STAR TREK: TOS - Final Frontier

by Diane Carey

  Two hells and a bastard. April assumed that was a good sign. “But ...”

  “But because the ship is unfinished, some of the warp drive computer ordnance is still on board Excess baggage, usually.”

  “And we can reprogram the computer with it?”

  [233] “I said you were a lucky son of a bitch, didn’t I? Under usual circumstances, I wouldn’t even be here. You’d be hanging out here like a choked duck.”

  George pulled April around abruptly. “This is no fluke, Robert. Being a security grunt for eight years has its advantages. My sixth sense is screaming. We’re here by design. Somebody’s doing this.”

  For the first time, a glimmer of agreement appeared in the captain’s eyes. April had to agree. A predator program? It even sounded horrid. After a moment, he looked at t’Cael.

  “Not my design,” the Romulan said. “If this was a plan arranged by my government, I wasn’t apprised of it.”

  April paced slowly across the deck, with all the promise and beauty of engineering sprawled out around him. When he spoke, it was with a solemnity that struck the others silent.

  “If we fail,” he said, “we’ll have died ... the Rosenberg dies ... Federation expansion dies ... and the starship falls into hostile hands. Those are high stakes, I know. The future of the known galaxy seems to hinge upon what we do next.”

  George broke in on April before the captain talked himself into doing nothing. “Can’t we just get out of here, Robert? Do we have to rewrite the Light Brigade?”

  April looked up. “You’re the one who’s convinced me there’s subterfuge going on, George. Now you want me to ignore it and just get out of here? Certainly we’ll get out if we can, but you don’t seem to understand what you’ve been saying all along. My God ... if there’s been sabotage, then someone—one of our most highly screened personnel, a member of our elite science team—is in collusion with a hostile government. I can hardly believe it.” He touched his forehead in an effort to fathom his own words, and paced again. “God, I almost hope the saboteur is still on board. I’d hate to think he’s roaming around freely on the spacedock or back at Federation Central. That would be unbelievably dangerous.”

  In a single step George reached him and pulled him around. “We’ll find that traitor, Robert—but listen to me. I’m beginning to see things your way. There has to be more than just being born, living, and dying. We have to aspire to something better. Now that I know that, I want to be part of the reach for something better. But first, we have to survive. It’d be nice if everyone could be like you. But everyone isn’t. They’re not.”

  [234] April held out a single hand in entreaty and asked, “What do you want from me, George?”

  George straightened. “I want to do what Cael says,” he said bluntly. “I want fighting capacity.”

  There was no real echo in the acoustically stressed engineering deck, but those words seemed to come again and again as they all awaited his answer. At that moment, Robert April was a man divided between unsavory choices, and responsibilities he dearly wished belonged to someone else. His personal philosophy didn’t seem to work, didn’t carry him this time, as it always had before. This was a time for drastic actions, and he would have to decide whether the preservation of his own philosophy was worth other lives—even those of the enemy.

  His lips parted. “I think—”

  The shipwide intercom suddenly blared, overlaid by the whoop of the alert klaxon.

  “Red Alert! Red Alert! Captain April to the bridge! Emergency!”

  April dodged for the nearest wall com. “This is April. What is it, Carlos?”

  “Captain, we’ve got company! Five more of those ships just came up at us out of nowhere!”

  April felt his spine tingle as the voice of the tall alien commander spoke from his side.

  “The Swarm.”

  PART IV

  To Boldly Go

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE CHICKENS IN the barnyard flinched and cackled at the chirp of the communicator grid from the loft above. Since they were eating chickens and not laying chickens, they didn’t have much contact with technology. In fact, they didn’t get eaten all that often. Some of them were several years old, more pets than farm animals. Stupid pets, but pets.

  Being stupid, they quickly forgot about the funny sound that beeped from the loft high over their heads and settled down.

  “Kirk to bridge.”

  “Bridge. Uhura here.”

  “Lieutenant, locate Admiral Ron Oliver at Starfleet Command and patch him through to me down here.”

  “Yes, sir. That may take a few minutes, Captain. Several members of the Admiralty are currently involved in a review board at the moment, and I think he might be one of them.”

  “I realize that. Patch me through as soon as you find him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  At the side of the loft, McCoy sat back and didn’t say anything. He watched the captain, who was standing now, though not exactly pacing. He was ... moving. The way he did when he had something to think about that he didn’t like having to think. Small steps, each one involving a slight turn. His shoulders were stiff, his eyes tightened, [238] and when his eyes moved it was with the small and sharp movements of a hawk’s eyes. McCoy had seen this many times, but usually on the bridge, and usually in moments of crisis, when the captain was steeling himself to fight whatever space was throwing at him.

  “I don’t feel good about this,” McCoy finally said. Oh, that was bright. Say something even more illuminating. “Jim ... are you clear on your motivations? Do you really want to release your command? Or do you just think you should?”

  Jim Kirk gave him one of those hard flicks of his eyes. After a moment, the gaze mellowed. He breathed deeply, and didn’t answer.

  McCoy shifted his legs. “You can’t go back to 1930. Edith can’t come here. The best you can do is find some way to commemorate her in our time.”

  A thoughtful smile tugged at the captain’s lips. “I’d like that,” he said. “But it isn’t just Edith, Bones. It’s my life. I’ve been selfish,” he added. “I’ve wallowed in the outer glory of command.”

  “How do you figure selfish?” McCoy pressed. “After all you’ve done for the ship and everyone on board her—”

  “What’ve I done for them?” Kirk squinted out over the quiet Iowa landscape. The sunlight lay like bright powder across his face, and made his sandy hair glitter with a touch of cinnamon. Now he looked squarely at McCoy and was absolutely sure of what he was saying. “Spock should be making his own history, commanding his own starship. For that matter, so should Sulu. Uhura turned down a very rare teaching position at Starfleet Academy. And who knows where a man like Scotty might be by now, instead of shoveling coal into my locomotive. They’ve all stayed longer than they should have, and it’s all out of some misguided loyalty to Jim Kirk and his gluttony for glory.”

  “And that’s how you see it?” McCoy shot back.

  “Of course that’s how I see it. That’s how it is. The whole starship is plugged in to me. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t rather be thigh-deep in medical research in some quiet laboratory, surrounded by trees and good music.”

  “Jim, we’re a team. You know how we all feel.”

  “Yes, that’s my point. The team feeling. No one wants to be the first to rupture the bond, even in his own interest. It’s my responsibility to set the pace.”

  McCoy opened his mouth, but before he could speak the communicator in Kirk’s hand chirped again.

  The captain snapped the instrument open. “Kirk here.”

  [239] “Uhura, sir. A channel is open to Starfleet Headquarters. Admiral Oliver standing by.”

  “Thank you. Patch us through.”

  “Relaying. Go ahead, Admiral.”

  “Jim, this is Oliver. Going to take me up on that weekend in the mountains finally?”

  “No, at least not yet. I’m going to take you up on something else.”

  �
�Uh-oh.”

  “I want that reassignment you offered last month.”

  “You do?”

  The captain paused, “Yes.”

  Now there was a pause from the other end. “Jim, I only offered you that because I was obliged to. I didn’t think you’d—”

  “I’d consider it a personal favor if you’d smooth things out for my first officer to take my place in command of the ship.”

  “Jim, slow down, will you? Spock’s a fine officer. He’ll make a prime captain. But he won’t be you.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Jim—listen. Why don’t you extend your leave. Take some time to make the decision.”

  “I’d rather not. It’s the kind of decision that only gets more painful if it’s stalled.”

  “For good reason, with a man like you.”

  “Put the orders through. I’ll notify my seniors.”

  “I’ll send a wreath.”

  The captain smiled, as though relieved of a burden far heavier than simple command status. “Thank you, Admiral. Kirk out.” It was an abrupt end to a strained conversation. He would apologize to Oliver later. For now, he just wanted to break the ties.

  “Well,” the doctor blustered, “guess that’s it, isn’t it? The end of an era. Just wipe it away. Another name goes down in the history books. Another tombstone goes up. May I be the first of the crew to say thank you, Captain. Thank you for giving us back our lives. Devil only knows what we’re going to do with them.” When he realized his sarcasm wasn’t helping, he leaned forward and glared from under his flared brows. “Did you ever give any consideration to the fact that maybe, just maybe all this might have something to do with the ship? Maybe there’s something special about her that we don’t want to leave behind? I think it’s pretty damned pompous of you to take all the responsibility for where we are and where we want to be.” McCoy’s [240] mist-blue eyes widened as he bobbed his head in a so-there nod. “I, for one, am a grown-up, and I can make my own decisions.”

  Kirk leaned against the rim of the loft hatch. “Says you.”

  McCoy refused to back down. “I want to ask one question and I want you to think about it.” He pointed at Kirk’s hand, at the letter the captain held, then at the other letters in a small pile at the captain’s feet. “Is this what you’re getting out of your father’s letters, Jim? No—don’t answer that. I’m going to rephrase it. Is this what you think your father wanted you to get out of those letters? Would a man like your father ever have written them if he thought they’d bring you to this?”

  The smile faded from the captain’s face. He gazed at the old letter in his hand, the pile from which it came below him, and wondered why he had been the one who saved them. Of his brother and himself, Sam was the more sentimental. With a twinge of sadness he realized that he never knew his father well enough to really be sure what the letters meant. When his father came home, he was just visiting. He wasn’t coming home.

  “I want a home, Bones,” he said solemnly, his brows drawing together as he sought the right words. “I want you and the others to be able to make homes for yourselves, and not just visit Earth from time to time without any real anchors in your lives. Look at us. Not one of us has a family. For all the affection and loyalty we share between us, we haven’t really rooted those feelings anywhere.”

  McCoy’s hand sliced the air between them. He got to his feet abruptly. “Jim ... stop. I don’t want to hear any more.” He moved closer, and let his voice fall. “Jim, a human being can do worse than be part of a team like ours. Maybe we’re not built for family life. Our calling is different. We’ve all loved and lost ... or walked away. The one thing we’ve always had is the ship. Who knows? Maybe we’ve walked away on purpose.” He paused, took a step closer, and when he spoke again the depth of his belief was undeniable. “Maybe it’s because we’re the kind of people who stare into the sun.”

  On a statement for which there was no postscript, the two men merely gazed at each other, trying to read the subtle emotions that years of friendship had taught them to see in each other.

  Without moving or even blinking, McCoy spoke. “Don’t take away the sun.”

  It was the captain’s turn to have nothing to say. There had been many moments of conflict, of trenchance, of decision in their years [241] together, but few so poignant. Seldom did the feelings require a voice, yet when they did, he could always count on McCoy to make sure the voice was there. If he failed to find the words on his own, McCoy would prod and poke and annoy and vex until someone else found the words and the courage to speak them.

  A faint scratching on the loft ladder drew their attention.

  As they watched, Spock pulled himself up against the edge of the loft and stopped when he got one elbow onto the hay-scattered ledge. He blinked at them and asked tonelessly, “Am I interrupting?”

  Kirk and McCoy looked at each other, then looked squarely back at him and chimed, “Yes!”

  Spock remained unfazed. “Your mother informed me of your whereabouts, Captain.”

  “Have you forgotten how to use a communicator?” McCoy demanded.

  “Not at all,” Spock responded, pulling himself onto the loft and straightening to his full height. “I merely deemed it more gracious to appear in person. The captain is, after all, officially on shore leave. I hoped to make ship’s business more palatable by coming in person.”

  The captain stepped to the center of the loft and asked, “You have a report for me, Spock?”

  Spock brushed bits of hay from his uniform and said, “The ship is fully overhauled and restocked. Maintenance engineers have pronounced her spaceworthy and we are now awaiting clearance to leave Starbase One as soon as the crew reports back from leave. However, the starship Kongo has pulled in with damage and requires immediate repair, thus Starbase Control has requested that we vacate the maintenance drydock. With your permission, we’ll move to external dock at the spaceport until we resume patrol.”

  The captain nodded. “Of course. Inform Captain Toroyan that we’ll free the dockspace within the hour, and convey my greetings. I want a meeting with all senior officers and department heads as soon as they report in. And I want to speak privately to Scotty.”

  “Very well, sir. Mr. Scott is on board now. I’ll make the appropriate notifications.”

  Satisfied, the captain turned to glance at McCoy. “We’d better get back to the ship before the ship shows up here.” He stepped past Spock toward the ladder.

  “Captain, if I may ...” Spock began.

  Kirk turned. “Yes?”

  [242] Spock’s brow furrowed slightly. Before speaking again, he clasped his hands behind his back, gazed down at the hay, and moved a little closer to his commander. “Sir, I ... overheard your communication to Admiral Oliver,”

  “You overheard?” Kirk repeated.

  Spock nodded self-consciously. “I eavesdropped.”

  Leaning against the loft wall, McCoy folded his arms and grumbled, “What’re friends for?”

  Kirk rewarded him with the hawk glare again, “Interesting that I’ve gotten so predictable.” He stepped toward the ladder, and grasped the top of it, realizing what it took to drive a man like Spock to fracture the protocol of private communiqués. Maybe he hadn’t hidden his despair as well as he’d thought. “I’m going to say goodbye to my mother. I’ll meet you both back on board.”

  “Captain—” The Vulcan officer closed the space between them with an unwanted urgency. He poised his own hand on the other upright of the ladder.

  “Yes, Spock?” Kirk bridged quietly, straightening again.

  “About Miss Keeler.”

  “Yes.” The captain pressed his lips together thoughtfully and grew quiet in empathy for Spock, the only person who had truly shared his experience in the past, and the only person for whom expression was a crushing sacrifice. Because he thought he knew what Spock would say, Kirk tried to bail him out. “Spock, you don’t have to say it. I appreciate what you’re thi
nking.”

  Yet another step intensified Spock’s determination to say what he had on his mind, no matter the rupture of Vulcan stoicism. “Even so,” he began, “I have an observation.”

  Kirk blinked at the filtered sunlight that hovered like a haze around Spock. Their moving about in the hay had raised a sparkle of dust in the loft, and they stood now in its glittering mist, each man representative of a different calling, a different background, a different destiny.

  “Your presence in the past was not wasted,” Spock began, never averting his gaze from his captain’s as he might had he been speaking to someone other than this man. “You made a difference for her. In the unchanged past, she lived and she died. That is all. In the altered time,” he said, “she was loved before she died.”

  The meaning of those words, put together in that way, had ten times the depth and worth they’d have had spoken by anyone else.

  [243] Kirk simply nodded. He knew Spock understood. “Thank you, Spock,” he said quietly, “from us both.”

  The ladder wobbled as he climbed down. The chickens scattered, then reassembled around the feeding bin when he had gone.

  McCoy moved to the edge of the loft, where Spock was staring down at the barn floor, silent.

  “He’s making a mistake,” McCoy said. “He’s reacting to the pain, using it as an excuse to change the course of his career.”

  Several seconds passed before Spock said, “He has that right.”

  Frustration put an edge in McCoy’s voice. “Yes, but he’s not himself. Spock, you don’t understand what grief can do to a person.”

  “Doctor,” he said solidly, “I do understand. Quite clearly, in fact. The captain sees his career as meaningless in the large scheme. He has forgotten the extraordinary good he has done. He has forgotten that the capacity in which we serve is not as much duty as privilege.” Spock paused, as though deciding whether or not to vent his thoughts, but when he spoke again there was no hint of vacillation. “And even more tragically,” Spock went on, “he has forgotten that the starships of the Federation are the physical, tangible manifestations of humanity’s stubborn insistence that life does indeed mean something.”