The Autobiography of James T. Kirk

by David A. Goodman

  I ran to my console.

  “Weapons control to bridge! It’s in the ship! Repeat, it’s in the ship! I’m sealing this section.”

  Whatever this gas was, I knew I had to keep it from getting to the rest of the Farragut. I began to activate the locks on the emergency bulkheads to seal off the section. I was only about halfway done when the sweet odor got stronger.

  And then it was on me. It was as though I was drowning in a vat of syrup. I couldn’t breathe. I started to lose consciousness, and as I did, I heard something. It wasn’t a voice. It was in my head.

  “I will feed here …”

  I don’t know how long I had been out. I had been vaguely aware of people talking, the red alert klaxon, and then quiet. But it was all distorted, a haze. And then I felt a hypo in my neck, and I slowly regained consciousness.

  My vision focused, and I found I was in sickbay. First Officer Coto was standing over my bed, along with Dr. Piper. The lights were dim. There was a medical device on my arm.

  “You’re getting blood transfusions,” Piper said to me. “But you’ll be fine.”

  I tried to ask about the cloud, to explain what happened.

  “It’s off the ship,” Coto said. His voice was heavy; there was no relief in it.

  “It was … a creature,” I said.

  Coto and Piper exchanged a look.

  “What do you mean?” Piper said.

  “I could feel … it thinking,” I said. “It wanted to feed off us …” From Coto’s look, he didn’t believe me. Piper, however, was considering it.

  “It would explain some things,” the doctor said. “It didn’t just dissipate through the ship like an uncontrolled gas,” he said. “It took only red corpuscles from its victims. First the landing party, then the two crewmen in weapons control, but Kirk was left alive. The attacks happened in spurts—a few people at a time were killed—for lack of a better analogy, its stomach got full.”

  “Wait … attacks?” I said. “How many people?”

  Piper realized he had been talking too much. He gave Coto an apologetic look.

  “Please tell me,” I said.

  “Over 200,” Coto said. Half the crew.

  “The captain?” I asked even though I knew the answer.

  “He’s dead,” Coto said.

  “I’m sorry …” I choked it out. “I’m so sorry …”

  “It’s not your fault,” he said. “Staying in the weapons control room to seal off the section saved the ship …”

  I couldn’t hear him. All those people, and Captain Garrovick, dead because I didn’t fire in time. I felt myself starting to cry and turned away.

  “Get some rest, Lieutenant,” Coto said, and he turned and left.

  The Farragut limped to Starbase 12 with half a crew for repairs, resupply, and restaffing. I spent two weeks in a rehabilitation facility. The creature had taken most of the red corpuscles from my body, and it took a long time before my body healed. Mental health was going to take a lot longer.

  Commander Coto and Dr. Piper both came to see me during my rehabilitation. They hadn’t given Coto the promotion to captain, but he was still in temporary command and, as such, was supervising the restaffing of the ship. He had gotten approval to offer me the position of chief navigator. I said yes, although I was unsure. He told me my duties would be very light for a long time; it would take weeks for such a large number of crew replacements to make their way to Starbase 12.

  Once I was released from the hospital, rather than return to the ship, I took quarters on the base. It was the first time since the academy that I lived on a planet, and it was a welcome change. Starbase 12 was a state-of-the-art facility, providing storage and repair services, and surrounded by living and recreational accommodations. About 4,000 Starfleet personnel and their families lived there.

  My room was in a bungalow in the single officers’ living area, two-story buildings set on winding pathways among rolling grass and trees. The apartment was efficient and clean, with its own kitchen, but I took most of my meals either in the officers’ mess or one of the small restaurants and bars that civilians and interplanetary traders had set up on the base. I found myself imbibing a lot during this period; the only way I could go to sleep was drunk, and even so my sleep was fitful and disturbed by nightmares.

  A particular favorite haunt of mine was called Feezal’s. It was run by a friendly proprietor whose race I wasn’t familiar with. He had a large skull with ridges on the sides of his cheeks and forehead, which might have seemed threatening, except for his constant joviality. He said his name was “Sim,” but I suspected he wasn’t telling the truth. He seemed very old and would gently deflect any attempt on my part to get him to divulge anything personal, including what planet he was from. The only thing he would tell me about himself was that the bar was named after one of his wives.

  He, however, did show a lot of interest in me, asking me lots of questions about my life and history, and it was therapeutic to talk to someone. He had lost a close friend on Tarsus, which led to several discussions on whether Kodos was really dead. There were galactic rumors that he’d gotten away. Sim seemed to always know what I needed, and one evening, he amazed me by introducing me to a young woman, whom I immediately recognized.

  “Hello, Jim!” she said.

  I’d met Carol Marcus at the academy, where she worked as a lab assistant while she finished her doctorate in molecular biology. We had had a short, casual fling that came to an end when I graduated.

  Upon seeing her I was immediately sorry it hadn’t continued. She was very attractive, blond, petite—which I guess was my type—and very smart. In the intervening years, Carol had gotten her doctorate and was now part of a research project using Starfleet facilities at the base. I felt myself drawn to her immediately. She was warm and attentive, flattered by my renewed interest, and our relationship reignited.

  The restaffing of the Farragut dragged on for weeks, and I didn’t mind. I would serve a shift on the Farragut for eight hours a day, then return to the starbase, where Carol and I would spend the rest of our time. I moved into her apartment, and we had a rapport that was both passionate and easy. We’d spend our free time rock climbing and horseback riding, we’d cook together and read together. I stopped drinking as much, and the nightmares, though they didn’t go away completely, faded. I was settled and happy. And I didn’t want it to end.

  “Will you marry me?” I said one morning while we were still in bed.

  “Jim,” she said. “Wait … what?”

  “I want to marry you,” I said. “I want to be with you.”

  “Jim … I love you … but I can’t leave my work …”

  “Then I’ll leave mine,” I said, and thought I meant it. “I’ll ask for a base posting. We can make this work. I want to have a family with you.”

  “It’s … what I want too,” she said, and kissed me. I called the ship and asked one of the junior officers to cover my shift, and we stayed together all day.

  The next morning, I arrived for my shift on the Farragut. The ship was busier now; as chief navigator, I also had crewmen who reported to me. I saw Commander Coto in his quarters, and told him I wanted reassignment to the starbase. He looked at me in weary acceptance. He’d known about my relationship with Carol and said he’d been expecting this.

  “Look, Jim,” he said, “I’m not going to try to talk you out of it. But you’re an exceptional Starfleet officer. Assuming I get command, I’m going to need men like you I can rely on to help me protect the lives of this crew.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I’ve made up my mind.” But I hadn’t. I had committed myself to Carol, and that’s what drove me to say what I said. But Coto had an effect, and I felt a responsibility to help him and the crew. Coto asked me to at least delay my transfer until the final replacements arrived, which would still be a few weeks. I agreed.

  As time went on, I became more conflicted about my decision. I was enjoying my time with Carol,
but I felt the pull of life aboard the ship. And, as new crewmen reported to the Farragut, I became cognizant of my importance; a lot of them were fresh from the academy, and though I’d only been out less than two years, I was surprised that the experiences even in that short a time gave me a wealth of knowledge to share. I also found that, in grieving for the loss of Captain Garrovick and my shipmates, I had renewed my determination to serve, to correct the mistake I had made. I should’ve been talking about this to Carol, but I knew it would hurt her.

  A few weeks later, Farragut was almost completely restaffed. As I finished up my shift, Commander Coto came over to me.

  “I’ve received my promotion,” he said. I congratulated him. He’d worked harder than anyone to get the ship back in shape, and I was glad he was rewarded. He then told me the ship would be leaving in two days, and he wondered if I’d reconsidered my decision, as he still had not filled the position of chief navigator. It was still mine if I wanted it. I said I did. I left the ship, my heart heavy with the fact that I now had to break this news to Carol. I decided I would tell her everything I’d been thinking, that I needed this to close out my grief. I knew she would be hurt, but I thought she would understand, knowing what I’d been through. I didn’t get the chance; when I walked in, she met me with a smile.

  “Jim, I’m pregnant,” she said as she fell into my arms.

  A child. I had not expected this. It was thrilling and confusing. Suddenly my self-centered arguments felt hollow. The idea of a baby was so overwhelming, so joyous, so intimidating, that I didn’t know what to say. Carol, however, immediately sensed something was wrong. She stepped back and looked at me.

  “I’ll make it work,” I said. “I promise—”

  “This is exactly what you said you didn’t want,” she said, through tears.

  “I know,” I said. “But I love you—”

  “You said you hated your mother going away; you didn’t want that for your kids.” She had been listening to me talk about the pain of my childhood. But in that moment, I thought I could do things differently. I believed I could be there as a father, and also do my job as a Starfleet officer. I would make it work. I loved her, and I wanted to have a family with her.

  “Let’s have this baby,” I said. “I’ll be there for you.”

  “Clear the bridge!” I shouted too late. I’d been manning the Hotspur’s engineering station. We’d been hit several times, and the last one had shorted out the engineering console, electrocuting the crewman who was operating it. I was trying to reroute power to the shields but had been unsuccessful. Captain Sheridan took the helm and was trying to get us out of orbit.

  We had been attacked by pirates on the way to deliver supplies and medicine to Altair IV, at the edge of the Federation. Aliens in unmarked ships would often attack lone Starfleet vessels in the region, in the hopes of stealing profitable cargo. We knew, in fact, that some of these ships were actually Klingon, under orders from their government to unofficially pilfer whatever they could from Federation shipping. If caught, they would deny their empire’s involvement. We weren’t a hundred percent sure that the ship we were currently engaged with was Klingon, but just the possibility that they were motivated me; every encounter I had with that species furthered my growing personal animosity. I watched as the stubby pirate vessel launched another torpedo, just as the captain laid in the course. The torpedo was on track to hit the primary hull and the bridge. I was a few feet from the turbolift, and just before we were hit, I shouted and leaped for it.

  The torpedo obliterated what was left of our deflectors and blasted a ten-meter gaping wound in the primary hull; the bridge was open to space. I was at the door of the turbolift as the air and everything not tied down was blown out of the hole. In the millisecond before I was blown out with everything else I had grabbed the edge of the closing turbolift door. The tremendous force of the atmosphere departing the confines of the ship lifted me off the deck. I held the door with both hands; the rushing air and the sudden cold of space weakened my grip. I held my breath; I knew I wouldn’t have much time.

  And as suddenly as the wind started, it stopped.

  I fell to the deck. The bridge was now an airless void, and I felt the unbearable cold slice through my uniform. I knew I had maybe ten seconds before I passed out. I looked up; my right hand still clutched the turbolift door. I couldn’t feel it; my extremities had already gone completely numb. What had saved me so far was the ship’s computer, locked in an unsolvable dilemma; it couldn’t seal the turbolift as long as its sensor detected a human life-form holding the door open. As long as I didn’t let go, the door wouldn’t close.

  I pulled myself toward the small opening and felt unbelievable pressure on my lungs. I had an overwhelming desire to exhale, but knew that would be the end of me. The lift seemed too far away. I stumbled, then dragged myself forward. Blackness surrounded me. I couldn’t move anymore, tried to pull, and then had the sensation of rolling on the deck.

  I’d made it into the lift and heard the doors close with a pneumatic whoosh; the sound told me there was air, so I exhaled and inhaled. I was on the floor, shivering, desperately trying to catch my breath. On the verge of blacking out, I rolled over, got to my knees, and reached for one of the lift’s control handles. I grabbed it, trying to fight off the dark waiting to envelop me. I pulled myself to my feet and hit the comm panel.

  “Kirk … to auxiliary control,” I said.

  “Yes sir,” a voice responded.

  “Captain Sheridan laid in a course—”

  “I see it, sir, it’s on the board—”

  “Execute … immediately.” Looking for shelter, Sheridan had set a course for a nearby gas giant. The pirate ship was too old and small to stand the pressure. The Hotspur, a Baton Rouge–class ship like the Republic, wouldn’t be able to stand it for long either, but it would buy us some time.

  I felt the deck plates shudder. The ship was moving. I turned the control handle of the turbolift, and as it moved toward auxiliary control, I took in the empty lift car and its implication: I was the only one who’d made it off the bridge. The captain and first officer were both dead. Sheridan had been a good commander. He was collaborative, encouraged my input. I learned a lot from him. I tried not to think about the fact that he was now gone.

  I had only been aboard the Hotspur a month. It was not a desired posting because the ship was so old, but after two years of relative comfort as Captain Coto’s navigator, I was looking for something different. When Coto told me his priority was protecting the lives of his crew, he wasn’t exaggerating; he had become very risk averse. I really couldn’t blame him given the trauma he’d been through, but the upshot was he made sure the Farragut always played it safe. So when the Hotspur needed a communications officer, who would also be fourth-in-command, I jumped at it. The ship was also on “milk runs,” like the Republic, but in a sector of space much more dangerous.

  The turbolift stopped; I got off and found my way to the auxiliary control room. It was manned by a few crewmen I didn’t know well, and one that I did: the chief engineer and third-in-command, Howard Kaplan, my old superior officer from the Republic. He was moved to the Hotspur when the Republic was retired from service. Though he technically outranked me, I was a bridge officer, and he had not been happy to see me come aboard. The rest of the crewmen were among the least experienced on the ship; they were reserve crewmen sent to man the auxiliary control room during a red alert. When the bridge was declared uninhabitable, any and every senior officer available was supposed to report here and take over. Kaplan and I were the only ones who showed up.

  “Are you all right, sir?” asked the crewman manning the helm. She was a beautiful young woman named Uhura who’d just gotten out of the academy.

  “Report,” I said, ignoring her question, because I was far from all right. I was freezing, my legs were weak, and my vision was blurry. But I wasn’t going to let them know that, especially Kaplan.

  “We’re inside the
gas giant, sir,” Uhura said.

  “Warp drive is out and we’re not going to be able to stay here for long,” Kaplan snapped.

  He wasn’t offering a solution; I looked around the room at the other faces, all of them younger than me, all of them looking for guidance. I wasn’t going to get any ideas from them either, so I had to figure something out.

  The pirates were better armed than we were and had caught us by surprise. I couldn’t go back out there and engage in a conventional battle. They’d damaged our weapon targeting control—in a pounding match, they’d have a distinct advantage.

  “Ensign,” I said to Uhura, “bring up what we have on our opponent.” Uhura threw a few switches, and a schematic of the pirate ship appeared on the viewscreen. I immediately looked at its mass; it was about a third of Hotspur’s. I did a quick calculation in my head and smiled to myself. I had a plan, and I was sure it would work.

  I glanced again at Kaplan. He was technically in command, so I should run my idea by him, but there was no use to that. He’d spent his career in engineering. He had no experience commanding a ship. He looked at me, worried, angry, scared. He wasn’t in any position to judge my idea, and I was past hesitating where the safety of the ship was concerned.

  “Stand by on tractor beam,” I said. I had checked and it was still operational. “We’re going to come out of the gas giant, lock on to that ship, then we’re going to drag it back into the gas giant with us …”

  “We won’t have a lot of thrust—” Kaplan said.

  “We won’t need it,” I said. “We’re deeper in the gravity well than they are, and we’re three times their mass. That’ll do most of the work for us. They’ll either overload their engines trying to pull away, or get crushed by the gas giant.”

  Uhura and the other crewmen look relieved, pleased by the confidence I had expressed. We might get out of this. Kaplan just scowled at me, embarrassed but contrite.