STAR TREK: TOS #86 - My Brother's Keeper, Book Two - Constitution

by Michael Jan Friedman

  He raised his eyes and met Gary’s look. I get it, he answered silently. What’s more, he had figured out why his friend couldn’t let the captain in on his conjecture.

  After all, they had sworn never to talk about it. Not with anyone—their commanding officers included. And despite Gary’s casual ways, he had always been a man of his word.

  From the moment Mitchell had realized where the Constitution might be headed, he had been itching to talk to Kirk about it. But as long as he was at the navigation console, he couldn’t do that.

  So he waited patiently for his shift to end, enduring each moment as if it were an hour and each hour as if it were a week. Finally, the time began to approach [118] when the navigator could turn his responsibilities over to another crewman and share his excitement with his friend.

  Then, when Mitchell was less than half an hour from the end of his shift, he heard a beep from Borrik’s communications console. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Dedderac stir and say, “I have another call for you, Captain. Eyes only, as before.”

  Augenthaler looked back over his shoulder. “From Starfleet Command again?” he inquired.

  Borrik shook his striped head from side to side. “No, sir. This time it’s from Starbase Twenty-nine. An Admiral Mangione.”

  Mitchell felt a thrill go up and down his spine. He’d been right about their heading, hadn’t he? And Mangione’s involvement in the mission was proof of it.

  Seven years earlier, he and Kirk had been cadets on the starship Republic, dispatched on a routine training mission not far from the Klingon border. Rollin Bannock had been the captain on that voyage ... and Ellen Mangione had been the first officer.

  For a while, everything had gone according to plan. Then, one night as they skirted the Klingon neutral zone, Mangione had gotten on the intercom system and ordered all cadets to confine themselves to their quarters. Naturally, Kirk did as the first officer told him. So did Mitchell, albeit a good deal more reluctantly.

  But afterward, his curiosity had nearly eaten him alive. And when the cadets’ confinement was over, and it was clear their captain had no intention of [119] telling them what had transpired, Mitchell hadn’t been able to put up with the situation.

  He had convinced his friend Kirk to help him examine the sensor logs, hoping they would tell them what they wanted to know. But the logs had been erased—an extreme security measure indeed—and the cadets were caught red-handed by Bannock’s officers.

  Mitchell feared he had thrown their careers into jeopardy, but all they received from Captain Bannock was a reprimand. The worst part of the incident, as it turned out, was that they might never know what had happened to the Republic that night.

  Now, thought the navigator, that could all change. They could become privy to the mystery. Once again, he felt the old curiosity awakening in him, gnawing at him. ...

  “I’ll take this one in the briefing room, too,” Augenthaler told Borrik. He turned to the first officer, who was already standing beside him. “Once again, Mr. Hirota, you’ve got the conn.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Hirota.

  Then the captain got up again and entered the turbolift. As the doors closed behind the man, Mitchell cast another look at his friend. Kirk’s eyes were burning with a vigor the navigator hadn’t seen since the second officer set foot on the Constitution.

  Mitchell smiled approvingly at the change. Maybe it would soon be like old times after all, he thought. Maybe, despite everything, it would be the way he had imagined it would be.

  “Now what?” Lynch wondered out loud.

  [120] “Now we learn a little more,” Jankowski said hopefully.

  Hirota smiled. “Don’t bet on it.”

  The science officer looked at him. “You don’t think they’re telling the captain more than he knew before?”

  “The captain, yes,” said the exec. “Us ... maybe not.”

  “What makes you say that?” asked Jankowski.

  Hirota shrugged. “Experience.”

  That was when Augenthaler came out of the lift again, just a few short minutes after he had left. The man had an uncharacteristically serious look on his face. Everyone glanced at him, the navigator included, hoping to see how the plot might have thickened.

  The captain plunked himself down in his seat and gave Kirk a set of coordinates. To Mitchell’s delight, they fell into the part of space he had identified as the Republic’s old stomping grounds. The second officer saw it, too; the navigator could tell by the excitement in his friend’s expression as he punched in the appropriate data.

  “But I have to warn you—we can’t do any more speculating about our destination,” Augenthaler informed his bridge officers. “This mission is now officially classified.”

  Lynch and Jankowski didn’t seem to like it, but Mitchell wasn’t nearly so displeased. To his mind, the “classified” label only underlined the probability that they were going where he thought they were going.

  [121] And that, he thought, was a positive development indeed.

  As Kirk’s shift ended and he saw his replacement approach the helm-navigation console, his mind was still buzzing furiously.

  A classified mission, he thought. And it had been assigned to them by Admiral Mangione, of all people.

  Admiral Ellen Mangione—it had to be, he mused. The first officer of the Republic had surfaced again in his life, still elbow deep in the mystery that had surrounded Kirk’s voyage as a second-year cadet. Or so it appeared to the second officer.

  One thing was certain—his friend Gary could barely contain himself. As soon as his replacement arrived at the console, the navigator stood up with only minimally disguised eagerness and headed for the turbolift, breezing past the captain’s chair.

  Kirk was just a step behind him. The lift doors opened and admitted them both with agonizing slowness, then closed again and finally gave them the privacy they had been waiting for.

  “Dammit, Jim,” said Gary, his voice echoing fiercely in the confines of the lift compartment, “did you hear who that was? Did you hear the captain say her name?”

  The second officer nodded. “Mangione,” he replied. “Except it seems she’s an admiral now.”

  “Something’s happening,” his friend commented, punching a destination into the bulkhead unit beside him with more vigor than was absolutely necessary. [122] “And I’ll bet it has to do with that night we spent on the Republic.”

  Kirk nodded. “It certainly looks that way. I mean, it would be too much of a coincidence otherwise. The question is ... are we going to find out any more about it than we did before? It looks like they’re playing their hand pretty close to the vest.”

  “Just like before,” said Gary over the whirr of the lift motors. “Exactly like before. But we’re not cadets anymore, Jim. We’re officers now, for petesakes.”

  The helmsman shook his head. “That’s no guarantee. Especially if we happen not to be on the bridge when we reach those coordinates.”

  His friend looked at him, horrified. “Are you kidding? We’ve got to be on the bridge. After all these years, I couldn’t stand it if we didn’t at least get a glimpse of what was going on.”

  Kirk took a breath, let it out. “Same here,” he said. “Now, let’s see. If we’re traveling at warp six and we’ve got ten point two light-years between us and those coordinates—”

  “That’s just under ten days’ travel,” Gary computed. “So, unless they change the duty schedules on us—”

  “We should be right where we want to be—”

  “Right when we want to be there,” the navigator concluded, completing his friend’s thought.

  “You know,” said Kirk, “we’ve done our duty. We’ve kept quiet about what happened on the Republic for a long time.”

  “A long time,” Gary agreed.

  [123] “We deserve to find out what’s going on,” the second officer decided.

  “And if there’s any justice in the world,” the navigator adde
d hopefully, “we will.”

  Kirk nodded. He could hardly wait.

  Chapter Eight

  NINE DAYS, twenty hours, and forty-one minutes after Captain Augenthaler had received his orders from Admiral Mangione, the Constitution was slowing to impulse speed and approaching its destination—the outermost planet in a three-planet system.

  As Kirk had predicted, he and Gary were on the bridge, tending to their helm and navigation controls respectively. The second officer’s pulse raced as he wondered what they would find in the next few moments.

  “She’s class-M,” Lieutenant Lynch said of the red-orange world depicted on their main viewscreen. “But only barely. I wouldn’t want to have to eke out an existence on the amount of vegetation that grows there.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Augenthaler, “you won’t have [125] to.” But, bound by his orders, he didn’t say anything more.

  Kirk wondered if the captain would be sending a team to the planet’s surface. It seemed probable that he would. Otherwise, the helmsman thought, why come out all this way?

  And if there was a landing party, he wanted to be in it. He wanted to see with his own eyes what Bannock and his senior officers had seen that long-ago night on the Republic.

  “Captain,” said Gary.

  Kirk glanced at his friend and saw the man’s eyes narrowing as he considered the flash of graphics on his monitors. Apparently, something was up.

  “What is it, Mr. Mitchell?” asked Augenthaler.

  The muscles worked in Gary’s jaw. “Sensors show an ion trail, sir. But I can’t tell if it’s leading toward the planet or away from it.”

  The second officer peered at the forward view-screen, but all he saw was the world ahead of them. If the ship that had made the trail was still around, he couldn’t find it.

  “Mr. Kirk,” said Augenthaler, “bring us around the planet. Let’s see if that ship is still here.”

  Barely taking his eyes off the viewscreen, the helmsman did as he was told. His console beeped and the Constitution swung around gracefully to starboard, revealing more and more of the planet’s hidden side with each passing second.

  Finally, Kirk saw something. “There’s a ship there, all right.” He glanced over his shoulder at the captain. [126] “Right on the horizon, just a few degrees north of the planet’s equator.”

  As Augenthaler leaned forward in his chair, he squinted his small, blue eyes. “Maximum magnification, Mr. Mitchell.”

  Gary gave the captain what he asked for. The image on the viewscreen jumped tenfold in size, granting everyone on the bridge a more accurate picture of what they were up against.

  The vessel was a lusterless blue in color, angular yet austere-looking, its very posture a statement of belligerence. Its saucer-shaped bridge was mounted on a round nodule, which projected proudly from the ship’s main hull on a long, almost fragile-looking neck. Broad, flat wings flared out from the ship’s flanks, then tucked down and under to form small but efficient warp plasma nacelles.

  The second officer had seen its like before, if only in Academy training exercises. In fact, he imagined, everyone present on the Constitution’s bridge had been exposed to it in some form or fashion—and if they hadn’t, they certainly should have been.

  The ship was, unmistakably and undeniably, a Klingon battle cruiser, D-7 class. And, unlikely as it may have seemed, it was orbiting a planet deep in Federation space.

  What was it doing there? Kirk wondered. Promoting another bloody conflict between the Klingons and the Federation like those that had marked their history for the last forty years? Trying to bring the two galactic powers to the brink of war?

  Augenthaler swore beneath his breath, his thoughts [127] probably a lot like his second officer’s. “Go to red alert, Mr. Borrik. Mr. Kirk, Mr. Mitchell ... raise shields and power up the weapons array.”

  Kirk and Gary moved to comply with the captain’s orders, their fingers crawling over their controls like exotic insects as the bridge illumination switched to a lurid crimson. In a matter of moments, the Constitution was primed and ready for battle.

  Meanwhile, the Klingon vessel had begun wheeling about to face them. But it was doing so slowly, almost elegantly, without any apparent sense of urgency or animosity.

  The second officer didn’t get it. The battle cruiser was operating at full power, if the Constitution’s sensor readouts could be believed. And yet, the enemy wasn’t activating its weapons banks or diverting any extra power to its deflector shields.

  As far as Kirk could tell, the commander of the Klingon ship had no intention of fighting at all. In fact, he acted as if he had as much right to be there as the starship did. Stranger and stranger, Kirk thought—and the expressions on the faces of his fellow officers told him he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

  Suddenly, the image of the alien vessel was replaced by another—the face of Admiral Mangione. Kirk recognized her immediately. The woman’s hair was grayer than when the second officer had seen it last, but otherwise she hadn’t changed a great deal.

  Augenthaler got up from his chair and took a step toward the viewscreen. “We’re about to close with a [128] Klingon battle cruiser,” he boomed. “I need this screen clear.”

  “That’s exactly what I’ve contacted you about,” Mangione told the captain, her demeanor calm and unhurried. “There will be no confrontation between you and the Klingon.”

  Augenthaler looked shocked. “What?” he exclaimed.

  “You heard me,” the admiral said. “Power down your weapons and withdraw from your present coordinates.”

  Augenthaler shook his head. “Do you know what you’re saying? That ship is full of Klingons, for godsakes.”

  “I know exactly what I’m saying,” Mangione insisted, her tone becoming a little steelier. “Now do as I tell you. Power down and get your ship the hell out of there.”

  If the captain was confused, Kirk was even more so. The Klingons were unprincipled, barbaric, hostile ... not at all the kind of people you wanted to give free rein on your home turf. Yet one of Starfleet’s highest-ranking officers had ordered them to do just that.

  The captain frowned deeply. “As you wish,” he told the admiral. Turning to Gary with obvious reluctance, he said, “Power down weapons, Mr. Mitchell.” Then he addressed Kirk. “Bring us about, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the helmsman. Working at his controls, he swung the Constitution around 180 degrees.

  But there was no starfield streaming by on the [129] forward viewscreen to corroborate Kirk’s sensor readings. The screen still displayed Mangione’s stern, gray-haired visage.

  Augenthaler regarded her. “I don’t suppose you care to tender an explanation,” he ventured.

  “I do not,” said the admiral.

  “Figures,” Gary muttered, speaking loudly enough for Kirk to hear him but no one else.

  “As I mentioned earlier, Captain,” Mangione continued, “this matter has been classified top priority by Starfleet Command under General Order Nine. In accordance with that designation, I’m imposing a permanent order of silence—not only on you, but also on your bridge officers and anyone else who had knowledge of the Klingons’ presence here.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, the second officer saw his friend glance at him pointedly. He didn’t return the gesture.

  “No one is to speak of this or refer to it in any way,” Mangione elaborated, “either in public or in private, unless and until you’re advised otherwise by a member of the executive council. As far as you’re concerned, the incident never took place. Is this clear?”

  Augenthaler and his bridge officers hesitated for a moment. Then there was a chorus of reluctant affirmatives.

  “Good,” said the admiral. “Mangione out.”

  Finally, her image vanished from the screen. Kirk and the others looked to the captain, who had turned an angry shade of red.

  “You heard the lady,” Augenthaler told them [130] dutifully, though he clearly d
idn’t like having to say it. “As far as you’re concerned, none of this ever happened.”

  The second officer turned back to his control panel and sighed. After all, he had heard those orders before.

  Mitchell scanned the rec lounge to make sure no one was listening in on his conversation. Then he leaned across the table and waited until his friend looked up from his meal.

  “So,” he asked softly, too low for anyone to eavesdrop, “what do you think happened out there?”

  Kirk frowned, making no effort to hide his disappointment. “We’re not supposed to talk about this,” he replied. “I’d say Admiral Mangione made that pretty clear.”

  “Give me a break,” the navigator told him, his voice becoming a shade harsher as he pled his case. “We’re human beings, aren’t we? Even if we can’t let anyone else in on what happened, we can talk about it among ourselves. Hell, we have to. Otherwise, we’ll go nuts.”

  The second officer frowned. “We’re Starfleet officers. We’re supposed to follow orders.”

  “And we do,” Mitchell argued, “when they’re even remotely reasonable, which this one isn’t.”

  Kirk appeared to weigh his friend’s position. Finally, he spoke up again. “I suppose there isn’t any harm in it,” he concluded, “as long as it’s just you and me.” The navigator made a fist and bounced it lightly off [131] the table for emphasis. “Damned right there isn’t any harm in it.”

  “Still,” said the second officer, “what’s there to say? We saw a Klingon ship in Federation space. It’s a—”

  Abruptly, Kirk stopped himself. There was a crewman walking in their direction.

  Only when the man was well past them did Kirk start up again. “It’s a mystery,” he allowed. “No question about it. But we’ll probably never come close to solving it.”

  “Not true,” said Mitchell yielding to an antic impulse. “We could always wait until the captain’s asleep and access the ship’s sensor logs.”

  Kirk looked at him, his features pinched in a mixture of trepidation and disbelief. It was only after he came to the realization that his friend was joking that he began to relax again.