“There was no time! Leonard McCoy was going mad, and Spock would have died.”
“I didn’t come here to argue with you,” Cartwright said. “You and your people have caused an enormous amount of trouble. I can’t vaporize the charges against you. Much as I might like to deal with this within Starfleet, it’s gone too far for that. The Federation Council demands your presence. So far, all anyone is talking about is an inquiry. If you come immediately, an explanation may suffice. If not, you’ll face a criminal trial.”
“On what charge?” Jim said, shocked.
“The murder of Commander Kruge, among other things.”
“Murder! That’s preposterous. I tried to get him off Genesis and he tried to pull me into a pit of molten lava! Kruge invaded Federation space, he destroyed a merchant ship, he instigated espionage, he destroyed the Grissom and everyone on board! He killed David Marcus—” Jim’s voice faltered.
“I know.” Cartwright’s voice softened. “I know you’re grieving. I’m very sorry. But you must return to Earth and tell your side of the story. If you refuse, the assumption will be that you’ve no answer to the Klingon Empire’s claims.”
“I can’t leave Vulcan. Not yet.”
“Why not? When can you leave?”
“Because McCoy—and Spock—are still in danger. I can’t leave Vulcan until I know they’re all right.”
“It’s hardly abandoning them to leave them in the hands of the Vulcans. They’ll be in the care of the finest medical technologists in the Federation. What more do you think you can do?”
“For Spock, I don’t know. But McCoy—it isn’t medical technology he needs. He needs support. He needs a friend.”
“Leonard McCoy has many friends,” Cartwright said. “I’m sure he has one who can stay with him who isn’t under indictment.”
“I’ll come to Earth as soon as I can,” Jim said.
“Then I have to give you this.” Cartwright drew out a folded paper and handed it to Jim.
“What is it?” It was thick, ragged-edged paper, heavy with a Federation seal. The Federation only used paper for the most formal of purposes.
“A copy of the inquiry order.”
Jim broke the seal and scanned it. “I’m still not coming.”
“You’re disobeying a direct order, Admiral Kirk.” Cartwright’s brown eyes narrowed and his dark face flushed with anger.
“Yes,” Jim said, equally angry. “And it’s easier the second time.”
“I’ve done all I can for you,” said Starfleet Commander Cartwright.
His second’s hesitation gave Jim Kirk one last chance to concede. Jim said nothing. Scowling, Cartwright turned and stalked from the anteroom.
Jim cursed under his breath. He shoved the order into his pocket and paced impatiently. In one more minute he was going to rip down that curtain—
The drape rustled. Haunted and drained, McCoy stood in the entryway.
“Bones?”
“It’s over…for the moment.”
“Haven’t they completed the process?”
McCoy shrugged.
“Is something wrong?”
“Vulcans jump up and walk away after a mind-meld,” the doctor said. “I shouldn’t be any different, right?”
Jim smiled. “Right.”
McCoy fainted.
McCoy slept. Jim sat at the foot of the bed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. McCoy suffered merely from exhaustion, the Vulcans said. The doctor would recover in time for the next facilitation session. When that might be, or how many more sessions might be required, they could not answer.
Jim rose, silently left McCoy’s room, and returned to his own. He sat down at the communications terminal, made a request, and waited with both impatience and dread for a reply. Even the technology of the twenty-third century took a few moments to route a call from Vulcan to Earth.
The “please wait” pattern on the screen of the comm unit flicked out, replaced by the pattern of Carol Marcus’s household computer concierge.
“Doctor Marcus cannot reply at this time,” the concierge said. “Please leave identification and location so she may return your call.”
Jim took a deep breath. “This is Jim Kirk again.”
He had been trying to call Carol Marcus since the morning after his arrival on Vulcan. Every time, he had failed to reach her. By now she must know of the death of her son David. It both relieved and distressed Jim that he would not be the one to tell her. But he had to talk to her.
“It’s extremely urgent that I speak with Carol,” he said. “Please have her call me as soon as possible.”
“She will receive your message.” The pattern faded.
Jim rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He had barely known the young man, yet David’s death affected him as if a piece of his heart had been ripped away and burned to ashes. It would almost have been easier—
Easier! he thought. No, nothing could make it easier. But if I’d known him, I’d have at least the comfort of memories of Carol’s son. My son.
Carol Marcus sat cross-legged on the observation deck of the courier Zenith, staring down at a glittering green planet.
“Doctor Marcus.” The ship’s computer voice glided easily over the intercom. “Doctor Marcus. Please prepare to beam down.”
Carol rose reluctantly.
It would be so easy, she thought, so easy just to stay on board and keep traveling from world to world and never have to talk to anyone, never risk getting close to anyone again, never have to tell anyone that a person they love has died…
She left the observation platform and headed for the transporter room.
Carol Marcus felt it her duty to speak to the families of her friends and co-workers on the Genesis project. And so she found herself orbiting a world known familiarly as Delta, the homeworld of Zinaida Chitirih-Ra-Payjh and Jedda Adzhin-Dall, two mathematicians, two friends who had died.
The casket bearing Zinaida’s body stood on the transporter platform. Jedda had died by phaser, and nothing at all remained of him.
Carol stepped onto the platform. She did not know what she would say to the people waiting below. She had not known what to say to the parents of Vance Madison or the families of the others. She only knew she had to control her own grief so she would not add it to the grief of others.
“Energize,” she said.
The beam took her to the surface of Delta. A rosette of light surrounded her. A dazzling stained-glass window cast colors across the reception room’s pale slate floor.
Two Deltans waited for her, a woman and a man, Verai Dva-Payjh and Kirim Dreii-Dall. Partners was the closest word in Standard to describe the relationship of these two people to Zinaida and Jedda. They had formed a professional and economic and sexual partnership that should have lasted for decades.
They approached her. Like most Deltans, they were supernaturally beautiful. Verai, heavyset and elegant, had mahogany skin, pale eyelashes, and fair eyebrows like the most delicate brush strokes of a Chinese painting. Unlike Deltan women, who grew no hair on their heads, Kirim had fine, rose-colored hair. He wore it long and free, spilling in great waves over his shoulders and down his back nearly to his knees. The red mark of mourning on the forehead of each did nothing to detract from their beauty.
Carol blushed. Human beings could not help their response to Deltans; nevertheless the powerful sexual reaction embarrassed her. Deltans never took advantage of humans, always holding themselves aloof. But Verai and Kirim approached her more closely than Zinaida or Jedda ever had. Verai offered Carol her hand. Carol stepped back in confusion.
“You have not been in contact with Earth,” Verai said.
“No. Not since I left.”
The stained-glass window cast patterns over them. Verai and Kirim grasped her hands. She had never been touched by a Deltan before. Both grief and comfort flowed into her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Your partners—”
&nb
sp; “We know,” Verai said. “And we are grateful that you came to us. We will speak of them, and remember them. But we must speak of someone else as well.”
Holding Carol’s hands, Verai and Kirim told her of the death of her son.
Shocked speechless with grief and horror, Carol sank to the floor and stared at the window’s light. The pattern crept across the floor with the motion of the sun. In the warmth of the hall she started to shiver.
“Come with us, Carol,” Verai said. “We will grieve for our partners, and we will grieve for your son.”
In a visitors’ chamber of the habitation, Lieutenant Saavik of Starfleet also failed to reach Carol Marcus.
Perhaps, thought the young Vulcan, Doctor Marcus will never speak to me or to anyone else who participated in the Genesis expedition. She must know of David’s death by now. It is possible that she has no wish to be reminded of it by those who witnessed it.
She rose from the terminal, left her room, and stepped onto a balcony that overlooked the plain at the foot of Mt. Seleya. After so many years and so much hope, she finally found herself on Vulcan, beneath its great scarlet sun. She hoped that the Vulcans would permit her, a half-Romulan, to remain long enough to walk in their world’s deserts and explore its cities.
She returned to the cool shadows of the habitat. Loud footsteps approached. One of her human shipmates, no doubt; Vulcans moved more quietly.
“Fleet commander!” she said, surprised.
Blinking, the new commander of Starfleet brought his attention back from somewhere else. The tall, black-skinned officer carried a compact travel case. He looked both angry and in a hurry. Yet now he stopped.
“You are Lieutenant Saavik, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know where the transporter is? My ship’s about to warp out of orbit.”
“Certainly, sir. I will show you.”
He followed her deeper into the maze of stone corridors.
“You handled yourself well on Genesis, Lieutenant,” he said. “You won’t be named in the indictment.”
“The indictment, sir? Surely Admiral Kirk and his shipmates aren’t to be punished for saving Spock’s life!”
“I hope not. Despite everything, I hope not.”
“I, too, am alive because of the admiral’s actions. Had Admiral Morrow permitted him to depart for the Genesis world without delay, the science vessel Grissom and all hands might have been saved as well.”
“It isn’t your place to second-guess the Commander of Starfleet,” Cartwright said. “The Genesis project was a disaster, but your part in it was fully admirable. That won’t be forgotten, I promise you.”
“I do not look for credit from these events,” she said. “Too many people lost their lives. A survivor should not gain benefit.” Especially, she thought, a Starfleet officer who survived because of the death of a civilian.
They reached the transporter room. Cartwright programmed in a set of coordinates and climbed onto the platform.
“Nobody will get much benefit out of Genesis,” Cartwright said grimly. “But that isn’t your concern. I’ll trust you to comport yourself as well during your Vulcan assignment as you did on Genesis. Good-bye, Lieutenant. Energize.”
“What Vulcan assignment?”
But the computer responded to his command; the transporter beam swept Cartwright away before he could hear her question, before he could reply.
Perhaps Cartwright simply meant her time on Vulcan until new orders arrived from Starfleet. But he had sounded like he meant something more.
Surely Admiral Kirk would know. Perhaps he would have a moment to explain.
She knocked at the entrance of the admiral’s chamber.
“Come.”
She pushed aside the curtain.
James Kirk stared disconsolately at the comm terminal’s disconnect pattern. It occurred to Saavik that he, too, must have been attempting to contact Carol Marcus. He, too, must have failed.
She hesitated. The question of her assignment seemed trivial now. She saw the indictment order lying crumpled on the desk. At least she did not have to tell him that news.
“Yes, Lieutenant?” He glanced at her. His expression held the pain of loss and uncertainty, the kind of pain that could only be eased with knowledge.
“Sir,” she said hesitantly. “May I speak with you?”
“Certainly, Lieutenant.” He rose.
“It is about…about David.”
He flinched. “Tell me.”
She wanted to say, “I should have died in his place. I am a member of Starfleet, and he was a civilian, and I should have protected him. I could have protected him, had he not acted when he should have restrained himself.”
But for all Saavik’s uncertainty about human beings and their often incomprehensible emotions, she knew as surely as she knew anything that she could not help James Kirk accept his son’s death by saying he should not have died.
“David died most bravely, sir,” Saavik said. “He saved Spock. He saved us all…I thought you should know.” She also wanted to say, “I loved your son. He taught me that I am capable of love. But that was not something a junior lieutenant could say to a flag officer of Starfleet, nor was it something someone trying to be a Vulcan should ever admit to anyone. She kept her silence.”
James Kirk did not reply in words. His hazel eyes glistened. He gripped her shoulders, held tight for a moment, then dropped his hands.
Saavik slipped past the curtain and left him alone. She could do nothing more for his grief.
Commander Hikaru Sulu climbed into the Klingon fighting ship. The sharp, acrid smell of seared plastic and fused electronic circuits permeated the air. He entered the command chamber. He had managed to nurse the bird all the way to Vulcan, but it would never take off again without repairs. Maybe it would never take off again at all. He settled into the command chair, tied a universal translator to the computer, and requested a complete set of damage reports.
Salvaging the fighter is worth a try, he thought. And if I succeed, I’ll have a ship. A ship of my own.
Amanda Grayson listened to Spock reading out loud from a fragile bound volume of ancient Vulcan poetry. She wanted to touch him, to reassure herself that he was alive.
He paused. “Reading out loud is very slow, Mother. And the words of this piece are archaic.”
“Try to hear the beauty in them, my dear,” she said. “No one on Vulcan writes poetry anymore. Those lines are a thousand years old.”
“If no one writes poetry, why must I read it?”
“Because I didn’t read it to you when you were a child. We have another chance, and I won’t make the same mistake twice. I want you to be able to enjoy beauty and poetry and laughter.”
He cocked his eyebrow, a heartbreakingly familiar gesture. Moment by moment he crept back toward himself. But Amanda wanted to take this second chance to help him release his other half, the half of himself that he had always held in check.
“Beauty and poetry and laughter are not logical,” Spock said.
“I agree,” she said. “They are not.”
He frowned, puzzled. He read another stanza, stopped, and closed the book.
“I am tired, Mother,” he said. “I will meditate. I will consider what you have said.”
One
The traveler accelerated to a tremendous speed, but the galaxy spanned an enormous distance. The traveler perceived that its journey had lasted for only an instant. But in that instant—the mere time of a half-life of the minor isotope of the eighteenth element, the brief interval in which a small blue planet would revolve around its ordinary yellow sun three hundred times—the troubled music from that blue world ripped apart into incoherence. The songs faded, and finally they died. Now the traveler hurtled toward the silence, its own song a cry. As the stars sped past and it received no response, it gradually transmuted its music into a dirge.
The Romulans might come raiding out of the Neutral Zone at any
time.
Captain Alexander stared at Saratoga’s viewscreen and into the silent Neutral Zone. Three months on yellow alert was bad for anyone’s nerves. She was as jumpy as the rest of her crew, but she could not admit it.
It had been like this ever since the Genesis disaster. Diplomats, Starfleet, the Federation, the shadowy oligarchy of the Klingons, even the mysterious Romulan Empire reacted to Genesis by exciting themselves like electrons in a plasma of mutual suspicion.
Subspace communications brought each day’s proceedings of the Genesis inquiry to every ship and starbase. Everyone had an opinion about Admiral James T. Kirk’s actions, his motives, his ethics.
When the inquiry returned its findings, the Klingons might disagree with the conclusions. They might go to war. If that happened, Alexander must be prepared, for the Romulans, their allies, to join them. So far, though, the inquiry served the interests of the Klingons much more efficiently than open conflict.
Alexander could not understand why Kirk did not return to Earth to defend himself. It was as if he had surrendered without fighting, as if he did not care whether the inquiry condemned or vindicated him.
“Captain—”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“I’m receiving—” Suddenly, with a curse, the Saratoga’s Deltan science officer snatched the earphone from his ear. Sgeulaiches, the communications officer, yelped in pain and pulled the transmission membrane from its vibratory sensors.
“Mister Ra-Dreii! What happened?”
“A transmission, Captain, of such power that it overcame the volume filters. A rather stimulating experience,” he said with irony. He listened to the earphone gingerly.
“Source?”
“The Neutral Zone, Captain.”
“The Romulans?”
“No. Nor the Klingons, unless they have completely altered their communications signature.”
“Visual sensors.”
“The energy density hinders localization,” Sgeulaiches said.
Watchful excitement tingled along Alexander’s spine.
“Volume filters back in service and intensified, Captain,” Chitirih-Ra-Dreii said.
Duty, Honor, Redemption Page 48
