“Ma’am, my name is Christopher Pike, and I’m—”
“I do not care who you are, or what your reasons are for tracking me to my home. I do not welcome visitors, and I will defend my home and my privacy to the fullest.”
The man now closed his hands into fists, and dropped them to his sides as he pulled himself up straight to his full height. “Lower your weapon, Commander,” he called out in a voice that came from the inner depths of his being and rang with the characteristic authority of a starship captain. The muzzle of T’Pol’s phase pistol actually dipped slightly as her long-dormant yet deeply etched military instincts responded to the man’s tone and bearing.
Her lapse was only momentary. “Starfleet stripped me of my commission a long time ago,” T’Pol informed him.
The man—Pike—started walking again, now ignoring the weapon aimed at him. “Once a Starfleet officer, always a Starfleet officer, they say.”
“If you’re here on official Starfleet business, shouldn’t you be in uniform?”
He cracked a small grin. “I grew up in the Mojave; I know better,” he told her. “If I had come to Death Valley in that heavy velour turtleneck, before long I would be begging you to use that phaser on me.”
T’Pol lowered her pistol arm to her side, realizing there was no deterrent factor if Pike was making jokes about it. No doubt he’d faced more frightening foes in his life than a 176-year-old hermit lady. “What is this about, Mister Pike? What could Starfleet possibly want with me more than a century after my discharge?”
“Well, it’s not Starfleet, per se. It would perhaps be more comfortable for us both if we were to discuss this inside.”
T’Pol tried—and failed—to suppress a sigh of resignation. She took a step back, holding the door open for Pike, and then indicated the small parlor that made up the front of the house. It was sparsely furnished and undecorated, as befitting one who did not entertain. Pike took a seat on a hard wooden mission chair as T’Pol settled onto a threadbare but comfortable sofa. “Lady T’Pol, I was asked by Prime Minister Winston to come speak with you. He intends to petition the Interstellar Coalition to admit Earth as a member. And he wants your support in that goal.”
T’Pol raised one eyebrow. “Indeed? And what makes him believe I’d give it?”
“Because you know from firsthand experience that a partnership between humans and nonhumans can work.” Every muscle in T’Pol’s body tensed at that, from the base of her neck to the fingers still wrapped around the phase pistol in her lap. Somehow, she managed to control her emotional retort as Pike obliviously continued, “You were right there at Captain Archer’s side, from the launch of the NX-01 to his court-martial.”
“I fail to see the relevance of these statements,” T’Pol told Pike calmly, changing her hold on the pistol to minimize the chance of accidentally discharging it. “Carter Winston is not Jonathan Archer.”
“No, but like Archer, the prime minister wants to extend the hand of friendship and cooperation to the other powers of the galaxy.”
“Carter Winston is a businessman. He spent a lifetime manipulating commodities markets on dozens of colonies and other Earth-subjugated worlds, amassed several financial fortunes, and then used his wealth and reputation to launch a political career, leading him prematurely to United Earth’s most powerful governmental office. Forgive me if I find the comparison inapt.”
“Listen, I’m as cynical about politicians as the next person,” Pike said, lowering his voice to affect the sense that he was sharing a confidence. “But like you said, the guy is a businessman first, and a damned smart one, too. But if the business of politics is getting votes and keeping yourself in power, then petitioning for Earth’s admittance into the Interstellar Coalition is a losing deal for him.”
T’Pol cocked her head and narrowed her eyes at the human. “You’re going to tell me now that Winston is advocating this union selflessly, for a higher, more noble purpose.”
“What if I did?”
“I would tell you that you were correct: it would be a losing deal for him,” she said, a small touch of regret coloring her tone. “Are you familiar with the reasons Vulcans renounced emotion, Mister Pike?”
“Because of war,” the Starfleet captain answered. “You nearly wiped yourselves out, right?”
“Correct. The emotions of fear and hatred are too powerful and too destructive. Your people have turned those emotions against extraterrestrials, which is perhaps the only reason you have avoided the fate my ancestors suffered. And no matter the best intentions of Prime Minister Winston or yourself, a proposal like this will only serve to rekindle that fear and hatred. I have seen it happen too many times over the past one hundred and nine years, as recently as just this past week.”
“So, when I report back to the prime minister, I should tell him, don’t even bother?”
“I would advise phrasing the message a bit less bluntly.”
Pike slid forward to the edge of his chair and leaned toward her. “Would that be the same advice—less bluntly phrased—you gave Captain Archer when he decided to act as mediator at Weytahn?”
T’Pol narrowed her eyes at Pike. That was, in fact, the essence of what she’d told Jonathan when he’d first proposed negotiating a peaceful settlement between Vulcan and Andoria over the long-disputed planet, which Vulcan called Paan Mokar. But that was irrelevant. “As I have already said, Carter Winston is not Jonathan Archer.”
“I understand,” Pike said. “But let me ask you: at that point in history, was Jonathan Archer yet ‘Jonathan Archer’?”
“He’s gotcha there, T’Pol.”
When she was first introduced to Jonathan Archer, he was suspicious and headstrong, and highly mistrustful of the Vulcans, whom he blamed for holding his father’s warp engine research back for decades. Even after the successful negotiations at Weytahn, it would be years before T’Pol developed the kind of un-questioning regard for Jonathan they were now talking about.
“I understand you have misgivings,” Pike continued. “More than anyone else on Earth, I’d bet. But I’d also bet that you have more reasons to want to see things change than most humans. Our best chance of effecting those changes is with your support, even if it’s just tacit.”
T’Pol said nothing for a long time. The last thing she wanted to do, so soon after the disaster of her visit to Berkeley, was to put herself out there again, trusting in supposedly well-intentioned humans. But if there was even the slightest chance that she could help advance Jonathan’s last unfinished mission…“I will have to meditate on the matter before reaching any decision,” she finally told Pike.
“Of course.” Pike stood up and started to put his right hand out to her, before he remembered the Vulcan aversion to casual physical contact. “Thank you again for your time and your indulgence, ma’am.”
“Captain Pike…” He stopped at the door and turned back. “Why did the prime minister send you here to make his case?” she asked.
“Because it’s my ship that will be undertaking the diplomatic mission to the Coalition,” he told her. “And because he thought you might be more favorably inclined if you were asked by the captain of the current Starship Enterprise.”
Her heart seemed to skip a few beats at the mention of that piece of information. Still, she kept herself steady and said in a dismissive tone, “Sentimentality is an emotion.”
“That’s what I thought,” Pike said, a corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Good day, ma’am.”
“Good day, Captain,” she said, and stood staring at the door for several seconds after he’d left, deep in thought.
A team of four men and women in EVA suits stood atop the Enterprise’s saucer. Over their heads, a small Work Bee slowly maneuvered a new modular bridge toward its place at the apex of the ship. The workers watched as the large starship component was lowered toward them. They waved their arms and hands even though they were out of sight of the pilot and had their suits’ audio transceivers ope
n to the Bee’s operator. Finally, after a slow descent, the workers reached up and lay their gloved hands on the oversized dome, helping to guide it the last two meters into its large circular socket.
Though sound did not travel through the vacuum between the ship and the observation deck overlooking the Bozeman Station drydock slip, Jim Kirk still imagined the gentle metallic clunk of the module settling in place, followed by the whir of locking clamps. The entire top of the bridge module lit up, indicating that the duotronic circuits had connected and that ship’s systems were now integrated with its new command center.
Kirk smiled at the sight of the now perfectly refurbished star-ship. The scorched hull plating had been replaced, and the rest had been restored to its original pristine white. He put his hand out, until his fingertips were stopped by the transparent aluminum window, and traced the curve of the forward hull and the newly repainted black lettering on the upper hull, spelling out the name U.E.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701.
“Now I know why it’s called ‘she,’” said a teasing voice beside him.
Kirk dropped his hand and turned away to face his friend. “I’m only appreciating the work your people have done, Gary,” he said, betraying only a hint of a sheepish grin.
“Of course you are,” Gary Mitchell said, giving him a sly wink. “Just be careful; she belongs to another man, and I hear Pike is the jealous type.”
Kirk just laughed. Gary Mitchell was one of Jim Kirk’s best friends at Starfleet Academy, a guy who was always ready with a smile or a joke, and always seemed to know when he’d most needed one. As cadets, they had hoped to be assigned after their respective graduations to the same posting, and Mitchell had made Kirk promise that, when he made captain, he’d take his friend along as first officer.
Those plans never quite panned out, though—in no small part because of one of Mitchell’s “jokes,” where he thought it would be funny to get Jim together with a pretty blond lab technician he’d met at an off-campus party. Jim ended up proposing to Carol Marcus, and while they honeymooned at Lake Armstrong, Gary shipped out on the Republic. Kirk didn’t see him again until after the tragedy at Dimorus, though they both kept in close touch over the years.
“Well, now that the bulk of the repairs are done,” Mitchell said, “maybe you’d be willing to tear yourself away from the old girl for a minute or two and let me buy you that drink I promised.”
Kirk smiled wider at that suggestion. “Lead on, Macduff.”
Mitchell led him out of the lounge, heading for his quarters. He still walked with a slight limp, a permanent aftereffect of the three poisonous darts the rat-creatures of Dimorus had hit him with years earlier. He’d actually been one of the lucky ones, having recovered well enough to return to active duty, even if he was no longer able to take a shipboard assignment. There were plenty of humans who didn’t survive the attack at Dimorus—though the consolation was, even fewer rat-creatures survived the retaliatory counterattack.
“I still don’t understand why you settled for another tour as XO, Jim,” Mitchell said as they rode the turbolift to the residential section of Bozeman Station. “You could have had your own command right now if you hadn’t.”
Kirk shrugged. “I thought serving on the Enterprise under a man like Pike was the better career choice.”
“Better than your own ship?” Mitchell continued to harangue him. “Hell, Jim, the Horizon was yours for the taking, if you had just waited.”
“Sure, and I would lie awake every night, worrying that the old rust bucket would end up falling apart around me.” The entire Daedalus class was supposed to have been retired sixty years ago, and yet, there were more of them still flying than there were of any other class of ships.
“The old girls might not be as pretty as the younger ones, but they’re a lot tougher and more reliable than anything Marvick and his Martian dilettantes have come up with. You’ve heard about their Excelsior Class Project?” Mitchell asked as the turbolift doors opened to let them off. “Nearly twice the size of the Constitutions, an upgraded warp system that doesn’t actually exist yet, and they’re not even planning to launch the first one for at least twenty years!”
Kirk couldn’t help but chuckle. For a man who had never asked to supervise a team of starship engineers and technicians, his friend had certainly adopted the competitive spirit that pitted the team at Bozeman against the one at the newly established Utopia Planitia. “It sounds like you need this drink a lot more than I do.”
Mitchell stopped at a gray cabin door with his name on the control plate beside it. “All I’m saying is, if you want to retire the old Daedaluses, then we need to build more Soyuz-and Annapolis-class ships, practical ships, instead of blowing resources on another white elephant.” He punched a short code into the panel, opening his door. “Okay, the rest of my work rants stay out here in the corridor, I promise,” he said, gesturing for Kirk to enter ahead of him.
Mitchell’s quarters were huge—at least, compared to those Kirk had aboard the Enterprise. One of the advantages of a non-shipboard posting, he thought to himself. Two large transparent panes revealed the Earth below: the Rocky Mountains looked like a great sheet of crinkled paper painted brown, green, and white. To the east, in the middle of what from here looked like a completely unmarred plain, he could just make out the urban sprawl of Bozeman, Montana. Between the two windows stood a shelving unit holding a number of racquetball trophies and other mementos, as well as a collection of framed photographs.
“I’ve got a bottle here that I’ve been waiting for a good reason to crack open,” Mitchell said as he moved into a kitchen/dining area off the main room. Kirk wasn’t paying attention to him anymore, though—all his other thoughts had been driven off as he spotted one particular picture.
Carol was glowing. She smiled a huge smile at the camera, her right hand atop her head, holding the mortarboard in place, and her left hand gripping her hard-earned Ph.D. diploma. The loose black graduation gown she wore couldn’t disguise the bulge of her seven-months-pregnant abdomen. Gary stood on one side of her, hand on her back, while Jim had his arm wrapped around her shoulder, kissing her cheek. Until the day David had been born, that day had been the proudest and happiest of her life. Little had she realized how few days she had left…and how few David would ever have…
“Jim, what…oh, damn.” Mitchell moved up behind Kirk and saw what it was his friend held in his hands. “I’m sorry, Jim, I didn’t realize…I’ve had these pictures up so long, I don’t even see them anymore. I didn’t mean to leave them here for you—”
“No, don’t be sorry,” Kirk said, blinking away the stinging he felt in his eyes. “I’m okay.” He took a deep breath, put the picture back down, then turned and reached for one of the two glasses Mitchell held. “To old friends, and happier times.”
Mitchell said nothing, but just nodded his head before pouring back his drink. Kirk did the same…and fought to swallow down the unfamiliar liquid. “Oh! Oh my…” he sputtered as it burned its way down his esophagus. “What the hell is this?”
“Saurian brandy.”
“Saurian?” Kirk looked aghast at his friend. “Gary, this stuff is illegal! You know that!”
“Only to buy it or sell it,” Mitchell said, grinning like a mischievous child. “For all you know, the bottle was left anonymously on my doorstep one night, with a tear-stained note begging me to take it in and give it a good home.”
“Are you insane?” Kirk asked, thrusting his glass back at his host. “This stuff was never intended for human consumption!”
“Neither were Brussels sprouts, but Mom kept trying to make me eat ’em…”
“Gary, I’m not joking. You’re a Starfleet officer. It’s our job to defend the human race from alien outsiders, not—”
“Lighten up, Jim,” Mitchell said, raising his voice to be heard over Jim’s tirade. “We’re not talking about a threat to national security; we’re talking about alcohol. The same alcohol, the same chemical substance
in Earth brandy, Earth whiskey, Earth whatever the hell else you want to talk about. Just because aliens make it and drink it doesn’t make it a threat.”
“Just because you don’t see a threat doesn’t mean there isn’t one,” Kirk shouted. “Have you been stuck in orbit so long you’ve forgotten what it’s like out there, Gary? We face the threats out there so you don’t have to face them here!”
Gary Mitchell’s eyes went cold and hard as he glared back at his friend. “No, Jim. I have not forgotten,” he said, his left hand rubbing at his thigh.
Kirk realized he had gone too far, and that he’d have to apologize eventually. But he was beyond caring just then. “Carol didn’t think there was a threat, either,” he said, his voice turning low and harsh.
Mitchell’s earlier irritation suddenly fell away. “Jim—”
“She took the Vulcans’ invitation at face value,” Kirk continued. The Vulcan Science Academy had announced an interstellar symposium on the subject of molecular biology, and for the first time in decades, had welcomed a select number of human scientists to participate, including Doctor Carol Kirk. It was, she said, the opportunity of a lifetime, the chance for members of the scientific community to gather together for the free and open exchange of knowledge, without politics getting in the way.
Which all turned out to be a complete lie. The transport ship that had been hired to ferry the scientists to Vulcan was challenged as it crossed into I.C. territory. The Vulcan captain said she never received a response from the encroaching Earth ship, even though their distress call, after they came under fire, was picked up by subspace relays for light-years around, on both sides of the border. “Those Vulcan bastards murdered my wife and son,” he growled, biting off each word with sharp teeth dripping with venom. “So forgive me if I seem a bit overcautious about what is and isn’t a threat.”
Mitchell sat still for a moment, saying nothing. Then he stood, limped back out to the kitchen, and returned shortly with two clean glasses and a bottle of amber liquid with a black label that clearly stated its point of origin as Lynchburg, Tennessee, Earth. “Thanks,” Kirk whispered as Mitchell poured a glass for each of them.
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