The comm screen flickered. The geometric design of a commercial concierge appeared.
“Starfleet Teaching Hospital. Is this an emergency?”
“No, but this is Captain—”
“Please hold.”
The image dissolved into pastel shapes, pastel music.
Jim knew the argument against abandoning Starbase 13 and relocating the people in its system. It would be perceived as a retreat. But Jim believed consolidation would prove far less provocative than continuing to rub the empire’s nose in the existence of the Phalanx, especially if the Klingons knew the jokes the name brought on, or if their customs suggested similar crude humor.
“Thank you for holding,” the hospital’s concierge said. “What is your name, please?”
“Captain James T. Kirk, starship Enterprise.”
“How may I help you?”
“Let me speak to Lieutenant Commander Gary Mitchell.”
“What is your relationship to Commander Mitchell?”
“I’m his C.O.” Jim doubted “best friend” would get very far with the hospital bureaucracy.
The image of a hospital room formed on the screen.
“Gary?”
Gary Mitchell still lay immersed in the regen gel. His eyes were closed; his dark hair fell across his forehead. If he were awake, aware, he would flip it back with a toss of his head; he would say that he really had to get a haircut; and then he would laugh and his hair would slide across his forehead again.
Gary looked frail and ill. His face was thin, his eyes deep and dark-circled. Jim blinked—and Ghioghe returned, the pain of his crushed ribs and shattered knee, the scarlet haze enveloping the universe when a deep cut across his forehead bled into his eyes. Other sentient beings bled that day: Jim remembered the blood. It slicked the deck, it beaded up and floated like drifts of a child’s blown bubbles wherever the gravity failed. Red blood and yellow mixed into an intense burnt-orange; blue blood, dense and immiscible, flowed in [127] separate rivulets beneath patches of human blood, breaking out at the edge of a scarlet pool, expanding and glistening.
Jim caught his breath and shook off the flashback. He had thought he was done with all that.
Gary’s eyelids flickered.
“Gary—?”
Gary moved restlessly. He came awake all at once, with a gasp and a start. Jim remembered how he had felt, engulfed in the regen bed, restrained gently but irrevocably. Those last few days as the drugs began to fade, he would try to move, try to turn or shift in his sleep, try to fight the restraint. It exhausted and infuriated him and held his freedom out of reach.
“Jim ... ?” Gary’s voice was as frail as his body. “Hey, kid ... did we make it through this one?”
“We sure did, Gary. Thanks to you.”
“Let’s not let them solve things that way again,” Gary said. “Let’s make them find some other way.”
“That suits me,” Jim said. “Gary, I just wanted to see how you were doing.” He did not have the heart to tell Gary he had been overruled in his choice of first officer. Gary wanted the promotion as much as Jim wanted someone he knew and trusted as his second in command. The bad news could wait till Gary regained his strength. “It’s good to have you back, my friend,” Jim said. “Go to sleep, now. I know how it is. Go back to sleep.”
“Who can sleep,” Gary said, “who’s covered with green slime?” He tried to laugh.
“You can.” Jim grabbed at the anguish and relief he felt and clutched them tight.
Gary’s eyelids drooped, but he jerked awake again. “Don’t you leave without me, kid. Leave Federation space without me, and you’re in lots and lots of trouble.” He struggled against it, but sleep took him.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” Jim said. “We’ll be ready for you when you’re ready for us.”
He broke the connection.
Jim flung himself into a chair in Dr. McCoy’s office and put his feet on the desk, taking considerable pleasure in the solid thud of boot heels on wood.
[128] “Do come in,” McCoy said. “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”
“The good news is, Gary’s awake.”
“He is! That is good news, Jim.”
“I just got off the comm with him. He’s still pretty groggy—but he’s going to be all right, Bones.”
“I never doubted it for a minute,” McCoy said. “What’s the bad news?”
“The bad news is, I took your advice—”
“And you’ve come for your medical appointment without my having to send out the hounds! Hallelujah, brothers!” He rose. “Into the coverall with you.”
“No, no—I don’t have time for an exam. I mean I took your advice about a yeoman.”
“And—?”
“And every time I speak to her, I scare her. She’s a real case. She apologizes continuously.”
“Continually,” McCoy said.
“No, dammit, continuously. Every time she says anything, she starts out with ‘I’m sorry.’ ”
“Sounds pretty neurotic to me, all right.”
“If that’s true, how’d she get into Starfleet?”
McCoy laughed. “Jim, are you kidding? If Starfleet turned people down because of a major neurosis here or there, it’d have enough personnel for ... oh, maybe one space cruiser. A small space cruiser.”
“But—”
“We’ve all got our neuroses. I do, you do. Everybody.”
“With the exception, I’m sure, of our Mr. Spock.”
“Spock! Spock worst of all! He represses all of half his heritage and most of the rest of it. Vulcans’ worst neurosis is they really believe they’re sane!”
“What do you mean, half his heritage?”
“His human half, of course. On his mother’s side, I believe.”
“I thought he was a Vulcan.”
“So does he,” McCoy said dryly.
“What else do you know about him?”
“He isn’t much for idle chatter. I’ve heard of him, of course. Then there’s the usual stuff in the medical record. Incredible education the man’s got, and he’s taken [129] advantage of his opportunities—he’s worked with people most of the rest of us would be lucky ever to meet.”
“What do you mean, Bones? That he’s well connected or that he’s bright?”
“Bright? Bright hardly begins to describe him. He’s brilliant, Jim. As for the other ... he’s only well connected if you count the relatives who are top-ranked diplomats or senior research scientists.” McCoy grinned. “To tell you the truth, I never heard of a Vulcan whose family wasn’t well connected.”
Jim felt in no mood to be amused. “Is that why he got promoted over Gary?”
“Because he has family connections and Mitch doesn’t? I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”
“I can see that: ‘Say, Commander Spock, is your success due to nepotism?’ ” Jim shook his head. “I’m not being fair. I know it. I haven’t given him a chance. It’s only ...” He changed the subject. “What am I going to do about Yeoman Rand?”
“Is her work poor?”
“Not at all. She made noise about her lack of experience, then pushed two buttons and the files made sense.”
“You aren’t looking for a graceful way to demote her and send her back to quartermaster?”
“No, I just want her to stop flinching when I talk to her! I hope she doesn’t turn up all bright-eyed at my cabin two hours before breakfast anymore, either. That much enthusiasm is hard to take at dawn.”
“Hmm,” McCoy said.
“She has to use the comm unit,” Jim said defensively.
“Why does she have to use your comm?”
“She has to work someplace—she can’t spread my papers out all over the bridge.”
“Is the yeoman’s comm broken?”
“What yeoman’s comm?”
McCoy sighed and gazed in supplication at the ceiling. “Jim, you’re still thinking in space-cruiser terms—and you need a gra
nd tour of your own ship. Including the yeoman’s cabin, which is down the corridor from yours.” His voice trailed off. “Jim, you didn’t promote her out of seniority, then leave her in crew’s quarters?”
[130] “She’s who quartermaster sent, so she’s who I promoted. As for the other—I never thought about it.”
“That’s hard on morale. Have her move. Then one of your problems is solved. Maybe two—maybe she flinches because the promotion’s gotten her some heavy hazing.”
“I doubt it. She flinched from the beginning.”
“Then the flinching may take longer. I’ll talk to her during her exam and see if I can find out what’s wrong.”
“Look, if she’s seriously disturbed—”
“Jim! Half the time our neuroses are what allow us to function as well as we do in the circumstances we pick. I could give examples, present company included, but I don’t have time to psychoanalyze you today. Though I would have had time to give you your physical, if I’d started when you got here.”
Jim grinned. “So you would.”
“But I don’t now. So buzz off, I’ve got another appointment in ten minutes.”
“Buzz off? Is that any way to speak to your C.O.?”
“Buzz off, sir.”
In a secluded alcove of the officers’ lounge, Mr. Spock took up the challenge of a three-dimensional chess problem.
Ordinarily, Spock could concentrate with such intensity that he ceased to perceive voices and sounds. But this evening a strange, monotonous drone reverberated into his peaceful solitude.
At a table nearby sat several of the younger officers, Dr. McCoy, and Chief Engineer Scott. Mr. Scott seemed to have found a kindred spirit in Dr. McCoy. Spock respected Scott’s ability, but thought his fondness for fermented and distilled beverages to be unfortunate at best. Spock added Scott’s apparent rapport with McCoy to his short list of the engineer’s less sterling qualities.
Scott often spent his free time in the lounge, spinning unlikely stories for junior officers who invariably listened without hint of incredulity. Spock had heard or overheard each story a dozen times. Whether Spock believed them, he seldom experienced any difficulty in letting them flow past him unheeded, like a river around an immovable boulder.
But a new individual had joined Scott’s circle. Mr. [131] Cockspur, a member of the vaudeville company, was an older man who wore his unnaturally thick and dark hair at a moderate length, meticulously styled. His mustache twisted to double points on each side.
Mr. Cockspur had taken Scott’s place as storyteller. While Spock naturally found no amusement value whatsoever in Scott’s tales—“yarns” might be a better term, as it implied a certain element of the fantastic—he was capable of appreciating the aesthetic of his performance. Mr. Cockspur’s voice had none of Scott’s cadences. It had no cadences at all. The sonorous monotone filled the hall; Spock found few elements of interest in the story. Everyone else listened with every evidence of utter captivation.
Spock had no illusions about his understanding of human beings. He had spent most of his childhood on Vulcan. What time he had spent on earth he had devoted to the study of science, not of humans and their perplexing nature. Despite his heritage, he found humans quite inexplicable at the most unexpected times.
This was one of those times.
The incomprehensible human entertainment consisted of a recital of every theater in which Mr. Cockspur had appeared, and every play in which Mr. Cockspur had performed. Spock thought of an analogy. Modern readers of the ancient earth poet Homer found the roster of ships in the Iliad excruciatingly tedious, but the ancient Greeks were said to have paid the rhapsodes, the reciters, enormous sums to repeat the roster of ships at celebrations. A citizen of a Greek city-state gained status by tracing ancestry to a certain captain of a certain ship of the strong-greaved Achaians. Perhaps Mr. Cockspur’s listeners had heard of plays in which he had performed or theaters in which he had appeared; perhaps they experienced a thrill of recognition when he recited a name they recognized. It seemed an odd way to pass an evening, but, then, humans often passed time in ways that Spock thought odd.
By force of will, Spock concentrated on his chess problem and placed his attention among the pieces.
“Need an opponent?”
“No, captain,” Spock said, without looking up. He had heard the approach and recognized the step, despite short [132] acquaintance. Captain Kirk looked over his shoulder at the graceful sweep of the 3-D chessboard.
“Why are you playing alone?”
“Because, captain, no one on board plays at my level.”
“You’re modest, aren’t you?” the captain said.
“I am neither modest nor immodest; both are character traits beyond which Vulcans have evolved. I state a fact.” He regretted the loss of his peace and privacy, then reminded himself severely that regret had no place in the psychological makeup of a Vulcan.
“Are you playing black or white?”
“Both, of course, captain,” Spock said.
“But black’s move?” the captain said. “Of course?”
Was the captain’s voice sarcastic or sardonic? Or did “belligerent” more accurately describe it?
Spock made a noncommittal sound. If Captain Kirk could determine from the unusual arrangement that black moved next, then he might be an adequate opponent ... But he had a fifty percent chance of guessing the correct color, and that was the more likely of the two possibilities.
Spock concentrated on the chessboard. Queen to queen’s pawn D-4 to threaten the white king? He moved the piece and thoughtfully drew back his hand.
“White to checkmate in three,” the captain said.
Spock looked up in disbelief. Captain Kirk turned, leisurely surveyed the room, and strolled away.
Jim saw McCoy at a nearby table and started toward him. Then, too late, he noticed Mr. Cockspur holding court.
“And a year later when I returned, well, you can be sure they did not try to put me in less than the star’s—”
“Hello, Jim.” McCoy broke in over Mr. Cockspur’s recitation before Jim could pretend he had been planning to go elsewhere all along. The officers rose.
“As you were.”
McCoy dragged another chair into the circle. “Why don’t you join us?” He quickly suppressed his grin.
Everyone at the table except Cockspur looked at Jim with expressions of supplication.
“Jim,” McCoy said again, “do sit down.”
“Yes,” Cockspur said. “Sit down, whilst I continue—”
[133] “Thank you.” Jim tried to sound sincere. “But coming in on your story in the middle wouldn’t do it justice—”
“No, you sure wouldn’t get the full effect,” McCoy said. “But don’t deprive yourself in the meantime.”
McCoy did his best to conceal a fit of laughter. Jim remembered what Winona had said to him—was it only two days before?—that applied right now: surrender gracefully. He gave McCoy a dirty look and joined the group.
Cockspur resumed his story. “I was just telling your crew of my appearance in Campbell City.” His voice hit like a wall, as if he never moderated it from full performance strength. He proceeded to describe, in great detail, the play he had performed on the moon. He claimed to have written it. It sounded vaguely familiar to Jim, but he was certain he would have remembered Cockspur had he ever seen him perform. Unless he fell asleep, as he nearly did now. Jim jerked himself awake.
“My little play ran for six weeks on the dark side of the moon. An enormous success. As you see, I’m not completely inexperienced at traveling in your spaceships.”
Jim wondered how Mr. Cockspur could spend more than two weeks—the length of the lunar night—on the far side of earth’s moon and still refer to it as dark; he wondered how his officers liked being referred to as crew. Jim did not much appreciate having the Enterprise called a spaceship.
“The Enterprise is a starship, Mr. Cockspur,” Jim said mildly.
/> “Precisely,” Mr. Cockspur said.
“What I mean is—”
Cockspur interrupted him. “And rather a large and expensive spaceship, at that, to use for the transportation of,” he cleared his throat, “vaudeville—or even some legitimate art—to the ends of the universe.”
Though Jim had thought the same thing, he found himself in the awkward position of preferring to disagree.
“We aren’t going quite as far as the end of the universe,” he said.
“Nevertheless, your time and your ship would be put to better use fighting the enemies of the Federation.”
Jim tried to hold his temper in the face of an earthbound [134] nincompoop who thought all Starfleet ships ever did was to blow people and planets out of the sky.
“We aren’t at war with anyone, Mr. Cockspur.”
“Ah, but there are worlds to conquer—”
“Have you ever been in a war?”
“I have not had that honor.”
“Honor—! I’d have thought,” Jim said, “in this day and age, that civilized beings would have progressed beyond violent colonization—beyond supporting genocide.”
“Captain, you take this rather personally.”
“Yes. I do. Both because of what I’ve seen myself and because my mother is part Sioux. Her family history—”
“Captain, captain! You’re speaking of events hundreds of years in the past! What possible bearing could they have on us, here, now?”
“Every bearing.” How had he got into this argument? Jim wondered if he could plead the press of duty and escape without appearing to be as rude as he felt like acting. He had made everyone uncomfortable except Mr. Cockspur.
Mr. Cockspur started to lecture Jim on colonization.
A shadow fell across the table. Jim looked up. Commander Spock stood nearby, silent, hands behind his back.
Even Cockspur noticed the Vulcan’s presence. He stopped and stared at him as if Spock were an urchin who had interrupted history’s finest performance.
“Would the captain oblige me,” Spock said, “with the answer to a question?”
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