Duty, Honor, Redemption

by Novelization by Vonda N. McIntyre

  Jim Kirk stalked the bridge of the Enterprise. Sorting out his thoughts in his personal log had failed to diminish his unease.

  He paused next to the science station, where Spock always sat. He put his hands on the back of the chair.

  The transmission from Esteban, on Genesis, troubled him. He felt unreasonably angered and betrayed at the news that Spock’s coffin had soft-landed. Kirk had ordered a trajectory that should have burned the tube to ashes in the upper atmosphere of Genesis. Whether Spock’s body returned to its constituent atoms quickly, in fire, or slowly, in the earth of a new world, surely did not matter to the Vulcan any longer. But Kirk, who wished the flames for himself when he died, had made a decision and given an order, and some unforeseen and unknown conspiracy of the universe had served to defy him.

  Starfleet had sent the medical rescue ship Firenze out to meet the Enterprise and to transport all but a few of its trainee crew, injured and healthy alike, back to Earth, so at least he no longer had a boatload of children to worry about.

  The Enterprise, though patched and limping, was out of immediate danger. It could easily have made it to Alpha Ceti V to rescue Reliant’s crew, whom Khan marooned when he hijacked their ship. But before the light of Firenze’s engines had fairly red-shifted out of the visible spectrum, Starfleet recalled the Enterprise to Earth and sent another ship to Alpha Ceti V. “The Enterprise is fully capable of carrying out this mission,” Kirk had said, and HQ replied, with a fine disregard for irony, “But, Admiral, your ship is dangerously shorthanded.” By then Kirk did not know whether to laugh, cry, or blow his stack. He decided, instead, to make the best of it.

  David’s decision to return with Grissom to the Genesis world disappointed Kirk. Carol was barely speaking to him. One relationship that had started well and one that he had thought to resume were dissolving into nothingness.

  And finally, there was Leonard McCoy. Kirk was worried about him. Kirk could have understood grief; he could even have understood a refusal to admit to grief. He could not comprehend McCoy’s disjointed conversation, his brief episodes of intense activity, and his speaking Spock’s words in Spock’s voice.

  For a while Kirk had felt good about having his ship back, but the price of regaining it was far too high.

  Get hold of yourself! he thought. He turned away from Spock’s station.

  “Status, Mister Sulu?”

  “On course, Admiral,” Sulu said. “Estimating Spacedock in two point one hours.”

  “Very well.” Kirk returned to his own place on the bridge. “Mister Chekov, I need a pre-approach scan. Take the science station, please.”

  Chekov hesitated. Kirk understood his reasons, but the ship could not function without the science station. Someone had to take Spock’s place. The sooner Kirk and Chekov and everybody else got used to that, the better.

  “Yes, sir,” Chekov said. He stood, left the helm, and moved to the science station.

  “Uhura,” Kirk said, “any response from Starfleet on our Project Genesis inquiries?”

  “No, sir,” Uhura said. “No response.”

  “Odd…” Kirk murmured. He was accustomed to having his questions answered without delay. Esteban had been infuriatingly obscure about the public reaction to the Genesis effect. He had piqued Kirk’s curiosity. Apparently, though, Kirk was just going to have to wait until he got back to headquarters to find out what was going on.

  He opened an intercom channel to the engine room.

  “Scotty, progress report?”

  “We’re almost done, sir,” Scott replied. “Ye’ll be fully automated by the time we dock.”

  “Your timing is excellent, Mister Scott,” he said. “You’ve fixed the barn door after the horse has come home.” Scott’s jury-rigged automation would help relieve the ship’s shorthandedness…for about the last hour of the return trip. “How much refit time till we can take the ship out again?”

  “Eight weeks, sir—”

  Kirk started to protest, but before he could get a word out, Scott spoke again.

  “—But ye dinna have eight weeks, so I’ll do i’ for ye in two.”

  Kirk had the feeling the Scot had been waiting for a very long time to spring that line on him. In the same spirit, he said, “Mister Scott—have you always multiplied your repair estimates by a factor of four?”

  “Certainly, sir. How else would ye expect me to keep my reputation as a miracle worker?”

  “Your reputation is secure, Scotty.” He turned off the intercom. “Commander Sulu, take the conn. I’ll be in my quarters.”

  “Aye, sir,” Sulu said.

  Kirk climbed the stairs to the upper level of the bridge. Before he got within range of the turbo-lift’s sensors, one of the few trainees who had remained on board half-rose.

  “Sir—I was wondering—?”

  The cadet was an electronics specialist who had kept the navigational computer going during and after the battle, when Spock was no longer able to do so. Ignoring the breach of protocol, Kirk dredged in his memory and came up with the youth’s name.

  “Yes—Foster, is it?”

  “Aye, sir,” Foster said. The pleasure and embarrassment at being recognized brought a red blush to his dark face. “I wondered, when we get home—what should we expect? Does anybody back on Earth know what happened out there?”

  “Will they give us a hero’s welcome?” Kirk smiled gently, for some of the youngsters, Foster among them, had behaved extraordinarily well for being half-trained and inexperienced. “Lord knows, son, they ought to. This time we paid for the party with our dearest blood.”

  He took the last step into the turbolift’s sensor field. The doors opened, and he disappeared between them.

  When the doors closed, cutting him off from the bridge, he let the mantle of command fall away from his shoulders. He slumped against the wall. The respite would be short, but at least during the ride to his quarters he could be free of responsibilities.

  The lift slowed and stopped, and the doors slid open. Almost as a reflex, Kirk straightened up.

  McCoy stood in the doorway. He looked as if he had not slept in days, and as if, when he tried to sleep, he had lain down in his clothes. The beard repressor he used had worn off at least twenty-four hours ago. He needed a shave.

  He entered the elevator, turned to stand side by side with Kirk, and gazed nonchalantly at the ceiling. The lift hummed into motion again.

  “Bones,” Kirk said, a greeting with a hint of a query in it.

  “Jim,” McCoy said stiffly, ignoring the implied question.

  Kirk waited, hoping McCoy would offer some explanation for his appearance, hoping he would show some sign of snapping out of his strange behavior.

  McCoy continued to stare at the ceiling.

  “Are you planning,” Kirk said with irritation, “to shave today?”

  “Quo vadis, Admiral?” McCoy said.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Kirk searched McCoy’s face, hoping to find—what? A flash of his friend’s intelligence and good sense pushing him beyond the guilt he felt for Spock’s death? There was nothing McCoy could have done, nothing any of them could do. If Spock had not behaved as he had, the Vulcan would not have been the only one to die. They all would be dead. But McCoy regarded any death as a personal failure.

  “What is our destination?” McCoy asked. He articulated each word precisely, without contractions. No trace of his southern accent showed, though usually it was strongest when he was under stress.

  “We’ll be orbiting Earth in two hours,” Kirk said.

  “Then we are headed in the wrong direction.” He spoke as if to the air, without turning toward Kirk, without taking his gaze from the ceiling.

  “Bones, don’t do this! This is me, Jim. Your friend.”

  When McCoy spoke, his voice took on a peculiar, low timbre. “And I have been, and always shall be, yours.”

  Kirk suddenly shivered. The chill of fear infuriated him. He wanted to grab McCoy and sh
ake him back to his senses.

  “Damn it, Bones! Don’t quote Spock to me! I have enough pain of my own. I don’t need your—your self-indulgence.”

  McCoy slowly turned toward him. His eyes were glazed. “You left me,” he said in a completely matter-of-fact tone. “You left me on Genesis. Why did you do that?”

  “What the hell are you saying?”

  McCoy blinked slowly, then suddenly reacted to what he himself had just said.

  “I don’t know…I just…” He stopped. “Why did we leave Spock?”

  “Bones! You must deal with the truth. He’s gone.” Kirk gripped McCoy’s upper arms. His intensity increased. “Spock is gone. We both have to live with that.”

  McCoy stared at him a moment, then lifted his hands and grasped Kirk’s forearms in a gesture of understanding and gratitude. They stayed like that only a split second before McCoy pulled away.

  The turbolift stopped; the doors opened. McCoy took one hurried step out, then swung back to face Kirk.

  “I can’t get him out of my head, Jim! I’d give the whole state of Georgia if someone could tell me why.”

  The doors slid closed again, shutting Kirk off, alone, angry, and confused.

  Valkris rose to her feet, taking only detached notice of the smoothness with which she moved. The high gravity, the hours in one position, had no effect on her. She had never meditated in such an intense gravity field before. She wished she had discovered its beneficial properties much sooner.

  The cabin held all her material possessions, which were honorably few in number. Valkris’ wealth resided in the holdings of her bloodline, in her responsibilities, and in the duties she had carried out for her family. It resided particularly in the duty she had carried out toward her brother.

  “Kiosan, dear brother, may you drink and carouse and gamble for all time,” she said softly, without a trace of irony or anger.

  She picked up her headcloth, put it on, and drew the sheer fabric across her face. She could see perfectly, and felt comforted to know that the material was opaque from the other side, opaque to the barbarians with whom she must treat.

  Then she left her cabin for the first time since the voyage had begun.

  Valkris strode through the corridors of the ship, as repelled now by the shabby, dirty vessel as she had been when first she boarded. The trip were better made on a sturdy, high-powered ship of Valkris’ family’s own production, but, alas, that was not to be. Not in this region of space.

  A shadow moved.

  Valkris stopped short, reaching for the dueling knife that hung almost, but not quite, concealed at her side.

  The shadow stepped forward, resolving itself into the feline form of the ship’s navigator. Farrendahl glided toward her, stalking four-legged, calmly inspecting her.

  “Milady passenger,” Farrendahl said softly, a purr in her voice. “To what event do we owe the honor of your company?”

  “Milady navigator,” Valkris said. “Does a simple constitutional qualify as an event?”

  “I wonder,” said Farrendahl.

  The single most exciting thing Valkris had ever seen was a performance of a hunt by a troupe of Farrendahl’s people. One of the reasons Valkris had chosen this ship above another was her research into the crew. She had hoped to speak with Farrendahl and to learn more about her civilization and her people, who had been in space thousands of years longer than any other known species. Farrendahl’s kind did not claim planets, they did not colonize, they did not take territory. They only explored, and hunted, and made their homes beyond the frontiers of space. Perhaps, to them, the exploration and the hunt were the same.

  These were the first words the two had exchanged. When Valkris had come on board, she realized she could not take time to socialize. She had much to think over, much to work out. She preferred action to meditation, but her meditation had brought her to certain conclusions, and now she rather wished she had chosen not to hire this particular ship.

  “Perhaps milady passenger would care to divulge our destination? I am the navigator; I must know it eventually.”

  “I think not,” Valkris said. “As we are nearly there.”

  “But there’s no star system within a parsec!”

  “Nevertheless,” Valkris said.

  Farrendahl bristled out her whiskers and growled softly, a thoughtful sound.

  “A rendezvous, then,” she said.

  “I did not say so.”

  “You did not have to.”

  Farrendahl’s presumption amused and delighted Valkris. It also made her very sad.

  But then she thought, If one were worthy…if one were sufficiently perceptive…

  The handle of the dueling knife still lay cool in Valkris’ hand, but now she had no thought of drawing the blade.

  The sheath of the knife was encrusted with flakes of minerals, so finely cut they appeared as gemstones. The sheath ended in a heavy mass of fringe that was also thickly hung with cunningly milled discs of mica in all the colors of the spectrum. Each frequency of color meant something different, some honor or remembrance. Many—her dueling records—were transparent and colorless, the representation of emptiness, nothingness, death. She chose to carry only one that was black; her disinclination to carry a disc for each member of her family was the only fault her bloodline could hold against her.

  She unfastened the length of fringe and drew it from beneath her robe.

  “Milady navigator,” she said to Farrendahl, “I wish to give you a gift.” She slid the sparkling strands across her palm. The sharp discs touched together with a sound as silver as water. “This might benefit you, one day. It has no intrinsic value. It is…symbolic.” She offered it to Farrendahl. “Be careful,” she said. “The edges are quite sharp.”

  The navigator accepted the decoration gingerly. “Milady passenger…why do you honor me?”

  “You might,” Valkris said, “call it a whim.”

  “But I might not.” Farrendahl stroked the strands so gently that she did not need to fear the razor edges. Her delicate, clawed fingers singled out the black shard of mica. “Who is this?” she said.

  Valkris felt pleased beyond reason and dignity. Few in this region of space would understand, as the navigator did, what she had been given, much less the significance of its details. If anything she had underestimated Farrendahl, not overestimated her.

  “It is my brother, Kiosan,” she said. “He, or any member of my bloodline, would recognize what you hold, and honor it.”

  Farrendahl looked up at her, seeking the explanations that Valkris could not speak aloud.

  “Milady passenger,” Farrendahl said, “your hand is bleeding.”

  “Yes,” Valkris said. “It does not matter.”

  She strode down the passageway without looking back.

  Farrendahl watched the mysterious passenger glide away. The ceremonial fringe, with its adornment of electronically readable glass-chip records, hung heavy in her hands.

  Farrendahl did not understand why the passenger would wish to warn her, a stranger. She did not understand why she had offered the warning in a symbolic and obscure way rather than directly. But she did understand what the warning was. At least she thought she did. And if she was right, she had to make a decision instantly.

  Farrendahl attached the fringe to her belt, for she carried no knife to which to fasten it. Then she sprang into a run, four-legged, and loped down the corridor.

  She slid to a stop at Tran’s cabin and raked her claws across the surface of the door, scratching the paint and the metal underneath. Like the passenger’s bleeding hand, that did not matter any more.

  “What is it?” Sleep slurred Tran’s voice. Like most primates, he woke slowly. But for a primate he was all right.

  “Let me in,” Farrendahl said.

  The door opened, and she paced into the darkness. In a moment she could see. Tran sat in a tangle of blankets, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

  “What’s the matter?”<
br />
  “Get up. Hurry. We’re leaving.”

  “Leaving—?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “In what context?” he said, sounding more awake.

  Farrendahl growled and turned on the computer terminal on the wall of Tran’s cabin.

  “I have no patience for discussions of anthropoidal philosophy,” she said. She reproduced a security-breaching program she had developed long ago, tunnelled into the ship’s computer, and disabled certain alarms. “I am leaving this ship. I am leaving now. I have good reason. You may come, or you may stay. It is of no moment to me which you choose.”

  Tran threw off the blankets and reached for his pants. “Then why are you bothering to tell me?”

  Farrendahl did not bother to reply. She hid her tracks in the computer with a flimsy cover that would break down under any scrutiny, but she doubted anyone would have the chance even to begin an investigation.

  “I guess if I’ve been promoted from pithecanthropoid to anthropoid—” Tran fastened his belt and reached for his shirt.

  “No time for all that foolishness!” Farrendahl said. She grabbed his wrist and dragged him out of his cabin. He snatched up his shirt and his boots and carried them with him. Farrendahl raced down the corridor, pulling Tran behind her.

  Valkris swept into the control room.

  “We’re nearly there,” the captain said when he noticed her.

  “We are there,” she said. “Kill all velocity.”

  The captain frowned, then nodded to the crew member at the control console, giving assent to his passenger’s order.

  “Where the hell’s Farrendahl?” he said.

  The ship vibrated faintly as it decelerated to counteract the forward momentum. And—was that a slight sideways shudder, as of a small craft exiting its mother ship? Valkris could not be certain.

  “We have no more need of a navigator, Captain,” she said evenly.

  “Delta-vee zero.”

  “Scan the area,” the captain ordered.

  Valkris smiled to herself as the scanning began. It continued for some minutes. Valkris retired to shadows in the back of the chamber, rather enjoying the curious and very nervous glances of the disreputable rogues around her.