“Are you sure?” the captain asked.
“I am quite sure,” the first officer replied. “The lieutenant has asked for a transfer to another Constitution-class vessel.”
Kirk shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
Had he missed something? Why would Sulu, of all people, ask for a transfer to another starship?
“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” the captain promised himself. He reached for the monitor and pressed a square silver stud built into its base. “Mr. Sulu,” he said, “this is Captain Kirk.”
The response wasn’t a moment in coming. “Sulu here.”
“I’m in the briefing room with Mr. Spock,” the captain told him. “I’d like you to join us here immediately.”
A pause. “Right away, sir,” said Sulu.
Kirk glanced at Spock and sat back in his chair, feeling more than a little discomfited. Under different circumstances, perhaps, he might have been able to take Sulu’s request in stride. Under these circumstances, he found it a lot more difficult.
The captain had just lost his best friend, for god-sakes. And Kelso as well, not to mention Dr. Dehner and nine other crewmen—all casualties of the Enterprise’s encounter with the galaxy’s edge. Before long, he would say goodbye to Piper too. He couldn’t stand the idea of losing anyone else.
Before long, the door panel slid aside and Sulu walked into the room. The astrophysicist was a slender man with dark hair and eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a ready smile. At the moment, however, he wasn’t smiling.
Sulu inclined his head in Kirk’s direction, then the Vulcan’s. “Captain,” he said. “Mr. Spock.”
“Have a seat,” Kirk said unceremoniously. He gestured to one with the hand encased in the cast.
Sulu pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Mr. Spock tells me you’ve requested a transfer,” the captain began. “Is this true?”
The lieutenant nodded. “It is, sir.”
“And what, may I ask, is the reason for it?”
Sulu didn’t answer right away. “I … probably should have discussed it with you first,” he told the captain.
“Not just probably, Lieutenant, but we’ll set that aside for the moment. What I want to know is …” He spread his hands in an appeal for reason. “Why, Hikaru? I thought you liked it here.”
Sulu frowned. “I do.”
“Then why leave?” Kirk pressed.
The man took a breath and let it out. “Sir … I know I never said anything about it, but I’ve been bored for a very long time.”
The captain’s eyes widened in surprise. “Bored, Lieutenant? Of serving on the Enterprise?”
“Bored of serving in astrophysics,” Sulu told him. “I mean, I found the subject absorbing at the Academy, and no less so when I went out into space. But …” He shrugged. “No disrespect to my colleagues here or at the Academy, sir, but I’m no longer fascinated.”
Kirk tapped his fingers on the table in front of him. “I see,” he said, sensing there was more the lieutenant wanted to say. “And if astrophysics doesn’t fascinate you, what does?”
“Well,” said Sulu, warming visibly to the subject, “I’ve been qualified to serve at the helm for some time now.”
“The helm?” Kirk blurted.
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant told him. “That’s why I asked for a transfer to another ship. I thought I’d have a better chance of becoming helmsman on a newly commissioned vessel.”
I should have seen this coming, the captain told himself. I should have realized something was up.
But he hadn’t. Distracted by other considerations, he had let Sulu’s helm qualification pass under his nose without taking any notice of it. And now, he was about to pay the price for his oversight.
Obviously, it was his week for paying prices.
But, as luck would have it, there was a solution. After all, the Enterprise had an opening for a helmsman these days. The funeral Kirk had just attended had made that painfully obvious.
He tendered the offer. Sulu absorbed the implications for a moment, then lowered his eyes. “Mr. Kelso would be a tough act to follow,” he said. “I don’t know if I’m up to that.”
The captain nodded. “I understand how you feel, Lieutenant. We all thought the world of Lieutenant Kelso. On the other hand, I don’t want a stranger coming in to pilot the Enterprise, which is what’ll happen if you decline the position. And frankly, I can’t think of anyone Kelso would rather see follow in his footsteps than you.”
Sulu blushed a little. “When you put it that way, sir, it’s difficult to say no.”
“That’s the idea,” Kirk confessed. “So … will you do it?”
The physicist took a moment to think about it. Finally, he nodded. “I’d be honored to, sir.”
The captain extended his hand, cast and all. Sulu clasped it gratefully.
“Thank you,” said the new helmsman.
“Thank you,” Kirk told him. “And now that that’s settled, I should tell you that you’ll be paired with a new navigator. A Lieutenant David Bailey, formerly of the Potemkin. He comes to us highly recommended, but he’ll need someone to show him the way we do things around here.”
“It’ll be my pleasure,” the lieutenant assured him.
Kirk smiled. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”
But if Sulu had a tough act to follow, Bailey’s challenge would be doubly difficult. After all, his predecessor was Gary Mitchell.
Sulu got up from his chair. “I’ll let everyone in astrophysics know what’s going on.” He paused. “Incidentally, sir, if you want my recommendation for a new section head …”
“Who would that be?” the captain asked.
“Tammy O’Shea,” said Sulu. “She’s got the experience and the respect of her colleagues. I think she’d do fine.”
Kirk nodded. “I’ll take that under consideration, Lieutenant. Now get going. Your shift at helm starts in a couple of hours.”
Sulu grinned. “Aye, sir. Thank you again, sir.” He inclined his head to Spock. “You too, Commander,” he told the Vulcan.
Then he left the briefing room, as satisfied as a man could be. The captain couldn’t help chuckling as he watched Sulu go.
“He was pleased,” Spock observed.
“That he was,” Kirk agreed. He glanced at his first officer. “That’s it, then, Mr. Spock? We’ve covered everything?”
“We have,” said the Vulcan. “You already know about Mr. Bailey and the other newcomers from our previous discussions.”
He started to turn off the monitor.
“Don’t,” said the captain.
Spock looked at him. “Sir?”
“I want to go over their files again,” Kirk explained. “The newcomers, I mean. Get to know them a little better before they arrive.”
“As you wish,” the first officer replied. He got up to go, then paused just shy of the threshold and turned around again. “Sir,” he said, “if you feel the need to speak of Lieutenant Mitchell again …”
The captain held his cast-covered hand up. “That’s all right, Spock. I appreciate the offer, but it’s not necessary. Really.”
To show the Vulcan he wasn’t lying, he smiled. Spock seemed to accept that as a token of his sincerity.
“Very well,” said the first officer. He exited the room without another word, leaving Kirk all alone.
The captain turned to the monitor in the center of the table, which continued to display Sulu’s personnel file. Leaning forward, he used the controls at the base of the monitor to open a new file—that of Lieutenant David Bailey, who would replace Gary at the navigation console.
Bailey had an impressive set of credentials, no question about it. At twenty-four, only two years out of the Academy, he had already earned himself a couple of medals and a set of lieutenant’s bands, along with a sparkling recommendation from the captain of the Carolina.
In fact, he reminded the captain a bit of himself at that age. Kirk, t
oo, had come with more than his share of accolades.
Of course, Bailey would need more than credentials and recommendations to win the trust of his colleagues. He would have to show them what he was made of. He would have to prove himself in a tight spot before they would consider him one of their own.
The captain grunted softly. After all, no one knew what it took to become an officer better than he did.
With Bailey’s background fresh in his mind again, Kirk closed the man’s file and opened another one. Leaning back in his chair, he considered the dark-skinned beauty whose image smiled back at him from the monitor, her expression and her bearing charged with confidence and enthusiasm.
As the captain recalled, the woman’s name was a difficult one to remember. But then, he was the one who had confused Smith with Jones.
“Let’s see,” he said, not wanting to make that particular mistake a second time. “You would be …” With some care, he read the name below the picture. “Ah, that’s right. Lieutenant Uhura.”
Chapter Three
Captain’s Personal Log, supplemental.
It’s been six days since we left Delta Vega, but I still feel hollowed out with grief I see my friend Gary all too frequently in my dreams, reaching out to me, begging me to spare his life—or taking mine in some ghastly turnaround of circumstances. I try to tell myself that these nightmares won’t go on forever—that, at some point, I’ll be able to put the events of Gary’s death behind me. After all, I’ve dealt with tragedy before.
SITTING IN HIS captain’s chair, Kirk watched Starbase 33 loom larger and larger on his forward viewscreen. One of the latest facilities built by the Federation, the station resembled a child’s top, its wide, circular body tapering to what looked like a point at its bottom.
No doubt it would be well equipped inside. It would have its share of specialty restaurants and shops, gymnasiums and rec lounges, theaters and botanical gardens. It would be a pleasant enough place to enjoy a well-deserved shore leave.
But there wouldn’t be any shore leave there for Kirk’s crew. Not this time, at least. He had made the trip for business, not pleasure.
“All stop,” he said.
“Aye, sir,” Alden responded from the helm as he worked to disengage the impulse engines. “All stop.”
The insectlike drone of the ship’s engines, always present, diminished. It made it that much easier to hear the bridge’s other sounds—the beeping of its consoles, the soft footfalls and muted conversation of its personnel.
Dezago swiveled in his seat at the communications console. “They’re hailing us, sir.”
“On screen,” said the captain.
A moment later, he saw the image of the starbase supplanted by that of an attractive, blond-haired junior officer. A full lieutenant, judging by the bands on the woman’s uniform.
“Welcome to Starbase Thirty-three, sir.” The woman somehow seemed cheerful and businesslike at the same time.
Kirk nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant … ?”
“Willoughby, sir. Mariah Willoughby,” the woman informed him. “Admiral Saylor’s attaché. The admiral’s informed me that he would like to see you at your earliest convenience.”
“I’m heading for my transporter room now,” the captain said. “Tell the admiral I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
“I’ll make the necessary arrangements with your transporter officer,” the lieutenant assured him. “Willoughby out.”
The woman disappeared, giving way to the image of the station. Kirk turned to his first officer.
“You’ve got the conn,” he told Spock.
“Aye, sir,” the Vulcan replied, leaving his science station to move to the center seat.
Out of habit, the captain took a quick look around to make sure everything was in good hands. It was, of course. Spock was a very capable commander and each bridge station was manned by a veteran operator.
Satisfied, Kirk headed for the turbolift. When the doors slid open in front of him, he entered the narrow lift compartment and punched in his destination. To the accompaniment of a high, shrill tone of increasing intensity, the lift began to move. The captain took a deep breath and waited to be deposited in the corridor outside the transporter room.
Debriefings, he thought. At best, they were a tedious and time-consuming activity. At times like this, when a mission had been marred by frustration and loss, they could be downright painful.
Still, Kirk recognized the need to conduct them. True, every starship sent out by the Fleet was outfitted with a sophisticated set of sensors—but the keenest data-gathering devices on board were the eyes, ears, and minds of its crew. No picture could be complete, no information thoroughly comprehended, without the crew’s sentient input.
As the captain thought that, the high, shrill tone diminished and the door to the turbolift opened, giving him access to the corridor outside. Exiting the lift, he turned left and headed for the ship’s only transporter room.
The doors to the place slid aside at his approach, revealing a man with lean features and straw-colored hair dressed in red-orange duty togs. The fellow turned away from his console and nodded to him.
“Good to see you, sir,” said Lieutenant Kyle.
“Same here,” Kirk responded. Though I wish it were under different circumstances, he added silently.
Crossing the room, the captain stepped up onto the transporter platform, as he had a hundred times since the Enterprise left Earth more than a year earlier. Then he turned to face Kyle.
“Ready when you are,” he told the technician.
“Aye, Captain,” said Kyle, his fingers darting across his controls with practiced ease. “Everything’s set, mind you. I’m just waiting for the base to lower her shields so we can proceed.”
Kirk sighed. Part of him wanted to get this over with and be on his way again. But another part of him wanted to linger at the starbase, no matter how uncomfortable he might find his time there.
After all, Gary’s parents were waiting for him on Earth—depending on him to deliver the eulogy at their son’s funeral. No doubt, being the type of people they were, they would embrace the captain as if he were the brother Gary had never had.
But how could he embrace the Mitchells in return? How could he speak to them or anyone else about his friend’s death when Kirk was the one who had engineered it?
He remembered the way the trigger of the phaser rifle had felt against his finger, the way the winds had howled and driven bits of debris into his face as he raised the weapon to his eyes. He could see Gary hauling himself out of the grave he himself had excavated, confident and determined, ready to destroy the captain with a single gesture.
“Sir?” said Kyle. “We’re ready now.”
Kirk shivered as he was drawn forcibly from his reverie. He was holding his cast again, he noticed. “Energize,” he told the lieutenant.
Kyle did as he was told. His console trilled, its red and green lights illuminating his features.
The captain didn’t feel anything as his molecules were drawn into the transporter’s pattern buffer, or as they were shot through space along an annular confinement beam and reorganized nearly half a kilometer away. He just knew suddenly that he was somewhere else.
In this case, that “somewhere else” was the star-base’s transporter facility, which was a good deal more spacious and comfortable-looking than the one on the Enterprise. Of course, Kirk reflected, it could afford to be. The station didn’t have to push itself all over the galaxy.
Lieutenant Willoughby, who had welcomed the captain to the base’s environs on his viewscreen, was present to welcome him in person as well. Nodding to the transporter operator to acknowledge a job well done, she advanced to the platform as Kirk stepped down.
“If you’ll come with me, sir,” she said, “the admiral is waiting in Briefing Room One.”
The captain grunted. “It’s nice to have so many briefing rooms you have to number them,” he told her.
With that, the lieutenant led him out of the transporter room and down a gently curving corridor. The ceilings, Kirk noted, were higher than those he had seen on other starbases. Apparently, headquarters was paying a little more attention to creature comforts these days.
A few moments later, the captain and his escort stopped in front of a set of double doors. The doors slid apart, revealing a long, angular space almost twice the size of the Enterprise’s briefing room.
There were two men inside. Kirk recognized one of them as Admiral Saylor, a tall, white-haired fellow with a thick mustache whom he had met a couple of years earlier at a Starfleet function in San Francisco. The other was a stocky, dark-haired man with a wide mouth, an overhanging brow, and captain’s bands decorating his sleeves.
“Jim,” said Saylor, coming around the table to greet him. He put his hand out, then saw the cast on Kirk’s wrist and tactfully withdrew the offer. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, sir,” the captain replied. He turned to the other man, whom he had never seen before.
The dark-haired man didn’t extend his hand. Instead, he inclined his head ever so slightly. “Francis Damion,” he said.
“Jim Kirk,” the captain told him.
“Yes,” Damion responded, without expression. “I know.”
Kirk noticed a faint antiseptic smell in the room—the kind one usually found in a lab. It gave him the feeling he was about to be dissected like a frog in some twentieth-century biology class.
“As you can imagine,” said the admiral, “Starfleet Command has been eager to hear the results of your mission, Jim. They’ve sent Captain Damion to conduct the debriefing.”
Kirk glanced at Saylor, a little confused. “I thought that was your function, Admiral. After all, it was you who assigned us the mission.”
The admiral looked vaguely apologetic. “Normally, of course, that would be the case,” he conceded. “However, Command has decided to handle this situation a bit differently.”
Constitution Page 3
