STAR TREK: TOS - Enterprise, The First Adventure

by Vonda N. McIntyre

  She combed her long copper hair, ruffled her heavy eyebrows, and clothed herself in layers of silk and leather. She fastened her belt around her hips, taking pleasure in the length of her trophy fringe, which draped to her knee. She tied a soft length of gold ribbon across her forehead to hold the corner of her veil. The veil itself she let fall loose from headband to shoulder. As an outcast she declined to cover her face. Her family had possessed sufficient rank for all its [36] members to veil themselves in public, but the family no longer existed, and would not again unless she reestablished it.

  “This is Commander Spock. May I have the attention of the officers of the Enterprise.”

  Sulu started when the announcement broke through his concentration.

  “The change-of-command ceremony will take place on the recreation deck in thirty minutes precisely. Dress is formal. Your presence is expected.”

  Sulu wondered where “Your presence is expected” fell in the spectrum between “Your presence would be welcome” and “You are ordered to attend.” Since everyone on the bridge immediately began shutting down their stations, he had to assume it was more nearly a direct order than a friendly suggestion. But a great deal of work remained to be done at the helm. Besides, he had not been a member of the crew under the previous captain, and he had not yet reported to his soon-to-be-ex-commander. A change-of-command ceremony between two officers he had never met had nothing to do with him and his nebulous position. He called up the next-to-last set of specs and started going through them.

  “Mr. Sulu.”

  He glanced up. Spock stood just behind him.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Your concentration is admirable. You apparently did not hear the announcement.”

  “I didn’t think the announcement applied to me, commander.”

  “Indeed. You have an ... interesting ... view on the subject of orders. Perhaps we should discuss this topic—at some future date when the pressure of time is not so strong.”

  “I didn’t serve under Commodore Pike, and I ...” Sulu let his voice trail off. His explanation was getting him nowhere with Mr. Spock.

  “If you leave the bridge immediately, you will be able to prepare yourself and report to the ceremony on time,” Spock said, as if Sulu had said nothing in his own defense.

  “Yes, sir.” He slung the saber scabbard over his shoulder.

  [37] “Mr. Sulu.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Starfleet formal attire does not include a dress saber.”

  Sulu blushed. “I know that, sir.”

  He left his station, aware till the lift doors closed of Mr. Spock’s enigmatic gaze fixed on a vulnerable point between his shoulder blades.

  The ship’s operating system had already taken his measure. By the time he found his cabin, the door recognized him and opened at his approach. He stepped inside and slipped the saber belt off his shoulder.

  First he noticed that someone had delivered his belongings to his cabin. Second he noticed that compared to an Academy dorm room, his cabin was enormous. It contained a bunk, a desk and chair, a comm terminal, a synthesizer outlet, a decadently large storage closet. On the frontier, one arrived with a minimum of possessions and left the same way. The fighter ships had no room for anything more than necessities, no extra fuel for pushing around excess mass.

  A set of hooks hung on the wall above the desk. They would be the perfect place for his saber—

  Wait a minute, he thought. I’m not going to be here long enough to make myself at home.

  He hurried to the synthesizer outlet and touched the control plate. Before he gave it any commands, it slid a formal uniform into his hands.

  “Commander Spock’s instructions,” the computer said.

  Everything was just a little too efficient around here for Hikaru’s taste.

  He jumped into the shower for a minute, jumped out, and put on the uniform and his boots. He had not quite had time to get all the sea spray out of his hair. Feeling aggravated, he left his cabin and went in search of the recreation deck.

  Though Jim stopped even tasting the drinks Vanli ordered, he did not get much more sober. Vanli grew more cheerful, more insistent, and more intoxicated.

  “A toast to Captain Kirk! I always said you’d make admiral, or prison, before you reached thirty.”

  “I’m twenty-nine, Vanli. I’d have to work at it to accomplish either within your time limit.”

  [38] “Ah, but you’re a captain, and I’m only a lowly lieutenant commander. You’ve traveled fast and far.”

  As the incipient depression of too little food and too much alcohol slid and sneaked through his system, Jim concluded that most of his achievements had occurred through a combination of good luck, good intuition, and good timing, not through deliberate efforts of intellectual, physical, or ethical strength. The exhilaration of success could briefly make him believe he could do anything, but the arrogance soon wore off and left him with only the truth.

  “Is that why you’re trying to get me drunk, Vanli?”

  “What? No! You deserve your prizes, and I deserve what I’ve won. Which isn’t half bad, come to think of it, except perhaps compared to you. No, oh, no ... I just thought, when I saw you, how funny Robbie was on the day he got his commission ...” Vanli collapsed across the table, his tentacles twining and twisting over his eyes, his breath blowing hot and cold with laughter.

  Jim blushed. At the time, getting Robbie drunk had seemed like a good joke. He looked decidedly green during the ceremony at which he was commissioned. As green was not his natural color, his commanding officer noticed his distress. Fortunately, he put it down to nerves. In retrospect, the joke seemed juvenile and cruel.

  “Vanli?” His friend’s breath had evened out; he was asleep. “Come on, Vanli, time to go.”

  When Vanli slept, his whole body attained the consistency of his tentacles.

  Jim looked at the time. Shocked, he jumped up. Unless he hurried, he was going to be late for change of command.

  “Vanli!” He shook Vanli’s arm. Vanli gave a muffled grunt. He jammed his shoulder under one of Vanli’s arms and heaved him up. Since his friend weighed several metric tons, Jim could only guide him in a direction he was willing to go. Vanli stood, happily sluggish, unsteady.

  “Are we going to another paarty?”

  “We’re going back to your ship,” Jim said.

  Vanli tried to sit down again. Jim staggered. His right knee twinged a warning.

  “Maybe there’s another party.” Just because Jim did not know about it did not make it untrue.

  [39] “Oh, well, aall right.” The weight on Jim’s shoulder eased, from crushing to merely painful. “Another paarty?”

  Jim fumbled for the credit recorder and winced when he saw the bill. He paid for the drinks with one hand and guided Vanli away from the floor with the other.

  “Let’s go.”

  “O-kaay, Jaime.” Vanli began to make a buzzing, purring noise, his equivalent of a contented hum. Though he could move faster than any human being when he chose, he ambled with frustrating sloth.

  “Come on, Vanli. If you don’t hurry, I’m going to be late. Damn your so-called sense of humor, anyway.”

  Vanli chuckled. “You’ll thank me, Jaime.”

  “Thank you? For trying to get me drunk before change of command?”

  “Some ceremonies are better endured with the use of a crutch,” Vanli said.

  “A crutch is what I’m going to need, after I get you back to your ship. Can’t you walk by yourself?”

  He extricated himself from the confusion of Vanli’s arm and tentacles and rubbed his own shoulder.

  “Waaalk by myself? Of couaaarse.”

  Like a great tree cut off at the roots, Vanli toppled slowly, gracefully, and with enormous dignity. Jim grabbed him and pushed with all his force to keep his friend upright.

  “You see?” Vanli said. “I’m quite caapable of naavigaating on my own. You maay proceed aalone.” />
  “I couldn’t possibly,” Jim said. “What would I do without you?”

  They reached the bay where Vanli’s ship and the Enterprise lay docked.

  On one of Vanli’s digressions, Jim guided him out of the main passageway, through deserted conference rooms and storage lockers. If he took Vanli through the kitchen, which ought to be deserted, they would be nearly as far down the mooring bay as Vanli’s ship. From there, Jim could take him to his cabin with a minimum of fuss.

  Sounds emanated from the kitchen. A crew must be cleaning it after some gathering of VIPs deemed too important or too particular to be served a meal from the synthesizer. Jim wondered what celebration had taken place, and [40] when, and if he had been invited but missed the invitation in the midst of his preoccupation with Carol and with Gary, and, if he had not been invited, why.

  Jim pushed open the kitchen door.

  Steam and the scent of several worlds’ delicacies wafted past. He stopped, astonished.

  What’s going on? he thought. What VIPs are on Space-dock that I didn’t even hear about? I usually keep up on Starfleet matters—or at least on the grapevine, at least when I’m near home port.

  Deciding that it would be easier to lead Vanli through the kitchen than to renegotiate the back route, Jim guided him through the door.

  “Mmm, dinner,” Vahli said, looking around and blinking his huge amber eyes. He snagged a pastry from a carefully arranged tray.

  “Hands off, Vanli!”

  “It waas too symmetrical.” Vanli munched contentedly. “Not baad.”

  A tall being with silvery skin, wearing a traditional white chef’s hat and carrying a long wire whisk dripping with batter in one seven-fingered hand, confronted them.

  “You cannot come in here.”

  “Got turned around,” Jim said. “We’ll just go out that way, all right?” He gestured toward the far door and tried to guide Vanli past the chef.

  Vanli flicked one tentacle toward the whisk and scooped off a drop of the batter. Momentarily speechless with outrage, the chef glared from Vanli to his whisk and back again.

  Jim tried to hurry Vanli along, but Vanli paused to lick the batter off his tentacle.

  “Mmm,” he said. “Compliments to the chef. Chocolate. My favorite. Earth’s only major contribution to the galaxy.”

  “Get out of here!” The chef waved the whisk at them, scattering blobs of chocolate cake batter around the kitchen and on Vanli and Jim. The chef herded them toward the nearest exit. Jim tried to help Vanli along and wipe the chocolate off his shirt at the same time.

  The chef hurried them out of the kitchen and into the corridor. The door slid shut behind them and whined as it locked.

  [41] Jim stopped short. They were immediately across from the Enterprise’s docking bay. People had already begun to gather. Most stood gazing through the viewports, their backs to Jim, watching the moored Enterprise and the activity inside Spacedock. No one yet had noticed Jim and Vanli. Jim could hear another group of people approaching from beyond the curve of the corridor, and he could swear he recognized the voice of Admiral Noguchi, congratulating Christopher Pike on his promotion to commodore.

  Far from preparing for a ceremony of which he was not aware, the chefs and subchefs and staff worked to create a celebration for the officer he was replacing. Given Chris Pike’s reputation, Jim should have realized that the change-of-command ceremony would be much more than a small, matter-of-fact transfer.

  “Vanli, we’ve got to get out of here,” he whispered, keeping himself between Vanli and the wall.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Vanli’s voice rumbled through the corridor.

  Jim ducked his head, hoping the Starfleet people would only notice Vanli, who strolled leisurely around the next bend in the corridor despite Jim’s attempts to hurry him along.

  Jim breathed a sigh of relief. The hatch leading to Vanli’s ship lay just ahead.

  The officer of the day pretended not to notice Vanli’s state of inebriation, and she did not even raise an eyebrow at the chocolate cake batter.

  “Permission to come aboard, lieutenant.”

  “Permission granted.”

  Jim hurried Vanli into the nearest turbo-lift. As the doors closed, he thought he heard the officer of the day giggling, but he could not be sure.

  The lift carried them to officers’ quarters. Jim found Vanli’s cabin and gratefully let him curl up on his bunk.

  “There’s aa bottle of saaurian brandy in my cupboard,” Vanli said. “Let’s have aa toast to your new mission.”

  “Neither of us needs any brandy, saurian or otherwise,” Jim said. He jabbed at the keys of the synthesizer. Flinging off his civvies, he ran through Vanli’s shower. By the time the sonics had finished vibrating the cake batter out of his [42] hair, the synthesizer had delivered his uniform and Vanli had fallen asleep once more. Jim struggled into the uniform—drat the fancy belt!—and pulled on his boots and hurriedly combed his hair with his fingers.

  At the door, he glanced back at Vanli.

  “Sleep well, Vanli.”

  Jim bolted for the turbo-lift.

  He raced toward the docking bay, passing the officer of the day again.

  “Clear sailing, captain,” she said as he went by.

  Chapter 2

  JIM POUNDED THROUGH the Spacedock corridor toward the Enterprise. He slid to a halt. He could hear the low murmur of a crowd of people. Gasping, he straightened his formal tunic.

  Lightheaded, still panting, Jim made himself breathe regularly. He forced himself into a semblance of composure.

  He strode around a bend. VIPs packed the access tunnel. Starfleet officers, civilian dignitaries, and reporters from every news medium in the Federation all focused their attention on the other end of the corridor.

  “Excuse me,” Jim said to someone at the back of the crowd. “I’m supposed to be up front.” As he moved through the crush, he became acutely aware of the eyes—pairs of eyes, circles of eyes, compound eyes—swiveling toward him. Everyone had come to congratulate Christopher Pike on his promotion to commodore, but at the moment most of them were staring at Jim.

  Captain James T. Kirk, outwardly calm, pretending he barely noticed the gathering of half the brass in the Federation, strode toward Admiral Noguchi and Commodore Pike.

  As he passed among the blue or red or gold of Starfleet uniforms, the black wool or brilliant silks of civilian formal clothing, two people more plainly dressed caught his attention. He stopped short. His composure evaporated.

  “Mom! Sam—!” He hurried to them, hugged his mother, and clasped his elder brother’s hand. “What are you doing here? When did you get here? How long can you stay?”

  [44] His mother smiled. “We came to see you take command of the Enterprise, of course,” she said.

  “But if you don’t hurry up,” Sam said, “they’re going to auction it off to the highest bidder.”

  Jim glanced at Noguchi and Pike. Far from being ready to find someone else to take over Jim’s command, Noguchi looked patient and amused. Anyone who spent time in space understood that the joy of seeing one’s friends or relatives after long separation overwhelmed mere protocol.

  Why, then, did Chris Pike stare at him with such grim disapproval?

  Jim hugged his mother again, clapped Sam on the shoulder, and joined Noguchi and Pike, taking his place at Pike’s left hand. The three walked together through the access tunnel to the Enterprise. The onlookers followed.

  For the first time—officially—Jim approached the Enterprise. He had to behave as if he had never seen it before, as if he had not spent early-morning hours walking through its deserted corridors, its bridge and engine room and sick bay, its labs and computer section, even its arboretum and its recreation deck.

  A tall, ascetically spare Vulcan stood at the main entrance hatch of the Enterprise. He wore a formal uniform in the blue of the science section!

  This must be Commander Spock, the science officer of the
Enterprise. Jim knew his reputation, but almost nothing of the Vulcan himself.

  Jim had little use for science officers. They always wanted to impart far more unsolicited information than he needed at any given moment about any given problem. And every time he had made the mistake of actually asking a science officer a question, he had ended up feeling that he might as well be back in an Academy lecture hall.

  Jim probably would not have much interaction with Commander Spock. With any luck, the Vulcan would be one of those withdrawn intellectual types who preferred to remain secluded with experiments somewhere in the depths of the ship’s laboratories.

  “Permission to come aboard, Commander Spock.”

  “Permission granted.” The Vulcan spoke in a completely [45] emotionless tone. He stepped aside for Commodore Pike. “The ship, sir, is yours.”

  Without responding, Pike boarded the Enterprise.

  As Jim passed Commander Spock, the Vulcan regarded him briefly, coolly, hardly appearing to notice him at all.

  Mr. Spock took James Kirk’s measure as the young captain followed Commodore Pike onto the Enterprise. The science officer had made it his business to learn about Captain Kirk. Starfleet was handing the ship over to a hero.

  Commander Spock had little use for heroes. Whatever the self-sacrifice required for heroism, however commendable or admirable the actions might be, a person could only become a hero within an environment of chaos and destruction. In Commander Spock’s view, foresight and rationality should prevent the evolution of any such environment. He wondered if James Kirk, facing a crisis, would choose rationality, or succumb to the lure of heroism.

  The recreation deck had been turned into a reception hall. All the starship’s officers had gathered there. A podium and lectern stood on the stage at one end; tables along one wall held trays of delicacies, ranks of champagne bottles, rows of sparkling glasses.

  Commodore Pike led Admiral Noguchi and James Kirk to the stage. Noguchi invited the audience to be seated, paused for them to settle, and launched into a speech.