Allegiance in Exile

by David R. George III

  At last, the captain’s attention diverted from the main viewscreen. He spun his head quickly toward McCoy. “Am I sure, Doctor?” he asked, his voice loud enough for the entire bridge crew to hear. “Those installations down there attacked both the Enterprise and our landing parties down on the surface. We lost seven of our people, three of our shuttlecraft, and we came perilously close to suffering the loss of this ship.”

  “But we don’t know what those facilities were meant to protect,” McCoy said. “Perhaps by destroying them, we’re leaving somebody vulnerable.”

  “Perhaps,” the captain agreed. “But we’ve taken three full days to search for any living beings on the planet, and we haven’t found anybody. I’m unwilling to risk the possibility of any other passing vessels being attacked in the way that we were.”

  “Surely there must be other remedies,” McCoy said. “Marker buoys, general alerts—”

  “Doctor,” Kirk said loudly, the single word like an unexpected phaser blast. The captain seemed to gather himself before continuing, and when he did, he spoke again in a normal tone. “Bones, I’ve considered the arguments you’re making,” he said. “I don’t have a desire to be out here on the frontier and firing our phasers at any life-forms we meet, or at the things that they’ve built. But we were attacked without provocation or explanation, and Enterprise crew members lost their lives.”

  McCoy dreaded asking the question that rose in his mind, but felt that he had to do so. “This isn’t about vengeance, is it?”

  Rather than angering the captain, it somehow managed to evoke a close-lipped smile from him. “No, it’s not about vengeance,” he said. “It’s about having the ability to prevent what happened to us from happening to some other ship and crew. And you’re right, we could take other steps. But marker buoys can be destroyed, and alerts can go unheeded or fail to reach the people they’re meant to save.” Kirk looked back at the main viewscreen. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want retribution for the people taken from us. I’m human. But I’m not an officer of the law, or a jury, or a judge; I’m an explorer. And my sole aim here is to ensure as best I can the security of other explorers who pass this way.”

  “That’s a reasonable explanation, Captain,” McCoy said gently. “I’m sorry for questioning your decision.”

  Kirk’s lips parted as he smiled again. “No, you’re not, Bones,” he said. “You’re aboard this ship so that you can question my decisions. I trust you to do that. I need you to do that.”

  “Yes, sir,” McCoy said, pleased at the turn the conversation had taken. He took pride in providing the captain with what he needed to ably lead the crew: a sounding board, a shoulder to lean on, a confidant, a devil’s advocate, and a source of honest opposition when necessary. McCoy also felt his life richer for having Jim Kirk as his closest friend.

  The boatswain’s whistle sounded, followed by a female voice. “Transporter room to bridge. This is Ensign Fessey.”

  Kirk leaned to his right and pressed the button on the arm of his command chair to activate his intercom. “Bridge here,” he said. “Go ahead, Ensign.”

  “Captain, all personnel have beamed back up to the ship,” Fessey said. “All preparations have been made, and control of the operation has been turned over to the weapons subpanel.”

  “Lieutenant Rahda?” Kirk asked, looking to the officer at the helm. Since his ordeal on the planet, Sulu had yet to return to duty. McCoy had diagnosed the lieutenant with a dislocated shoulder, an intracerebral hemorrhage, and a grade-two concussion. The doctor had reset Sulu’s shoulder and surgically repaired the bleeding in his brain, but his full recovery from the trauma to his head would require rest and time.

  “Transfer of control confirmed, Captain,” Rahda said.

  Into the intercom, Kirk said, “We’re all set here, Ensign. Kirk out.” He thumbed the channel closed, then turned toward the port side of the bridge. “Mister Scott,” he said, “are we ready for warp drive?”

  “Aye, sir,” said the chief engineer. “The Enterprise will get us home.”

  Shifting his attention to the other side of the bridge, he said, “Mister Spock, execute one more sensor sweep of the missile sites. Verify that they are clear of life signs.”

  Spock responded at once. “Scanning,” he said, standing up and bending over his hooded viewer. McCoy and the captain and the rest of the crew waited as the first officer swept the ship’s sensors across each of the three installations. He announced the results with the completion of the first scan, and then the second. Finally, he stood up fully, descended to the lower, inner section of the bridge, and took up a position opposite McCoy across the command chair. “Sensors confirm no life signs at any of the sites,” he informed the captain.

  “Thank you, Mister Spock,” Kirk said. Then: “Lieutenant Rahda, you may commence ignition.”

  “Commencing ignition,” she said. McCoy watched as she pressed a button on her panel, which caused an indicator light to change from amber to green. Then she used the index fingers of both her hands to toggle two switches set apart from each other. A second indicator light burned green. “Signal initiated,” she said as she peered up at the main viewer.

  McCoy followed her gaze, but for a moment, nothing happened. He thought to say something, but then a brilliant cone of fire rushed upward from the underground missile silo. The flames burst into the sky as though erupting from a volcano. It lasted just seconds, though, and McCoy wondered if the destruction the captain sought had been so quickly completed.

  Suddenly, the ground beside the silo jumped and shifted, then collapsed in on itself. Flames rose and licked at the sky from the newly widened hole. An explosion sent a fireball curling upward above it, and then another. More of the earth failed, tumbling down into the fresh abyss. More flames revealed themselves, and then another red-hot cloud swirled up to join the others. Nearby trees caught fire.

  The missiles, McCoy realized. The crew must have armed the warheads, or removed the safeties, or otherwise rigged the alien weaponry to detonate in a chain reaction. As he watched the screen, more and more of the ground near the silo collapsed beneath the conflagration. Devastation on such a massive scale disturbed him, and yet he could not look away.

  It took nearly ten minutes for the sequence of destruction to exhaust all of its ammunition. When it had, Spock headed back to the science console, and Rahda leaned left to peer into her scanner. “It’s over,” she said.

  After a moment studying his own instruments, Spock said, “Confirmed. All of the existing missiles and warheads have been destroyed at all sites. The launchpads, the assembly machinery, all command and control equipment are gone as well.”

  “Acknowledged,” Kirk said.

  Not Very good or Well done, McCoy thought, though it seemed abundantly clear to him that the security and engineering teams had accomplished the task the captain had set them. Jim really didn’t want to do this, thought the doctor. He felt he had to do it. McCoy could have kicked himself for so badly misreading the captain’s motivations. I was wrong even to question him about it.

  In the command chair, Kirk turned to McCoy. They regarded each other without saying anything, and then the captain sighed slowly, heavily. McCoy thought he looked tired, and he marveled—as he often did—at how Jim could do the things he did without exhausting himself completely.

  “I’m, uh . . .” the doctor began, thinking that he should visit Sulu’s quarters to check on the lieutenant’s condition. But then he thought beyond that, to when he would return to sickbay. “I’m going to go check on Sulu,” he told the captain, “then I’m going to head back to my office.” He leaned in over the arm of the command chair and, sotto voce, said, “Come see me if, you know, you feel you might need a prescription.”

  Kirk smiled again, but it did nothing to mitigate how tired he looked. “Thanks, Bones,” he said. “One of your special potions?”

  “On my last shore leave,” McCoy said, “I picked up a bottle of Saurian brandy
that I have yet to crack open.”

  “Ah,” Kirk said. “Well, we’ll see.”

  McCoy started away, but then the captain called him back. “Let me know how Sulu’s doing,” he said.

  “I will, Captain.” As McCoy headed toward the turbolift, he heard Kirk’s next orders.

  “Mister Chekov, set course for Starbase Twenty-Five,” he said. “Ms. Rahda, best and safest possible speed that we can get out of Mister Scott’s repaired warp drive.”

  McCoy entered the turbolift and turned to face forward in the car. Just before the doors closed, he saw that the image on the main screen had switched from a view of the missile site to one of the planet hanging in space. The doctor thought not only of the destroyed launch complexes, but also of the wrecked city the crew had found there. And as McCoy heard and felt the ship come to life around him, he saw Enterprise leave that dead world behind.

  Six

  Sulu slowly reached up to the shelf above the head of his bed. Over the previous few days, he’d learned not to move too quickly. He’d spent much of that time in sickbay, relocating to his own quarters only the day before. Although he’d gone through surgery and treatment for his injuries, the symptoms of his concussion had yet to fully subside. Doctor McCoy had told him that a full recovery could take weeks, perhaps even months. Sulu had initially scoffed at the notion that it would require so long for him to get well, but the vertigo he continued to feel, and the general fogginess of his thoughts, all bound together by an overwhelming sense of fatigue, had subsequently convinced him otherwise.

  The tips of Sulu’s finger brushed against the cool side of a glass—the medical staff had urged him to drink a lot of water—and then against a narrow, triangular shape. He pulled the wedge-shaped data slate from the shelf and onto his lap. He sat with his back against a pillow and his knees up, and he propped the slate up against his thighs. Prior to his mission to the surface of R-775-I, Sulu had begun reading a history of the later Sengoku period in Japan, and specifically about that nation’s first invasion of Korea by Toyotomi Hideyoshi. Sulu’s genealogical research indicated that one of his ancestors might have taken part in the military action, and so he wanted to familiarize himself with the event.

  Sulu activated the data slate with a touch to its small, black button at the top left of its face. Lines of text immediately appeared on the screen, and the middle of the three indicator lights above it blinked on, burning white. The slate displayed the page Sulu had been reading when last he’d used the device.

  Sulu read the chapter title, which marched across the top of the screen: The Siege of Busan. He’d reached that section of the book prior to suffering his injuries down on the planet. His gaze moved across the first couple of sentences, and though he recognized the name of Konishi Yukinaga, a territorial lord and military leader, he realized halfway through the first paragraph that he wasn’t grasping the sense of what he read. That might have concerned him had Doctor McCoy not explained in detail the nature of concussion symptoms to him; instead, his inability to read simply annoyed him.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Sulu asked the empty room. He might have liked some time off from his shipboard duties if he were able to indulge in some of the leisure pursuits he enjoyed, but he’d never cared much for idle relaxation. So many activities piqued his interest, and he knew that no matter how much energy he put into them, he’d never in his life have enough time to try everything he wanted to do. Because of that, he eschewed inactivity; he couldn’t lie out on a beach, taking in the sun, or go for long, contemplative walks. He needed goals, and he needed to take actions to achieve them. Having Doctor McCoy prescribe rest, for days or even weeks, felt like a kind of torture.

  Sulu glanced at the words on the display of his data slate. He wanted to try again to read, but understood the futility of doing so. Already, a low-level ache had formed in the back of his head. Much as he disliked the idea, he would have to take it easy. He thought about downloading a vid to his slate from the ship’s library, but then decided even that might tax him too much. He’d nearly needed a nap after donning his uniform that morning, an unnecessary act, since he would not see duty that day, but it had made him feel better to do so.

  Maybe just a little music, Sulu thought. He reached to bring up a menu on his data slate, but then the buzz of his door signal sounded. Over the past day and a half, several of Sulu’s friends had called on him, though none had stayed long, heeding the advice of Doctor McCoy. Pavel Chekov had come by the previous night, as had Captain Kirk. Sulu suspected, though, that a member of the medical staff—perhaps Nurse Chapel or Nurse Luxon—had come to check on him, since he so far that day had yet to see anybody from sickbay. Regardless, he would be grateful for even that distraction. “Come in,” he called. The instant that he raised his voice, it felt as though a vise squeezed the sides of his head.

  The single-paneled door to his quarters glided open—Sulu could just see it past the room divider—and when he saw the sky-blue uniform shirt, he thought that he’d been correct in predicting a visit from a member of the medical staff. The woman walked partway into the office half of Sulu’s quarters, then stopped when she saw him in the other half. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Lieutenant,” she said.

  “No, not at all,” Sulu told Ensign Trinh, unsure why the ship’s A-and-A officer would stop by to see him. “I’ve been so bored,” he went on, “I was prepared to welcome a visit from Doctor McCoy.” He smiled as he spoke, and Trinh laughed at the comment, a light, trilling sound that Sulu found quite appealing. He remembered noticing her—really noticing her—on the landing party’s excursion down to the planet aboard da Gama.

  “I’d say that qualifies as bored,” Trinh agreed. “When I asked the doctor for permission to come see you, he emphasized that you’d had a concussion, and that I therefore shouldn’t stay long or overtax you with too much conversation. I can’t imagine that he’d be good company for you right now.”

  “No, definitely not,” Sulu agreed. “Forgive me for not getting up, but I’m having some trouble with my balance these days.”

  “Oh, of course,” Trinh said. “I completely understand.”

  Sulu smiled again, but then felt self-conscious when he didn’t know what else to say. He wanted to blame the perpetual fog that had clouded his mind since his concussion, but he also thought some other force might be at work.

  The ensign returned Sulu’s gaze, but quickly seemed to grow uncomfortable as the silence between them lengthened. She looked away, then made a show of peering around his quarters. Her eyes stopped darting about when they found the wall opposite her, to Sulu’s left. “Do you fence?” she asked.

  Sulu glanced up at his display of crossed épées hanging on the bulkhead. “I do,” he said. He felt the urge to mention the championships he’d won while at Starfleet Academy, but thought better of it. “Actually, I haven’t had a match, even an assault, in quite some time. When I’ve been in the gym lately, I’ve spent most of my time learning vershaan.”

  “Vershaan?” Trinh asked. “Is that Andorian?”

  “Yes, it’s a martial art,” Sulu said. “I’m learning it from one of your colleagues.”

  “Clien,” Trinh said. “I mean, Crewman ch’Gorin.”

  Once more, Sulu smiled. “When we’re off duty, I call him Clien too.” The statement didn’t seem to ease Trinh’s apparent awkwardness. She twisted her fingers together with what seemed like nervous energy. Attempting to put them both at ease, Sulu forged ahead, trying to find something to say. “I guess he and I won’t be sparring for a while. I’m pretty much relegated to bed rest until my symptoms disappear.”

  “Even after that,” Trinh said, “I doubt that Doctor McCoy’s going to want you to be taking any blows to the head.”

  “No, probably not,” Sulu said. He felt embarrassed to be speaking to Trinh while she stood and he lay propped up on his bed, and so he decided that he should offer her a chair. He realized, though, that he didn’t know the purpose of
her visit, which he had so far treated with a lack of formality. “So is there a duty-related reason you wanted to see me, Ensign?” he asked.

  “Oh . . . no,” Trinh said. “I just . . . I wanted to check on your recovery.”

  Sulu wondered if she had been sent to do that by McCoy, perhaps in the hope of checking on his condition without causing him too much stress. He thought that the doctor probably wouldn’t resort to such subterfuge, but it also didn’t really matter to him. He liked that she had come to see him, regardless of the reason. “Why don’t you have a seat?” Sulu said, motioning toward the far corner, where a chair sat just across from the foot of his bed.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Trinh said. “I can stand.”

  “Please,” Sulu insisted. “It feels rather ungentlemanly for me to be talking with you while I’m lying down and you’re standing up.”

  Trinh offered him a smile that carried little more than an acknowledgment of what he’d said. “Of course.” She entered the inner half of his quarters and crossed to the chair. When she sat down, Sulu noticed that her fingers twined together in her lap.

  “What are you reading?” she asked, briefly freeing one of her hands and pointing to his data slate.

  “Oh, it’s a history of feudal Japan,” he said, taking the slate from his lap and tossing it onto the bed next to him. “I’ve been chronicling my ancestry, and I was trying to get some context.”

  “One of my ancestors was a prince in old Vietnam,” Trinh said.

  “Really?” Sulu said. He thought the ensign’s mention of a member of her lineage as royalty interesting, but the deep knowledge of her family history impressed him even more.

  “Um,” Trinh said, her expression growing blank. “No, not really,” she said. “I don’t even know if they’ve ever had princes in Vietnam. I just thought it sounded good.”

  Sulu stared back at Trinh, unsure how to react. When she raised her hands, palms up, and contorted her face into an obviously counterfeit smile, though, he threw his head back and laughed. He felt his temples begin to throb at once, though, and he quickly cut short the physical manifestation of his amusement.