Constellations

by Marco Palmieri

  Keeping one eye on the driver, Scott glanced over at the doctor who sat quietly, his eyes half shut. He didn’t like the idea of having to wake McCoy, so he decided to keep him engaged. “What’s on your mind, Leonard?”

  “Hmmm?” McCoy tried to sit up, but the seat was slippery with age and wear, so he surrendered back into a slump. “Oh, I was just thinking about the tribbles.”

  Scott cocked an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “There’s something that always bothered me about what happened with them. You know, back on the Enterprise.”

  “Aye?”

  “When you beamed them to the Klingon ship…”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ve always wondered…what do you suppose the Klingons did with them?”

  “Eh?”

  “Well, they didn’t make them into pets, right? The Klingons hate them.”

  “No, I expect not.”

  “And they wouldn’t eat them, would they?”

  Scott shook his head. “Not much there to eat, even for a Klingon.”

  “So…what?”

  Scott considered the options, then, after a long moment, conceded, “I expect they probably…beamed them into space.”

  McCoy nodded and muttered, “Me, too.”

  Scott slumped back into his seat. “Well, now I’m depressed again.”

  “Sorry I brought it up,” McCoy said.

  “Stupid Klingons.”

  “Nothing you can do about it now.”

  “Poor little beasties…”

  The hour had grown late and the shadows in Jarek’s had grown so long that Krong was no longer sure what the bartender was pouring into his mug. The Klingon suspected the place was now empty except for himself and Jarek, but the owner knew better than to ask Krong to go before he was ready.

  Krong looked up at his reflection in the smoky mirror and asked himself, Am I ready? Is it time to leave this pathetic existence? Do I feel one single iota of hope anywhere within me? Looking inward, he explored every nook and cranny, searching for a glimmer of anything that might resemble a reason to continue. Looking outward again, he held his hand up in front of his face and found he could barely make it out. “Too dark,” he grumbled.

  Without warning, Krong felt a damp, cold wind at his back and the overhead lights blazed forth blindingly. Krong clamped his eyes shut and growled, “Too bright!”

  Someone behind him shouted, “We have them! They’ll be here in a minute, Krong!”

  Krong felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen. “If I turn around and that’s you, Spaytak, then I’m going to have to kill you. Slowly. If it isn’t you, then whoever you are, I’ll have to kill you because you made me think of Spaytak and I cannot forgive that.” He felt a hand fall on his shoulder to pull him around. The temerity! His hand fell onto the hilt of his mek’leth. “Now I have to kill you because you actually have the gall to lay your filthy—”

  It was, in fact, Spaytak who was touching him—actually touching him. So many reasons to kill you now, Krong thought. Which shall I choose? “I told you it was them,” the Denebian sputtered. “And I was right and they’re almost here.” The reek of Spaytak’s breath was almost more than Krong could stand. What is this idiot babbling about? the Klingon wondered. Is he still going on about the Federation captain? He tugged his blade from his belt and prepared to surreptitiously slip it between Spaytak’s ribs, but a flutter of motion by the door caught his attention.

  “Here they are!” a new voice shouted. Four more Denebians—three small and one gigantic—stood clustered near the entrance, all of them pointing at a pair of slim figures who were wincing against the glare of the bright overhead lights. “We did it! It was us! Where’s our money?” The three small Denebians chattered and prattled mindlessly, while the fourth—the giant—merely pointed, an empty, foolish grin on his face.

  One of the slim figures batted away the Denebians’ pointing fingers and strode forward. Despite the unnervingly bright lights, Krong saw that he was, in fact, a human and though he wore a nondescript jacket, he believed the clothing underneath might actually be a Starfleet uniform. The Klingon felt the underpinnings of his universe suddenly come undone. Had he been wrong? Had these idiots, against all hope, actually found him a prize that might buy him back his lost honor and a ticket to the Klingon homeworld?

  Whoever the man was, he clearly did not feel threatened by the Denebians. “What in the name of heaven is going on here?” He looked at one of the small Denebians and said, “You said you were taking us to your…” He stared around at the establishment’s grimy walls, the smoked mirrors, and the line of sticky bottles behind the bar. “I hope this isn’t your aunt’s because if it is, she needs to work on her housekeeping.”

  The three small Denebians closed in around the figure and one said, “Hey! You can’t say that about our aunt!”

  Spaytak stepped forward and shouted, “Would you numskulls shut up and close the door!”

  Krong slid off his barstool and, squinting against the light, approached the human, stopping less than an arm’s length away. He had met only a few Terrans in his time and most of those only at a distance, but the face of the Enterprise’s captain was well-known to every warrior of the Empire. Most humans looked alike to him, but this man—he might be the right age, and there was something about the shape of his face that seemed familiar. Without really knowing what he was doing, he asked, “Kirk?”

  The human stared back, suddenly aware of who was staring him in the face. Sneering—Krong thought it was a sneer—he asked, “What the hell is a Klingon doing here?”

  Krong had to concede that at least the human didn’t seem one bit fearful. He responded, “What the hell is a Starfleet captain doing here?”

  The human drew back, then looked over his shoulder at his companion, who, up to that point, Krong had ignored. The second figure, Krong saw, was another human. A small, fragile object that resided in the Klingon’s chest, something that he briefly recognized as hope, crumbled and was lost to the darkness. Pointing at the second human, he looked over at Spaytak and asked, “You thought that was Spock?”

  “It is Spock,” the Denebian insisted.

  “He’s a human.”

  “So?”

  “Spock is a Vulcan. Have you ever even seen a Vulcan?”

  The second human, who had been quite docile, even sleepy, suddenly stepped forward and, eyebrows twitching, blurted, “You thought I was who?”

  Suddenly, Krong noted, everyone was holding a chair or a stool or a bottle, or some other kind of makeshift weapon. The first human, the one who Spaytak had mistaken for Kirk, grinned broadly and said, “As if there was any other way to end such an enjoyable evening…”

  “This way, Captain.” Spock pointed his tricorder at a shabby building near the end of a narrow opening that might charitably have been called an alley. A tepid miasma clung near the ground as the early-morning sun heated the slick cobblestones. Kirk wished he could hold his nose, but decided that the stance would be undignified. Not that anyone was around, but there were conventions to be observed.

  “What do you think they were doing down here, Spock?”

  “I cannot say, Captain. Lodgings, perhaps?”

  Kirk nodded and they headed down the shadowy alley. He knew he should have brought along a security detail, but this was a nonaligned world, and he didn’t want Starfleet’s presence to be provocative. Rolling his shoulders, limbering up, Kirk strode to the door Spock indicated, his hand never far from his phaser.

  Rusty hinges creaked as the door slowly swung open. Kirk and Spock, both well-schooled in the practice of entering potentially hostile locations, flattened their backs against the doorframe. The interior was dimly illuminated by a handful of guttering candles throwing jagged shadows in every direction. Kirk instinctively held his breath and heard a series of raspy groans. In the corner farthest from the door, he detected the shifting of shadows that indicated sudden movement. Inhaling deeply, feeling the familiar s
urge of adrenaline, he bunched his muscles to leap into the room. Somewhere in the back of his mind, some part of Kirk recognized that he was grinning, that he was about to do something, be something, that he hadn’t done or been in too long a time: the man of action. It felt good. It felt right. It felt like…

  “Jim! Hey, how the hell are you!?”

  Few things in life could have made Leonard McCoy much happier at that moment than to see his friend and commanding officer standing in a doorway looking so confused and, well, disappointed. Yes, it’s petty, McCoy thought. And cynical and might even be considered a court-martial offense in some schools of thought, but having the starch taken out of him once in a while means he won’t get a stiff neck. McCoy chuckled to himself, then winced at the pain in his chest. Might be a cracked rib, he thought. Maybe two. I’ll have to look at that as soon as we get back to the ship. Interestingly, the idea of returning to the Enterprise did not bother him. Possibly, he considered, because I know I won’t have to stay there forever if I don’t want to. At that thought, he toasted himself and sipped some more of the bloodwine. The stuff wasn’t nearly so bad after the first or second glass; the faint background note of steel wool actually became enjoyable after a bit.

  In the doorway, Kirk finally released his breath and said, “Bones?”

  “Come on in. Watch out for the…Well, over there in a heap by the door.”

  The captain and first officer stepped gingerly into the room, careful to avoid treading on the unconscious Spaytak and his brothers.

  “Fancy a mug of bloodwine, gentlemen?” Scotty asked cheerfully.

  “Bloodwine?” Kirk asked dubiously. “You couldn’t find anything better?”

  “Better?” Krong asked, trying to rise. That surprised McCoy. The Klingon had drunk at least one cask of wine by himself since the three of them had settled in after the brawl, and who knew how much beforehand? Also, Spaytak had stabbed Krong twice during their fight and he had lost some blood. McCoy had sealed up the wounds and normally would have offered the patient something for pain, but he was pretty sure Krong wasn’t feeling any pain. “What could possibly be better?!” the Klingon bellowed.

  Spock arched an eyebrow. Kirk’s eyes widened. McCoy savored the moment.

  “Ah, sit down, Krong,” Scotty said before the Klingon could even get out of his chair. Looking up at his captain, the engineer said, “He doesn’t mean anything by it, sir. Our friend here is just overly excited because of the exciting new vistas that seemed to have appeared before him.”

  “Exciting new vistas…” the Klingon repeated.

  “Your friend?” Jim asked, then turned to look around the barroom. Obviously, his eyes had adjusted to the murk because McCoy saw the captain fix his gaze on various pieces of broken furniture. “I wish someone would explain what happened here. And why didn’t either of you answer your communicators when the Enterprise called.”

  “Och!” Scott exclaimed. “So that’s what that sound was! I thought it was something that came out of the skinny fellow with the mustache when Krong made him eat his mug.”

  “And as for what’s happened here,” McCoy said, a pleasant sensation of weariness filtering through him, “let’s just call it the inevitable result of spending too much time in one place.”

  “You were only here for a day,” Kirk said.

  “I do not think he means Denebia, Captain,” Spock interjected. McCoy was surprised to hear the comment come from the first officer, but the two locked gazes for a lingering moment. Something in his eyes made the doctor wonder if he was the only one who was feeling like it was time for a change.

  Kirk cocked an eyebrow, but did not comment further. Instead, he said, “We should get back to the ship.”

  “Aye!” Scotty said. “I need to see my wee bairns.”

  “Aye!” said the Klingon. “I also need to see his…whatever he called them.”

  “You’re gonna love the Enterprise,” McCoy told Krong.

  The captain became alarmed. “Scotty, Bones…he’s a Klingon.”

  “Aye, aye. True,” Scott said. “And a fair-to-middlin’ barroom brawler if I’m any judge. But he’s not really a bad fellow and I think he needs to get off this planet, seeing as he assaulted several locals in the process of saving us from…well, I want to say peril, but I’m not sure exactly how perilous our peril was.”

  “Perilous peril!” Krong shouted, then laid his head down on the table and began to snore loudly.

  “I think I can keep him asleep until we can drop him off on some other neutral planet, Jim,” McCoy said, very much looking forward to the possibility of sleep himself. No insomnia tonight…

  “But he’s a Klingon officer!” Kirk said. “What can I tell Starfleet if they find out?”

  “Tell them,” McCoy said, “that you’re the captain of the Enterprise. That should still count for something?”

  Kirk flinched slightly, like someone had just lightly slapped his cheek. He stared down at McCoy for a long second, then turned to look at Scotty and finally at Spock. “I suppose,” he finally said, “that it should.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them impatiently. “Let’s get going.”

  McCoy rose, enjoying the ache in his back and chest. “Whatever you say, sir.” And to himself, he added, You are the captain. For a little while longer, at least. And after that, we’ll just have to see what the future brings.

  Standing, Scott clapped a hand on McCoy’s shoulder, producing a groan. “You surprised me a bit tonight during our brawl, Doctor,” he said softly. “You’re a man of unexpected talents. The way you took down that fella with the neck pinch.”

  “Best not to mention that too loudly, Mr. Scott. The walls have ears, you know.”

  “Aye, that they do.” Leaning down to help Krong up out of his chair, Scott surveyed the trashed barroom and commented wistfully, “Not bad for a couple old fellows, eh?”

  McCoy grinned and reached for the Klingon’s other arm. “Old, Scotty?” he said. “Speak for yourself.”

  Make-Believe

  Allyn Gibson

  Allyn Gibson

  A repeat broadcast of the animated Star Trek episode “The Slaver Weapon” was Allyn Gibson’s first encounter with Gene Roddenberry’s vision of humanity’s future and began a life-long love affair with Star Trek in all its myriad forms, with a particular fondness for the early 1980s comic books by Mike W. Barr and Tom Sutton. His discovery of Star Trek began a journey into other worlds—historical, science-fictional, and fantasy—from Doctor Who to the fires of Mount Doom to the far future of Asimov’s Foundation to the Royal Navy of the Napoleonic era. In time, Allyn began writing, to create his own worlds to explore. He wrote the Star Trek: S.C.E. novella Ring Around the Sky and the Star Trek: New Frontier short story “Performance Appraisal.”

  Currently, Allyn works for the world’s leading video game retailer as a store manager. He maintains a blog at http://www.allyngibson.net/.

  He lives in Raleigh, North Carolina.

  Hot sunlight beat down on Leonard McCoy, and sweat dripped from his brow. He may have grown up in Georgia and experienced firsthand its hot, muggy summers, but he never liked the heat—it wilted him too much, and years of starship duty with its climate-controlled environments diminished whatever tolerance he might have developed for the warmer climes. He bent over, placed his hands on his knees, and took a deep breath in the hope of gaining a second wind. “Jim,” he said, “I still don’t understand why we couldn’t have beamed right to the crash site.”

  Ahead of McCoy in the waist-high alien foliage, Jim Kirk stopped and turned to look at his friend. “Bones, we couldn’t even locate the crash site from orbit.”

  Still doubled over, his breathing heavy, McCoy looked up at Kirk. “All the things the Enterprise can do, and we can’t find a downed shuttlecraft.” He shook his head.

  “Really, Doctor,” said Spock, who had come up from ahead to stand beside Kirk, “the explanation I gave aboard the Enterprise was not difficult to follow.�
��

  “Yes, yes,” McCoy said, his breathing less ragged than before. “Pulsar activity, magnetic fields, Van Allen radiation. I remember.” Secretly McCoy thought that in some instances Spock simply created his complicated explanations out of whole cloth in hopes of confusing the issue. There simply was no difference between scientific babble and pseudo-scientific nonsense. The explanation Spock had offered aboard the ship for this occasion, McCoy decided, fell distinctly in the latter camp.

  Kirk came up and clapped McCoy on the shoulder. “Holding up, Bones?”

  McCoy nodded and straightened himself up. He took a deep breath. “How much farther?”

  “Difficult to be precise,” Spock said, checking his tricorder. “Five kilometers, possibly ten.”

  Kirk smiled wryly. “I’ll take point. Spock, you have the rear.” His officers nodded in acknowledgment of the orders. “Let’s do it.”

  Onward they marched through the alien veldt. Grasses—for that is what McCoy dubbed them, so much did they resemble Terran grasses—grew tall here, sometimes waist high, sometimes well above their heads. Among the taller growths McCoy lost sight of Kirk ahead of him, and in those moments they navigated the foliage solely by tricorder and calling to one another. Above them animals—some like birds, some like monstrous insects—flew, ofttimes circling but never approaching closer than a few hundred meters. McCoy hoped they would reach their destination soon.

  This mission should have been a simple matter, McCoy thought. An Enterprise shuttle had crashed here on the surface of Algenib II during a routine planetary survey while the Enterprise sped toward an urgent diplomatic conference. Upon the starship’s return to the Algenib system a week later, Kirk organized a search-and-rescue mission. Sensor readings had proven inconclusive, and the landing party beamed down not to the shuttle’s crash site but to the wreckage of one of the shuttle’s nacelles, shorn from the fuselage as the shuttle descended through the atmosphere. Unique conditions allowed few transporter and communication windows through Algenib’s magnetic field, which meant that, as a practical matter, it would be quicker for Kirk’s team to follow the debris trail from the nacelle to the shuttle, then contact the Enterprise and beam back to the ship with any survivors at the next transport window. With time so essential, Kirk, Spock, and McCoy had set off on foot across the alien plain of Algenib II.