by Dayton Ward
“You’re welcome,” said McCoy.
“What of the Ptaen?” asked Canderon. “I do not believe they have so readily accepted what has happened.”
Stepping forward and continuing to stroke his cat, Seven said, “Part of that is likely our fault, Admiral Nogura. Once the situation with the Ptaen was resolved in our time, we reprogrammed their ship to return to their home planet. We also included a message in its computer saying that the Iramahl were no longer on Earth.” He shrugged. “Technically, it wasn’t a lie, but I imagine the Ptaen government won’t be amused if they ever learn the details of this little caper.”
Canderon asked, “But how will you explain this? Our being here, centuries after we were thought to have left the planet or died?”
“I can’t speak for anyone else,” replied Nogura, “but I don’t plan on bringing it up. I’d just as soon not get into a discussion about time travel. There may not be enough liquor on this planet to make me want to start a conversation about that.” Moving away from his desk, he regarded the two former fugitives. “Not that it really matters. There’s nothing they can do about it anymore.”
Jepolin said, “The admiral is correct, Drevina. Much has happened since you left our home. The rebellion you helped spread was compelled to carry on in your absence, particularly when it was learned you had found a cure for the genetic affliction the Ptaen had imposed upon us. Driven by the example you set for all our people, the Iramahl continued to stand and fight, to harass and push back, to resist and ultimately break the will of our oppressors. They did it because you gave them something to fight for beyond simple freedom, which by itself is absolutely worth defending. You also gave them hope that we would reclaim everything the Ptaen took from us, denied us, and indeed used against us: our very existence.” She held out her hands to them. “You have given us our future.”
Farewells were exchanged, at which time Nogura summoned the escort detail from the Federation Diplomatic Corps that had been waiting outside his office. There would be at least a few more meetings, Kirk knew, before the Iramahl departed for their homeworld.
“Admiral Kirk,” Drevina said as she stopped before him on her way out of the office. “Captain Spock. Thank you again. I hope this is not our last meeting.”
“I hope so too,” replied Kirk, taking her extended hands in his own. “Good luck to you and your people.”
Drevina glanced at McCoy. “With the talents of people like you, I do not see how we could fail.”
Once the Iramahl were gone and his door once more sealed, Nogura turned to his remaining guests. “This is normally the part where I initiate court-martial proceedings.” He eyed Seven and Lincoln. “Not that there’s anything I can do about you two, of course.”
“I take full responsibility for everything that happened, sir,” said Kirk.
“Damned right you do.” Nogura began to pace his office. “Time travel. You know, once we found out we could do something like that, I swore I’d never get involved with it, for any reason.” He shook his head. “As you can see, that’s working out well for me.” He stopped pacing as he came abreast of Kirk. “I’d ask you if you had any idea the risks you were taking when you decided to attempt this ridiculous stunt, but I already have the answer to that question.”
Here we go, Kirk thought.
Nogura sighed. “Did you know the Department of Temporal Investigations has a file on you bigger than your Starfleet personnel record? They’re thinking about starting up a special section just to deal with all of the trouble you cause them. I’m not sure, but I think you may even have your own code name. ‘Clock Wrecker,’ or some such damned thing. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s a rumor I can get behind.”
His previous encounters over the years with their representatives were enough to tell Kirk that the Federation agency had taken a keen interest in the Enterprise and him specifically. That much was understandable, he conceded, given the number of times he had been involved in temporal incidents. He suspected that at least a few people within that organization had lost significant amounts of sleep wondering and worrying about what he might do—or undo—during such events.
Can you really blame them? You give them ulcers.
“Admiral, if I may,” said Spock. “From the beginning, Admiral Kirk and I took steps to minimize our involvement in historical events. Even when Miss Lincoln decided she needed our assistance in the twentieth century, we did everything possible to mitigate our presence in the past.”
“Look,” said McCoy, and Kirk could tell from the single word that his friend had already reached his limit for tolerating Starfleet bureaucracy. “If Jim thought this was the only way to help the Iramahl, then it was the only way, and it was the best way. And you know he didn’t do it without weighing the consequences, either for the mission or himself. That he knew he’d get into hot water and went anyway should tell you something.” He punctuated the statement with a snort. “You’d think Starfleet would know this by now.”
“Bones,” said Kirk, his tone one of warning.
His eyes narrowing, Nogura shifted his gaze to regard McCoy. “Doctor, I’m quite familiar with your reputation for eschewing authority.”
“I’ve worked very hard to nurture that reputation.”
“Perhaps you’ve never been aware of my feelings on such things.”
McCoy scowled. “With all due respect, Admiral, if you’re familiar with my reputation, then you already know my response to that.”
“Fair point.” As quickly as Nogura’s annoyance appeared, it faded.
“Admiral,” said Lincoln, “their involvement is my fault. I made the decision to bring them back with me.” Her expression was one of apology. “In our line of work, there aren’t a lot of people we can call on for help. It’s not the sort of job where you can just run an ad in the classifieds.” When her comment evoked stares of incomprehension from the Starfleet officers, she waved a hand as though to dismiss what she had said. “Anyway, you’ll be happy to know that we’ve decided to take some steps to address that, at least on a very limited basis.”
Kirk nodded in understanding. “You mean Major Wheeler.”
“Right. Though we’re not going to tell him everything, we’ll give him enough to know we’re on the level.”
Nogura asked, “What did you tell him about the Iramahl ship?”
“That it was lost while attempting to leave Earth,” replied Seven. “As for its actual fate, Mister Spock chose well when selecting the Laurentian Abyss. Even though the explosion all but disintegrated the ship, whatever survived will never be found. It’s one of the least accessible places on the planet. The Russians apparently lost a nuclear submarine there last year, and even we couldn’t find it.” He paused, adopting a wistful expression. “A year ago from mine and Miss Lincoln’s point of view, of course.”
Holding up a hand, Nogura said, “Don’t even get me started on that.”
“As for Major Wheeler,” continued Lincoln, “considering his unique position within the government and the military, he and his Project Cygnus team are in the perfect position to help us if we ever have to deal with extraterrestrials again.”
“Does that mean you’re not going to make a habit of absconding with my officers to go gallivanting through time?” asked Nogura.
With a fleeting look toward Lincoln, Seven replied, “We can at least try to minimize the need for such extreme measures.”
“I guess that’ll have to do.”
Still stroking Isis, Seven said, “And I think that’s our cue.” He nodded to Lincoln, who reached into her jacket to retrieve her servo. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.”
Lincoln activated her servo, and the door to Nogura’s office opened to reveal the familiar blue fog of Seven’s transport beam. Along with Isis, Seven and Lincoln moved toward it.
“Live long and prosper, Mister Seven and
Miss Lincoln,” said Spock, holding up his right hand and offering the traditional Vulcan salute. “And you as well, Isis.”
“Until we meet again,” replied Seven with the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, before he and Lincoln disappeared into the shimmering blue mist, which vanished a moment later.
After they were gone, Nogura turned his attention back to Kirk. After a moment, he released an exasperated breath. “You three could drive a man to drink. Do you know that?”
“Is that an offer?” asked McCoy.
Ignoring the comment, the admiral moved toward his desk. “Don’t misunderstand me, gentlemen; I’m grateful for what you did. Your actions may very well save an entire civilization and gain us a new ally. That’s probably worth a commendation or two.” He eyed Spock. “Don’t you have a starship and a class of cadets to deal with, Captain?”
The Vulcan nodded. “Indeed I do, Admiral.” He glanced to Kirk. “Though I must admit that this was an interesting diversion.”
“And you,” said Nogura, pointing at Kirk. “You missed one of your scheduled lectures. I’ve already informed Commandant Rouviere to expect you no less than four times this month. Plan accordingly.”
Knowing better than to protest, Kirk forced himself not to smile. “Understood, sir. I look forward to speaking with our cadets.”
“I’ll bet you do.” Nogura stood in silence for another moment, then shook his head. “And in the future, if you three could keep your antics to your own century, I’d appreciate it.”
“Works for me,” replied McCoy.
“A reasonable request,” said Spock.
Kirk nodded in agreement. “We’ll certainly do our best, Admiral.”
That seemed to satisfy the admiral, at least for the moment. “Good,” he said. “Then let’s have that drink.”
ONE LAST THING
Thirty-Two
New York City
June 25, 1986
There were times Roberta Lincoln loathed the Beta 5.
Such feelings often, but not always, manifested themselves early in the morning, when the computer deigned to summon her before she had enjoyed her first cup of coffee. On those occasions, she imagined herself taking a sledgehammer to the advanced construct’s polished obsidian control console and reveling in the resulting devastation.
Then there were times like these, when the call came just as she was contemplating a glass of wine and a hot bath.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Roberta said, emerging from the concealed doorway that connected Gary Seven’s well-appointed office with her own apartment. “People are going to start talking. Besides, just because I’m twenty feet away doesn’t mean you can call me whenever you get a glitch in one of your files.” One of the first things Seven had done upon recruiting her to work with him was provide her with a new place to live, liberating her from the shoebox she had called her old apartment in the Village. While her accommodations were quite practical as far as being available in the event something urgent came up and required her attention, it also meant she was all but at the beck and call of Seven as well as the Beta 5. Whereas Seven himself preferred to exercise restraint when it came to imposing upon her after whatever passed for “normal business hours” in their rather odd line of work, the Beta 5 had no such compunctions.
The computer, which had already revealed itself from its hidden wall alcove as Roberta crossed the office toward it, appeared content to ignore her remarks and instead reported, “Scanners have detected the presence of an unidentified space vessel entering high orbit.”
“Unidentified?” Roberta frowned. “You’re sure it’s not the Russians? They’ve been pretty busy lately.” Even as the United States manned spaceflight program had come to a halt following the tragic loss of the Space Shuttle Challenger, its Soviet counterpart was proceeding ahead at full speed. There already had been several launches earlier in the year to their Salyut-7 space station as well as sending up the first component of what would become that orbital facility’s replacement, Mir. Further missions were planned in the coming years in order to complete the new station’s construction. Designed for continuous habitation and long-term research, Mir would be the largest manmade object outside the Earth’s atmosphere.
Not quite a moon base, but we’re getting there.
The Beta 5 said, “Spacecraft is not of human origin. Scans indicate it is a Klingon vessel.”
“What?” While Roberta knew what a Klingon was, and had even seen one or two of their ships over the years, those incidents had taken place well away from Earth, in more ways than one. There also was the fact that first contact between humans and the Klingon Empire was not due to occur for another two hundred years. “A Klingon ship, here? Why would Klingons be here now?”
“Purpose unknown.” The computer paused, as was its habit when it was collating and analyzing data newly received through its array of scanners and receivers. The only outward indication of this work in progress was the flashing of indicators on the flat black panel housing its display screens. “Vessel configuration is consistent with design utilized during mid-twenty-second and twenty-third centuries.”
Roberta studied a wire-frame schematic of the Klingon ship as depicted by the Beta 5, noting that the vessel was of a smaller scout-class design, intended for operation by a limited crew. “Are you saying it traveled through time to get here? Since when do the Klingons know anything about time travel?” Realizing the double meaning of her question, she rolled her eyes. “Never mind. How’d it get here?”
“Unknown. Review of its trajectory indicates a course from the vicinity of the sun in order to arrive at Earth.”
Now that, at least, sounded familiar, Roberta decided. As Gary Seven had explained it to her, accelerating at faster-than-light velocities toward a star and then breaking away from the star’s gravitational pull at the precise moment was one known method for traveling through time. It was, however, a crude method and one fraught with any number of risks. The calculations required to achieve the proper course and speed while factoring the mass of the ship attempting the maneuver required pinpoint precision. While she held no doubts that Seven himself could accomplish such a feat, even he would need the assistance of the Beta 5 to ensure total accuracy. As far as Roberta knew, only one other person had ever arrived at the correct formula, and he most certainly was not Klingon.
“Scan the ship for life signs.”
The Beta 5 chewed on that for a moment before replying, “Seven life-forms: six human, one Vulcan.”
“You have got to be kidding me.” Realizing she had given voice to the errant thought, Roberta asked, “What’s the ship doing now?”
“Ship has entered standard orbit. Though it has activated a cloaking device, I am able to track the field’s energy distortion.”
Kirk. It has to be.
A twenty-third-century Klingon vessel with a Vulcan among its handful of passengers, traveling through time to Earth? Only James T. Kirk would be so brash as to undertake such a bold action, but why? What had brought him back to the twentieth century yet again? Roberta reminded herself that there was, of course, another potential wrinkle, in that she did not yet know from what precise point in time Kirk—if indeed it was Kirk—had traveled. Was it a younger Kirk, who had not yet met her and Gary Seven? Perhaps he was far older than the last time Roberta had seen him. If time travel possessed any single point of consistency, it was an ability to induce headaches in anyone who dared think too much about the concept. Like her, for example.
It had only been a year or so since she had last seen Kirk, and how many times had they crossed paths since their first meeting? It seemed ridiculous that she would have so many encounters with a man who hailed from three hundred years in her future, but in point of fact it was but one of the more normal aspects of her job.
Even discounting the occasions when Roberta or Gary Seven had
called upon the intrepid captain’s assistance, the man still managed to find a rather troubling number of methods and reasons to return to the twentieth century. Still, she knew that Kirk, perhaps more so than most people from his century and certainly anyone from hers, understood all too well the risks associated with time travel. If he was here after traveling nearly three hundred years into his own past, then he had done so for good cause. As for whether anyone else agreed that such a motive was valid, either here in 1986 or from whichever year Kirk had traveled? That remained in question. If it was Kirk who now orbited Earth, then the fact that he had come not with his own vessel but instead a Klingon ship seemed to imply a very peculiar set of circumstances.
Realizing she was tapping her fingernails on the Beta 5’s console, Roberta asked, “When’s Gary due back?”
“Supervisor 194 is on assignment in Bhopal. He has not communicated any change in his itinerary. He is due to return by zero nine hundred hours tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I think we need to call him back early.”
“Recalling Supervisor 194 at this point may jeopardize his current mission. He is pursuing a high-value target.”
“I know, but he’s going to want to hear about this. If he decides to send me on my own to check it out, so be it. I promised him no more time-travel shenanigans without warning him first.”
Seven had traveled to India in order to obtain fresh information on the whereabouts of one of the numerous people whose movements he and Roberta were monitoring. The subject in question had a rather annoying habit of evading most attempts at tracking him. This left Seven with no choice but to conduct his own onsite reconnoitering of the individual’s last known location. Though he preferred to let the Beta 5 gather and collate relevant data on targets deserving of such continuous scrutiny, there were times when direct action was required. Such was the case with a number of persons who had earned special notice in the files kept by Gary Seven and his amazing though not all-knowing supercomputer.