It was my third year, I’d been promoted to cadet lieutenant, and Mitchell was in my squad. He was everything I wasn’t: charming, gregarious, rough, and a little reckless. I had been leaning into him, hoping to shake loose a little intellect, but I wasn’t having much success. I had a feeling at that time that Mitchell wouldn’t make it through.
I was at the Finneys’ home one night and mentioned it to Ben.
“Let him wash out,” Ben said. “Who needs another loser graduating?”
Ben was now in his second year as a postgraduate instructor, and the academy had just asked him to stay on for a third. Unlike Finney, many computer specialists could often be notoriously bad teachers, which is why he was so valuable to the academy. But he’d watched two graduating classes leave him behind, and now he would see a third; it was starting to get under his skin.
His baby, Jamie, however, seemed to do a lot to soften his mood. Ben had said he wanted a son, but didn’t seem at all disappointed in having a daughter. It had come as quite a shock when he and Naomi told me that they were naming their first child after me, and it made me feel more attached to them as a family. I leaned on them during those years after I broke up with Ruth. Aside from a couple of casual relationships, Ben and Naomi became my one major social outlet, as I threw myself into my studies. (I found out later that some underclassman had dubbed me a “stack of books with legs,” which I would only criticize as not being particularly clever.)
In any event, it was soon time to submit Mitchell’s grade. I spoke to his other instructors; though he was passing most of his classes, he was going to fail his Philosophy of Religion course. That and another failing grade from me would lead to expulsion. I weighed the decision seriously and finally decided to pass him. Maybe I had softened on him, maybe I just liked him, but whatever the reasons, I would not regret that decision.
The following summer, I was part of a flying exercise of two squadrons of five craft each; we were flying academy trainers, the century-old Starfleet surplus shuttle pods, with basic instrumentation and updated piloting software. I had rated high on piloting, so by my third year I had my own squadron, and Gary was in it. We were out near Earth’s moon, learning to operate in its gravity well. I was in the second squadron; my old roommate Adam Castro led the first. Our job was to follow them, stay within ten kilometers, and imitate their maneuvers as closely as possible. Castro acted the role of hotshot pilot, so he wasn’t making it easy. There was also a little bit of competition between the two squadrons, which I did my best to tamp down.
We were doing a fair job of following, until their final maneuver. They lined up wingtip to wingtip, forming a three-dimensional loop. We imitated the maneuver, when I noticed something on one of my scanners. Gary noticed it too.
“Cobra Five to Cobra Leader,” he said, “they’re opening their coolant interlocks. Do we follow suit?”
“Cobra Leader to Cobra Group, do not, I say again, do not follow suit,” I said. I could see what Castro was up to and I didn’t like it.
“But they’re accelerating, pulling ahead,” Gary said. “You know what they’re doing, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” I said. “Cobra Leader to Cobra Group, I repeat, keep your coolant interlocks closed. Engines to all stop; we’ll wait here until they finish.”
The ships of the other squadron spun, moved inward on the circle, and vented plasma. As they passed each other inside the circle, the plasma ignited. The maneuver, called a Kolvoord Starburst, usually ended as the ships moved out in separate directions, creating an expanding five-point eruption of ignited plasma. It was a “top gun” piloting maneuver that cadets had been performing for decades. I, however, hadn’t prepared my squadron for it, and it was too risky. My caution was justified.
As the ships moved past each other, one of them veered off its course and hit another one. It caused a domino effect; all the ships crashed into each other and were destroyed.
“Oh my god …” It was someone over the intercom, maybe Gary. I couldn’t be sure.
“Cobra Leader to Cobra Group, stand by for rescue operations—” Before I could finish that order, however, it was rendered pointless.
There was an explosion, and not the one the pilots intended. All the ships were engulfed in the cascading conflagration, and a much more dangerous wave of energy, caused by the detonation of five engines, was heading right toward us.
“Cobra Leader to Cobra Group, 180 degrees about and scatter, go, go go!” I said, shouting. I banked my ship and watched to make sure all the shuttle pods came about. The old ships moved achingly slow, but they all turned away from the explosion and each other.
I checked my six and saw the wave about to hit …
“All ships, brace for impact!”
I was jolted forward by the impact of the force wave. An alarm sounded and my instrumentation panel shorted out. Smoke billowed, and coughing, I waved it away. I looked up through my view port. I’d lost sight of the other shuttle pods.
“Cobra Leader to Cobra Squadron, damage report,” I said. I tried again; no answer. My communications panel was out. I then checked my helm and navigation panel; I had no instruments, no sensors. I looked up through the view ports. I still didn’t see any of the shuttle pods.
I couldn’t risk navigating by sight. Protocol in a situation like this was to prioritize communications and signal for help; ships flying blindly were a navigation hazard. And after witnessing the death of five cadets who weren’t following the rules, I decided I had to. So I ripped open the communications panel and attempted to repair the circuits.
After about half an hour, I was having no luck and started to regret my decision. The course the shuttle pods had been on was taking us away from Earth, so it might be a while before search and rescue found us. I had a squadron out here, I didn’t know their status, and because I had followed the rules, they might all be dead. I gave up on the communicator and took control of the helm. I was going to have to try to find them by sight. I started scanning the sky when I heard a loud thunk on my ceiling. I looked up as the upper hatch opened, and Gary Mitchell came through. He had docked his shuttle pod to mine.
“Permission to come aboard,” he said with a smile.
“Granted,” I said. “How did you find me?”
“I just started looking,” he said. “I found the rest of the squadron first; everybody’s alive.”
“You have instrumentation?”
“Nope,” he said. “I did it by sight, and when I got close to a ship, I used Morse code with my landing lights to tell them to fall behind me. Then I found you.”
“You … that’s …” I was dumbfounded. He’d taken so many risks, but he had brought the squadron together, and now we could safely navigate to the dock.
“I think I owe you one,” I said.
“We owe you one,” he said, “for not trying that maneuver.”
It was a terrible day; we’d seen five comrades die needlessly. But it was not without its lessons. The academy banned the Kolvoord Starburst, which has not been performed to this day. And I learned that I could count on Gary Mitchell.
“This was a labor camp,” Lev said. He was a native of Axanar, humanoid, short and stout like most of his species, with reddish skin and ridges along his neck. It was the beginning of my last year at the academy. I was with a group of cadets, and we were standing in the central square of what had once been a midsize city on his planet. Some buildings had been destroyed to make room for stretches of farmland; others were converted to barracks and monstrous factories. A million Axanars had lived in this converted city, with dozens like it all over the planet, and spent a lifetime under the relentless rule of the Klingon Empire. As slaves they had no rights, and rebellion was not tolerated. Lev led us behind a wrecked building. I gagged at the sight; others gasped; a young cadet vomited.
Thousands of people, charred to their bones, in a pile two stories high. They hadn’t just been burned; heads had been bashed in, arms and legs broken. The
faces of the blackened skulls seemed to scream in agony. There were smaller skeletons. Children. Babies.
“What a shame,” someone said. They had a mocking tone, and I turned, expecting to deliver a reprimand to one of my cadets. I was surprised, however, to see our party of had been joined by a group of Klingon soldiers, intimidating in their gold tunics with impressive sidearms packed to their waists. The one who’d spoken, their leader, wore a smile that could freeze an open flame.
“You don’t sound sincere,” I said.
“Oh, but I am,” he said. “The rules were clearly posted. If only they’d followed them, they might still be alive.” We were all about the same age, part of the same mission. A mission of peace that at the moment I wanted no part of.
Axanar was the site of a battle between the Federation starship Constitution and three Klingon ships. Captain Garth of the Constitution, in some brilliant maneuvers, defeated the Klingon birds-of-prey. (In one particular move that we would study in school, he took remote control of his enemy’s weapons console. No one had thought to try that before, and it led to all Federation ships having their own combination code so no one would try it on us.)
Garth was a unique captain, and rather than suing for peace, he boldly claimed the system was under his protection. It was a big gamble; since the Klingons considered Axanar part of their empire, Garth’s action could have started a war. But Garth knew the Klingons were embarrassed by the defeat. The Klingons relied on fear to maintain their empire, and if they took him on and he somehow defeated them again, it could undermine their authority in the entire quadrant. In addition, Axanar was no longer of value to the empire; most of its assets were depleted. For those reasons, the Klingons hesitated before taking further action.
This allowed the Federation Diplomatic Corps leverage to step in. They reached out to the Klingons, hoping for a negotiated peace. The Klingons, for the first time in history, agreed. In truth, the Klingons decided to use the negotiations as an opportunity to get more information on what they considered their greatest enemy.
Starfleet saw the same opportunity; this peace mission was a chance for our military minds to gather as much information as possible about our greatest adversary. So along with the diplomats, a contingency of Starfleet officers was selected. I was part of a group of academy cadets included since we might one day have to face the Klingons in war.
It was not out of the question; right now, I wanted to hit the one standing in front of me.
“I’m Jim Kirk,” I said, extending my hand. The Klingon looked down at it with a mix of amusement and disdain. He didn’t take it, so I withdrew it.
“Koloth,” he said.
“A pleasure to meet you,” I said.
“I don’t think it will help our negotiations,” Koloth said, “if we start out lying to each other.” He wanted me to be open about hating him; I had no problem with it.
“You’re right,” I said. “Great things may come of this.” Koloth ignored me and turned to Lev, who’d shrunk behind my group of cadets.
“You there,” he said. “We’re thirsty. Get us some wine.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “He’s giving us a tour. Maybe you could find your drinks on your own.” Koloth looked at me. One of the men behind him reached for a knife, but Koloth noticed, and with a slight motion of his hand signaled him to stop. Koloth then turned back to me.
“Very well. I imagine this won’t be the last time you and I meet,” Koloth said.
“I look forward to it,” I said. I gave him a smile that told him, this time, I wasn’t lying. Koloth led his men away.
In the end, the mission led to negotiations with the Klingons that would keep the peace and prevent a full-scale war for 15 years. But what I saw on Axanar also cemented the negative impression I’d had about them since childhood, one that wouldn’t change for another 40 years.
Ben tried to talk me out of it, but I wasn’t listening.
“Come on, I need you,” I said. “I have to get into the program bank, and you know that computer system better than anyone …”
“You’re spending too much time with Mitchell,” Ben said. “Since when do you take this kind of risk?” Ben was right; we could get in a lot of trouble, but I could tell he was coming around.
I was a few months away from graduation and had recently been given the Kobayashi Maru test, relatively new to the academy at the time. We had no idea who devised it, but we’d heard rumors that a Vulcan had included the proposal for it in his application, and it was one of the reasons he was accepted. The details were a closely guarded secret, and the honor code of the academy stated that you couldn’t discuss the test with anyone who hadn’t taken it yet. But, as it turned out, many in the academy did not observe the honor code, and the details became public.
The test placed a cadet in command of a starship that received a distress call for a fuel ship, the Kobayashi Maru, which was in the Neutral Zone bordering the Klingon Empire. The cadet had to decide whether to try to rescue the ship violating the treaty and risking interplanetary war. If the cadet chose this route, his/her ship was destroyed by the Klingons. It was considered an important test of command character.
I thought the test was bullshit.
I had spent the past four years preparing to find answers to the questions I would face in the Galaxy, and up until this test, every question had an answer. There was always a way to successfully complete your mission. My old roommate Thelin agreed with me. He had taken the test multiple times; he had not even tried to rescue the ship, but instead had used it as bait to try to trap the Klingons. This agressive tactic kept him from graduating.
I decided that the central problem of Kobayashi Maru was really about figuring out how to beat the test. I took it very personally, felt it was an insult to all the work I’d done. I just couldn’t live with the failure. So, with Ben’s help, I would reprogram the simulation. Thus, the third time I took the test, I rescued the Kobayashi Maru and escaped the Klingons.
It caused quite a stir. I was able to keep Ben’s name out of it (no one knew the reprogramming was beyond my ability), and I was called before an honor review board for cheating. It looked like I might be expelled.
“What justification can you possibly give for such duplicitousness?” Admiral Barnett said. He was the imposing head of the review board.
“Sir, with all due respect, it wasn’t duplicitous. Nowhere in the rules did it state that we were not allowed to reprogram the computer.”
“You violated the spirit of the test,” Admiral Komack said. He was sitting next to Barnett and he was annoyed. Judging from the reaction of the admirals on the board, he wasn’t alone. I didn’t think I could change their minds, but I also knew that I was right. I’d been carrying a lot of demerits on my record since first year, thanks to Finnegan, and it wouldn’t take much to keep me from graduating. Looking back, I don’t know why I took such a risk, with all the work I’d done to get into the academy, and then all the work I did there to succeed. But I actually think all my experiences led me to make my decision, and I had to let them know.
“If I’m in command, aren’t I supposed to use every scrap of knowledge and experience at my disposal to protect the lives of my crew?” Barnett smiled at this. I could see the outrage on a few of the other admirals’ faces begin to flag. Except one.
“You broke the rules,” Komack said.
“No, I didn’t, sir,” I said. “I took the test within its own parameters twice. You have those results to judge me on. By letting me take it a third time, you invalidated those parameters. So I used my experience with the test to beat it.”
This argument visibly swayed Barnett and a few of the other board members. I decided to pursue my advantage.
“In fact, if I’d just let the test run its course a third time without trying to adjust its programming,” I said, “I would have been guilty of negligence, as I would not have done everything in my power to save my hypothetical crew, and you would have to expel
me on that basis.”
“We may expel you anyway,” Barnett said, though he didn’t sound serious.
The admirals said they had to make a determination, and I went back to my room that night, not sure what my future was going to be.
* * *
* EDITOR’S NOTE: The colony on Tarsus IV would be reestablished 25 years after the Kodos incident, albeit under a different form of government.
* EDITOR’S NOTE: The Sub Shuttles were a subterranean rapid transit system, built in the early 22nd century, using tunnels that honeycombed the globe. They were taken out of operation in 2267 when they were made obsolete by the preponderance of matter/energy transporters.
**: Captain Kirk has made a common error: It is in fact named for Henry Archer, Jonathan’s father and the inventor of the Warp Five engine. The building was constructed during Jonathan Archer’s tenure as Federation president, and it was he who insisted it be named for his father.
* EDITOR’S NOTE: The Xindi Incident began when that race attacked Earth in 2153 with a prototype weapon that killed seven million people. Starfleet foiled a further attack involving a much larger weapon.
* EDITOR’S NOTE: Kirk’s assessment is somewhat inaccurate. Shortly before this book went to press, Sean Finnegan’s “unremarkable” career led him to be appointed commandant of Starfleet Academy.
CHAPTER 4
“THAT’S IT, THAT’S THE REPUBLIC,” Ben Finney said.
We were in a shuttlecraft, two newly minted officers packed in with some enlisted crewmen, crammed up against the porthole trying to get a glimpse of our first assignment. Through my sliver of a window, I could see the U.S.S. Republic, an old Baton Rouge–class starship. As we passed its engines, we noticed mismatched paneling that indicated an extensive history of repair work. It was a beaten-up rust bucket, and as an ensign assigned to engineering, it was in no way a glamorous posting.
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