The McRaven lurched once, and what felt like a wave of energy passed through those on board.
Uhura’s voice came over the comm, loud and clear. “McRaven. You’re out!”
“What about the other vessel?” Spock asked.
“Give it a few seconds,” Uhura said. “. . . Also clear.”
Spock left his seat at the science station and crossed to the viewscreen, as if it might show him what was happening on board the Ixtoldan century ship.
Kirk joined him there. “Spock?” he asked. The other ship was floating away from theirs, more distant with every second that passed.
“I sense the liberation of all those prisoners.”
“Prisoners?”
“They were sentenced to that ship. They did not ask to be, and many fought back, but the invaders were too strong, too technologically advanced, to be resisted. When they boarded that ship, the Ixtoldans believed that they would drift through space for a time, to live and procreate, and that someday they would find a new homeworld. Instead, they became trapped in the dimensional fold. No one could survive that for long, and they did not.
“Their fate, however, was not precisely death. Now they will die—are, perhaps, already dying as we watch. But they are doing so while soaring through space. This is, no doubt, a vastly preferable end. Aleshia told me that she looked forward to it, and so did the others.”
“And the ship itself,” Kirk added. “A living ship, thanks to its group-mind, and a ghost ship at the same time. Now it too can rest.”
“Indeed,” Spock said. “It is more than ready.” His right hand rose to his chest, just for an instant, and then he dropped it and turned away. Kirk figured that it was a salute, however unconscious. He brought his own hand to his chest, and held it there as he watched the Ixtoldans drift toward eternity.
• • •
“Torpedoes are ready, Captain,” Sulu reported.
“Thank you, Mister Sulu,” Kirk said. He was back in his chair on the Enterprise bridge, a seat he found considerably more comfortable than its counterpart on the McRaven.
“Locked on target.”
“Fire torpedo one.”
“Firing torpedo one.”
In a matter of seconds, Kirk saw the photon torpedo streaking through space toward the McRaven. After the landing party, including the fallen, had been beamed back aboard, Kirk had ordered the Enterprise moved a safe distance away. The McRaven was beyond salvage.
“Fire torpedo two,” Kirk ordered.
“Firing torpedo two.”
A second photon torpedo shot out from beneath the Enterprise’s saucer section. The first struck the McRaven’s secondary hull and a massive explosion bloomed. Instants later, the second torpedo joined it. The two blasts merged into one brilliant, breathtaking event, reminding Kirk that there could be beauty in destruction. Spock had earlier drawn his attention to the possibility of nobility in death.
Devastating wars on Earth had led, eventually, to peace, hope, and with first contact, the uniting of the planet in a spirit of optimism. That spirit had created Starfleet, which sent ships out to explore the limitless depths of space. Watching as a ball of fierce, hot energy engulfed the McRaven, Kirk was reminded that death was as much a part of life as birth and everything in between. Fragments of the ship spewed in every direction, and they would float forever in space, but within seconds the bulk of the ship had been vaporized, and the visual aspect of the explosion was sucked back into itself and then vanished.
“I hate to see any Starfleet vessel end up like that,” Sulu said. “Especially at my hands.”
Kirk got up and placed a hand on the helmsman’s shoulder. “It was good that she had you to speed her along.”
Sulu offered a grateful smile. Straightening his dress uniform, the captain said, “Duty calls. I’ve got to get down to the transporter room, to see our guests off.”
• • •
Minister Chan’ya tried to present a proud aspect, but Kirk could tell she was under incredible stress. He recognized that the lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth had grown deeper over the past few days. Her skin was paler than he had ever seen it, and she stood with her shoulders slightly hunched, as though she had given up all hope of ever being as tall as some in her retinue.
“You’ll be beamed to the Ton’bey now,” Kirk told her. They were already in place on the transporter platform, waiting for the captain’s arrival. “I know you understand that Ixtolde’s application for Federation membership will be denied. We had hoped that Ixtolde was ready to join; plainly that was not the case.”
“We regret our actions,” Chan’ya said. “And our deceptions, however slight. We were in a precarious ethical position, and we should have made better choices. Your hospitality, Captain Kirk, is appreciated.”
One of her companions grunted at that, and made a sour face. Kirk didn’t think it was worth commenting on.
“Do you know what’s in store for you?” Kirk asked. “When you get home?”
“Some form of punishment, we imagine,” Chan’ya said. “What form it will take, we know not. Shame, at best. Perhaps banishment. Perhaps something more severe.”
“But you were only playing the cards others dealt,” Kirk said. “That might be an Earth-centric reference, but—”
“We understand the metaphor, Captain. It is true that we did not make the original decisions that led us to this point. Generations before us did, and what has occurred cannot be changed. Nonetheless, the punishment will be what it is determined to be, and it will come down hardest upon us. And the command staff of the Ton’bey.”
“Have you considered not going home? If the captain and crew are in for discipline, too, over something that was really beyond their control . . .”
Chan’ya caught the eye of someone else in her party, the one he thought was Keneseth. Her skin turned a little more golden, and something that might have been a smile passed between them. “Never,” she said. “The duty of Ixtoldans is to Ixtolde.”
“Of course,” Kirk said. “Just thought I’d mention it.”
“Well and good. We thank you, Captain. And now, we must take our leave.”
Kirk nodded to the transporter tech, who worked the controls. The Ixtoldans glimmered, glittered, and were gone.
• • •
Happy to be back on his own ship, secure in more or less predictable reality, Kirk decided to take his time getting back to the bridge. The turbolift could get him there in seconds, but he wanted to walk her decks.
On the way, he saw Miranda Tikolo and Stanley Vandella, deep in conversation. As he grew closer, the conversation ended with a surprisingly chaste hug. Vandella nodded to Kirk and disappeared down the corridor, and Tikolo waited for him to reach her.
“Are you two . . . ?” he began.
“Oh, no. No, I’m afraid that’s over,” she said. “I couldn’t possibly be any good to anybody in a romantic way. Not right now. Not after . . . everything.”
The captain wondered if she meant Paul O’Meara’s death, which McCoy had told Tikolo about once she was safely on board the Enterprise and fully recovered from the stun. She was a young lady with a very strong personality.
“That might be for the best.” He moved to walk away, but she stopped him.
“Sir,” she said, “I was just about to go looking for you.”
Kirk turned toward her again. “Here I am.”
“I . . . I need to resign my commission,” Tikolo said. “I am so grateful that you offered me a position on your ship. I was made to feel welcomed . . . and worthwhile. But obviously I’m just not ready. I need to work through a lot of issues.”
“You can’t do that aboard the Enterprise?”
“No, sir. I mean, I don’t ever want to be a danger to anybody again. Until I can trust myself, I can’t ask anyone else to trust me.”
“If that’s what you want,” Kirk said.
“It is, sir. You see, Nurse Chapel told me something about myse
lf I didn’t even know. It’s . . . it’s pretty horrible. But at the same time, it helps explain a lot. I’m not saying that I’m not responsible for my own decisions, my own actions. I am. But given what I’ve been through, it’s possible that I didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter, either. The decisions I make are determined by the person that I am, and that person is, in a lot of ways, a mess.”
Kirk nodded. He had been briefed on Tikolo’s childhood trauma, and he was sure it had come as a shock to her. “When you are ready,” he said, “come back. You’ll always have a berth here.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“You’re a fine officer, and you’ll be a better one. I’d rather have you on my crew than hear about your exploits on behalf of some other starship.”
“I will request your ship,” she said. “Definitely.”
“Good,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready. There’s plenty of space yet to be explored, and the Enterprise will be here for you. In the meantime . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“If you’re looking for a therapeutic activity, I can make a recommendation.”
She pressed her hands together in front of her chest. “Really?” Tikolo asked. “What is it?”
“Back on Earth, in rural Idaho,” he began, “there are these cattle drives . . .”
Acknowledgments
Writing is a solitary profession, but somehow by the time a novel is finished there are many hands involved, whether they know it or not. Some of those who helped make this one a reality are editors Margaret Clark and Ed Schlesinger, my agent Howard Morhaim and his assistant, Alice Speilburg. For inspiration and information I look to the warm and welcoming community of Star Trek writers, editors, and fans present and past, who let me through the door again (including, but by no means limited to, Greg Cox, Keith DeCandido, John Ordover, David George, Dayton Ward, Geoffrey Thorne, Marco Palmieri, Kevin Dilmore, and so many more). Marcy Rockwell helped keep me (arguably) sane as I worked on it during a difficult summer. Dianne Larson kept my website sane. And as always, Maryelizabeth Hart, Holly Mariotte, and David Mariotte remain the foundation of everything. Thanks to all of you.
About the Author
Jeff Mariotte is the author of more than forty-five novels, including the supernatural thrillers Season of the Wolf, River Runs Red, Missing White Girl, and Cold Black Hearts, the thriller The Devil’s Bait, the horror epic The Slab, the Dark Vengeance teen horror quartet, and others, as well as dozens of comic books, notably Desperadoes and Zombie Cop. He has written books, stories, and comics set in beloved fictional universes, including those of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel, CSI and CSI: Miami, The Shield, Criminal Minds, Conan, Superman, Spider-Man, Hellraiser, and many more, and is a two-time winner of the Scribe Award presented by the International Association of Media Tie-in Writers. He’s a co-owner of the specialty bookstore Mysterious Galaxy in San Diego, and lives in southeastern Arizona on the Flying M Ranch. Please visit him at www.jeffmariotte.com or http://www.facebook.com/JeffreyJMariotte.
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ISBN 978-1-4767-0282-7
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The Folded World Page 20