulse engineer and chief warp drive engineer, respectively. And you remember Carlos Florida, our helmsman since the beginning and still holding on. Carlos, look who’s back.”