STAR TREK: TOS - Enterprise, The First Adventure

by Vonda N. McIntyre

  Though he was far from intoxicated, Jim had drunk enough to feel slightly disconnected from himself and his surroundings. His attention kept drifting. He sought out his family, wondering how long they could stay and how much time he would be able to spend with them. Astonished and delighted by their presence, he nevertheless wished they had come for some other occasion, or no occasion at all, when he could go on leave and give them his full attention.

  Mom looks well, he thought. Much better than when she decided to go to Deneva to visit Aurelan and Sam. Dad’s death hit us all, but it hit her hardest.

  His vision blurred. Applause began. Jim jerked his attention to the present. Admiral Noguchi had finished his speech. Blinking furiously, Jim clapped politely and hoped no one noticed he was fighting tears. He had no idea what [46] Noguchi had said. For all he knew, Jim was applauding a compliment directed toward Starfleet’s youngest captain.

  Noguchi surrendered the lectern. Pike stepped forward, paused, and spoke with great deliberation.

  Jim did not know Pike well. He had not even crossed his path for several years. But the commodore’s appearance shocked him. Pike was only fifteen years older than Jim. Yet he looked so old—! Gray flecked his dark hair, and two vertical lines furrowed his cheeks. Pain or grief or exhaustion deepened his eyes.

  “... And I know,” Pike said, “that Captain Kirk will find the Enterprise and its crew as faithful as I did.”

  Pike’s eyes, too, filled with tears. Jim imagined himself in Pike’s place: an honored officer; a commodore who would soon command far more than a single ship.

  Far more, and far less. Without his own ship, he was planetbound and deskbound, responsible to a bureaucracy rather than to a quest for exploration and knowledge. For all Pike’s honors and rank, Jim Kirk would not have traded places with him for anything in the universe.

  “Captain,” Pike said. “The starship Enterprise is yours.” He shook Jim’s hand.

  After more polite applause, the audience fell silent. They looked at Jim. His mother and his brother looked at him. Pike looked at him. Noguchi looked at him. Jim had worried for days about what he should say, but he had somehow never got around to writing anything down. His hands grew cold and damp.

  He hoped his hesitation would be taken for dignity or for a becoming modesty rather than for the utter terror it was. He hated public speaking. Jim Kirk’s father had been a champion debater; Jim had sought out the extracurricular activity that conflicted most efficiently with debate, then joined it: the Academy judo team. He could get slammed onto a tatami mat several hundred times each evening, or he could get up to speak in front of several hundred people several times each month. He preferred the former then; he preferred it now. But he would not get out of this obligation with an exhibition of martial arts.

  He clenched his hands around the edges of the lectern. The hard wood corners cut into his palms. Jim imagined that [47] the whole Enterprise crew watched him with skepticism, compared him to Chris Pike, and found him lacking; he imagined that the Starfleet brass already wondered what in the universe could explain the hotshot reputation of this sweaty, speechless starship proto-commander. He wondered the same thing himself, not for the first time.

  At the most important point of his career, he could think of no words at all. Living up to the expectation of his superiors, his peers, his family, living up to his own expectations, would take effort and discipline, every bit he possessed ... and perhaps more. That was what scared him.

  And it was the last thing he could say out loud.

  “I ...” He stopped, wishing desperately for inspiration. He caught Sam’s eye. Sam put on an expression of rapt attention. Jim looked away. “I’ll do my best to follow the tradition Commodore Pike has begun, for the starship Enterprise and for its officers and crew.” He blurted out the words. If he looked at Sam, he would dissolve into laughter. He wanted to groan with embarrassment. What had he said? What did it mean? He should have been able to come up with something better than a line an ingenuous Cub Scout would disdain to use.

  Yet the audience applauded him as politely as they had Noguchi, if not with the respect and admiration they had offered Pike. Jim remembered the one rule of public speaking that he did know: Shorter is better.

  He surreptitiously rubbed his clammy palms down the sides of his pants just as Admiral Noguchi reached out to shake his hand.

  Jim hoped Noguchi would return to the lectern and announce the next mission of the Enterprise. And he hoped he knew what it would be. The Federation was poised on the edge of an unprecedented expansion of the boundaries of explored space. Jim wanted to be in the vanguard of the discovery of new worlds, the contact with new peoples, the search for knowledge. He knew that the Federation planned an expedition toward the heart of the galaxy, to a region high in type G stars. Around such suns, carbon-based life, “life as we know it,” had the best chance to appear and to evolve.

  Jim wanted that mission. He wanted it so badly he could reach out and feel its shape with his empty hands. He had [48] some hope of getting it, some hint that it might be given him. And Starfleet owed him this one.

  They could hold only a single factor against him. He had never left Federation space. He had never participated in a first contact.

  But Christopher Pike had the most first-contact experience of any officer in Starfleet. They were not giving the mission to him.

  So obviously, Jim thought, they ought to give it to me.

  But Noguchi said nothing of what he planned for his newest captain. A chime called attention to refreshments. Stewards popped corks from bottles. In a moment, the ceremonial atmosphere changed to the ambience of a party.

  “Congratulations, captain.” Noguchi smiled mischievously. “I have a surprise for you. No, don’t quiz me. It’s nearly ready, just be patient.”

  Jim felt that Noguchi had as good as told him his next assignment: the exploration voyage. His excitement and anticipation and joy felt like the bubbles in champagne.

  “Hey, Jim—”

  Sam’s arm fell across his shoulders. Jim turned toward his brother. Sam grinned. Jim no longer tried to hold back his laughter.

  “Great speech,” Sam said.

  “I agree completely,” their mother said, smiling.

  “Thank you, thank you.” Jim gave mock bows to the points of the compass.

  “Winona,” Admiral Noguchi said to Jim’s mother. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Especially now.”

  “It’s been a long time, Kimitake, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes. A long time. Since before ...” Noguchi stopped. “Well. George would have been very proud, I think.”

  “Yes. He would.”

  Noguchi offered Jim’s mother his arm. “We mustn’t offend the chefs by ignoring their day’s work,” he said. “I understand they’ve created quite a spread for us.”

  “Absolutely true,” Jim said, then, quickly, “I mean ... I heard the same thing.”

  Noguchi looked straight at him. “I’m told that the chocolate cake is particularly delectable. Winona?”

  “Thank you, Kimi.”

  [49] They walked away arm in arm, leaving Jim speechless.

  “Jim, seriously, congratulations.”

  Jim grabbed his brother by both shoulders. “My lord, I’m glad to see you. When did you get in? Where’s Aurelan? How’s my nephew? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  “We just arrived. There’s a xenobiology conference, so we got our ways paid. We weren’t certain we’d arrive in time for the ceremony. We figured if we did, we’d surprise you. Peter’s fine—he’s learning geometry. Aurelan—” He smiled fondly. “She sends her love. But she’s in the middle of an experiment and she couldn’t leave it.”

  “You look great, Sam. Everything’s going well?”

  “Never better.”

  His elder brother was a handsbreadth taller than Jim, a handsbreadth wider across the shoulders. Living on a frontier world had tanned his skin and put lines ar
ound his eyes and mouth, good lines, of laughter and of squinting into the distance of a new planet. His eyes were the same hazel as Jim’s, the same as their father’s. Deneva’s sun had bleached Sam’s dark blond hair to streaky gold.

  At the buffet, Sam handed him a glass of champagne, took one himself, and raised it in a toast.

  “To my little brother and his ship.” He drank.

  Jim accepted the toast, but the last thing he wanted was a glass of wine. He exchanged it for a glass of sparkling cider.

  “How’s Mitch doing?” Sam asked. “And Where’s Len McCoy?”

  “Gary’s recovering. They claim. As for McCoy, damned if I know. I expected him to be here. Listen, Sam, Starfleet hasn’t given me the orders for the Enterprise yet. If it’s what I think—what I hope it is, it’s going to take us a while to get ready. I’ll have a little free time to spend with you and Mom.”

  “That would be great. But Jim—you’ve been waiting for this ship since you were fourteen. We didn’t come here to hold you back from it. Don’t worry. If we don’t have time to catch up now, we will later.”

  “Yes ... but it’s been so long since I saw you.”

  “Mom’s coming back to earth,” Sam said. “Deneva’s done her good. And she loves being a grandmother. I never [50] saw her enjoy anything as much as she enjoys spoiling Peter. Jim, you: ought to—” He stopped, heeding Jim’s expression.

  What I ought to do, Jim thought, is tell Sam what a fool I made of myself in front of Carol this afternoon.

  “You ought to visit us and see how you like being an uncle,” Sam said. “Anyway, Mom and Aurelan and I wrote a paper—it’s coming out in Jox. She wants to follow up on it on earth. In Iowa, back on the homestead.”

  “That’s good news,” Jim said. If their mother was able to work again in the field she loved so much, then she had escaped the depression into which their father’s death had plunged her. And despite the offhand way in which Sam tossed it off, placing a paper in the Journal of Xenobiology carried a great deal of prestige.

  Sam nibbled on the corner of a slice of cake. “Jim, aren’t you going to enjoy your own party? Kimitake was right—the chocolate cake is terrific.”

  “Captain Kirk.”

  Jim turned. “Commodore Pike,” he said. “Congratulations. Sir, this is my brother, Sam Kirk.”

  “Dr. Kirk.” Pike barely nodded. “You’ll excuse us.”

  “Certainly,” Sam said pleasantly, as if Pike had not as much as told him to get lost. “Talk to you later, Jim.”

  Pike stalked off. Jim had little choice but to follow.

  “This is a good ship,” Pike said. “A good crew.” Pike could have eased the tension by putting them on a first-name basis, but he chose more formal terms. “They’ll take care of you, captain. Do them the same courtesy.”

  “I’ll do my best, commodore.”

  “Well. You’ll want to meet your other officers. The Enterprise’s previous first officer received her own command. Your science officer will fill the position.”

  Jim was too startled to be diplomatic. “Commodore, I’m sorry if this conflicts with the plans of Commander Spock, but I’ve nominated Gary Mitchell to the position of first officer—” As he spoke, the party suddenly fell into one of those odd random silences. Jim shut up. At the same time, a vehement Scottish burr cut into the quiet.

  “I canna understand why Starfleet will persist in handin’ [51] over its best ships to inexperienced tyros—” He heard his own voice. He stopped.

  Pike had brought Jim to a group of three officers. They turned, wondering if he had overheard them, just as he wondered if they had overheard his tactless remark.

  “Captain Kirk,” Pike said, “Commander Spock.”

  “Commander Spock,” Jim said. He refrained from offering to shake the Vulcan’s hand, not through resentment but because he knew Vulcans preferred not to be touched.

  “Captain Kirk.” Commander Spock acknowledged him with an inclination of his head. He showed no sign of having overheard Jim’s conversation with Pike.

  “Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott.”

  “Mr. Scott.”

  “How d’ye do, sir,” the engineer said stiffly. The compact, stocky engineer had to fumble his champagne glass from right to left before he could shake hands with Kirk. He wore his uniform jacket with a kilt and sporran. “Ye have the finest ship in Starfleet to live up to, captain.”

  “I’m sure I do, Mr. Scott.” Jim tried to give no more sign than any Vulcan that he knew what Scott thought of him, and he chose not to notice Scott’s implied challenge.

  “And Lieutenant Uhura, your communications officer.”

  “Captain Kirk,” she said, her voice low and musical.

  Her long, fine hand curved gently around his. He expected fragility. Instead he sensed the strength of intensity, the firmness of intelligence. He forgot his uneasiness, Scott’s belligerence, Spock’s unreadable expression.

  Beginning with his first command, Jim had trained himself not to get involved with anyone to whom he might have to give an order. Interactions between commander and subordinates must be kept at an impersonal level. Anything more than strict civility could wreck morale faster and more thoroughly than any outside force. So Jim schooled himself not to react to beauty, at least not under shipboard conditions. He made himself nearly impervious to charm, and he resisted becoming too friendly with anyone, man or woman, whom he commanded.

  Meeting Lieutenant Uhura made him wish he was still a second lieutenant, free of all the responsibilities a captain [52] carried, so he could sit at her feet and gaze into her deep brown eyes and listen to a voice like song.

  She drew her hand away. Jim realized he had been gaping at her like a witless schoolboy.

  “Er, yes, Lieutenant Uhura. Glad to make your acquaintance.”

  The three officers had spent years working out the formula by which they interacted. James Kirk introduced a new unknown into the equation. They sized him up, measured him, and wondered if he could center himself within their orbits, or if, like a rogue star, he would enter their system on a hyperbolic course, perturb their paths, and leave chaos behind him.

  Pike started to say something, then apparently thought better of it.

  “I have an appointment,” he said. “I’ll have to take my leave of you now. Uhura, Scotty—”

  “Good-bye, sir.”

  “Fare ye well, sir.”

  “And Mr. Spock ...”

  “Live long and prosper, Commodore Pike.”

  “Thank you.”

  He turned and walked away, straight and tense.

  On the other side of the rec deck, Hikaru Sulu stood alone, holding a glass of champagne he had snagged from a steward so he would have something in his hand. Drinking anything would put him straight to sleep. Other than a few hours’ nap on the beach, he had not slept in two days.

  Compared to parties at the Academy dorm, this party remained horribly staid. He supposed the same would be true of most formal Starfleet affairs. Hikaru knew no one; all the other guests stood in tight clusters, offering little opportunity for him to introduce himself.

  He compared this experience to the time five years ago, back on Ganjitsu, when he had sneaked on board Aerfen to have a look around. Of course he got caught, but instead of tossing the fifteen-year-old colonist out, Hunter’s second in command showed him around. He had felt welcomed. On the Enterprise, he felt alien.

  Never mind; with any luck he would be gone before he got acquainted with anyone.

  [53] He could not help overhearing conversations. They helped him understand the somber mood. The officers of the Enterprise regretted the departure of Christopher Pike. They were not sure what to expect of the new captain. They had heard the confused official reports from Ghioghe: James Kirk had lost his ship in that disaster, but in doing so he had saved the lives of many people and nearly lost his own. He had come out of it with a medal, a promotion ... and the Enterprise. They knew his reputation: youn
gest midshipman ever to enter the Academy, youngest captain in Starfleet. But no one knew if Kirk was a hotshot space jockey who worked his crew like machines and kept all the glory, or if he included his people in a partnership of sentient beings worthy of a share in the honors as well as the risks.

  “Hikaru?”

  Surprised to hear his given name, Sulu turned.

  “Dr. Kirk!” he said.

  “I thought it was you,” Sam Kirk said. “How are you? My gods, you were just a kid when I saw you last.” He grinned and shook his head ruefully. “Why do people always say that to their friends’ children?”

  “I don’t know, doctor,” Sulu said.

  “My name’s Sam. When you were twelve, okay, I was ‘Dr. Kirk.’ But here you are, in Starfleet—in the Academy?”

  “I just graduated.”

  “Congratulations. How are your folks?”

  “They’re fine. I think. Sometimes it’s hard to tell from letters. I call them when I can.”

  “When did you see them last?”

  “I haven’t been home since I entered the Academy. It’s too far, too expensive. I was hoping to get out there pretty soon, but ...” He stopped. It was all too easy to remember the homesickness he had felt his whole first year at the Academy, too easy to let in the pain of expectations disappointed. “But that isn’t going to work out.” He changed the subject. “Are you related to Captain Kirk?”

  “Jim’s my kid brother. He’s following the family tradition.” Sam gestured, indicating the ship, meaning Starfleet in general. “I was sorry to see that your mother isn’t attending the xeno conference.”

  “She couldn’t. She’s way out by the Orion frontier. It’s a [54] ten-week trip by passenger liner. She couldn’t afford to leave for the whole growing season.”

  “And your father? I just bought his new collection. He really does catch the feel of living and working on a new world.” Sam chuckled. “The first time I read one of his poems, I thought, well, that looks easy, anybody can be a poet. So I tried it. It isn’t easy. In fact, I can’t do it at all.”

  “Not many can,” Hikaru said. When he was much younger he used to wonder exactly what his father did. Sometimes it seemed like he did nothing. A few years later, when Hikaru tried his own hand at poetry, he learned how much work went into its creation. Even the “nothing” time was hard work.