The Autobiography of James T. Kirk

by David A. Goodman

  “How will we survive?” he said with a chuckle.

  We dropped Spock off at Vulcan and were then soon ordered to Earth. It looked like we would spend our last three months in dry dock. It was strange to think it was all coming to an end. I went back to my old apartment. It overlooked Starfleet Academy, and my mind often wandered back to those days. I felt a specific memory gnawing at me and decided I needed some closure.

  On one of my leave days, I took a trip to the New Zealand Penal Settlement. Criminals from all over the planet lived and worked there, under guard, and were given carefully guided lives. It was punishment because it wasn’t freedom, but it wasn’t cruel either. I beamed into an administration building. The clerk behind a desk checked my security clearance and approved my request to visit an inmate. A guard took me out onto the grounds.

  There were rolling green hills where inmates worked on a variety of building projects. The guard took me to a technical facility, where inside several men and women labored over an antique computer. One of them immediately recognized me.

  Ben Finney was much older and thinner. When he saw me walk in, he immediately excused himself from the group, came over, and quietly said hello. He was not unfriendly, just reserved. I asked him if we could go for a walk. We took a stroll on the lush grounds.

  “You’ll be getting out soon,” I said. “Do you have any plans?”

  “Jamie and her wife live on Benecia; they’ve offered to let me live there with them.” Ben’s wife, Naomi, had passed away several years before. I didn’t bring her up, but I gathered they had not stayed in touch.

  “If there’s anything you need,” I said, “please let me know.” Ben stopped.

  “Jim,” he said, “I appreciate you coming. I appreciate your forgiveness. I have a sickness, and it led me to hurt a lot of people. But I guess what I’m saying is, it would be easier if I didn’t see you again.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But I just wanted you to know, I don’t think I would’ve been the person I’ve become without your help. I wanted to thank you.”

  Ben nodded. I think the pain of his own actions kept him from being able to embrace my appreciation. We shook hands and said goodbye.

  I was glad I took the time to do it. My life as I knew it was about to come to an end.

  A few weeks later, I was alone in the dark. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been locked in the cell of the Klingon ship. There was no light, no bed, no toilet. Time would pass, I’d sleep for a while, then wake up in a panic, trying to find the walls, or a door, or a hatch. They didn’t feed me or give me water. I was weak, disoriented. I sat in the dark, hungry, and I was sure that I was on my way to my execution. I had a lot of time to think about how I’d gotten there.

  The chancellor of the Klingon High Council was dead. Apparently by two Starfleet soldiers who beamed aboard a Klingon ship from the Enterprise and shot him. We were escorting him to Earth for a historic peace conference. The Klingons had asked for the conference; they were desperate. Their moon, Praxis, had exploded. I remembered when I was part of the DSPS, Cartwright had done extensive studies on the Klingon Homeworld Qo’noS and its single natural satellite Praxis. Despite the widespread nature of the Klingon Empire, it was still highly centralized around their Homeworld; the overwhelming majority of the Klingon population lived there. The only moon, Praxis, had been discovered centuries ago, when the Klingons first went into space. Its rich mineral wealth had been considered a gift from the Klingon gods. According to the strategic studies I had read, without the moon providing energy, they would lose almost 80 percent of their available power.

  This had been part of Nogura’s plan all those years ago, one which Cartwright enthusiastically pursued: fortify our borders, forcing the Klingons to fortify theirs, spending capital we knew they didn’t have. It looked like it had worked; now they didn’t have the resources to combat this catastrophe. If they couldn’t build air shelters for their population, Qo’noS would be uninhabitable in less than 50 years, and most of the population dead well before then. When I heard this, I thought, our greatest enemy was about to be defeated. The Galaxy would be safe.

  But I hadn’t known about the peace mission. That was why Spock had been called home to Vulcan. His father had asked him to act as a special envoy, and he had begun negotiations with the Klingon leader Gorkon to dismantle the defenses on our borders and help the Klingons integrate into the Federation. And then Spock informed me at a meeting of the Admiralty that he had volunteered the Enterprise to bring Gorkon to Earth.

  “There is an ancient Vulcan proverb: Only Nixon could go to China,” Spock said, by way of explanation. I had no idea what that meant.*

  I was furious. He knew how I felt about the Klingons, what they’d done to me, to David. I had no interest in helping them, or bringing them into Federation space.

  “They’re dying,” Spock said.

  “Let them die,” I said. And I meant it. I wouldn’t miss them, and, as far as I was concerned, neither would the Galaxy.

  But then I met Gorkon.

  We rendezvoused with his ship and had him over for dinner. He was a bit of a surprise. He didn’t seem like the usual Klingon. A man about my age, he was cultured, civilized, and with a beard and manner that evoked the ancient American president Abraham Lincoln. Before we parted, he quietly said to me that our generation was going to have the hardest time living in a postwar society. His wisdom was lost on me at the time, but not now.

  Less than an hour later he was dead. McCoy and I had beamed over to help, but the doctor was either too drunk or too inexperienced with Klingon anatomy or both to prevent Gorkon’s death. We were placed under arrest, put into shackles, and shoved into these dark, separate cells. I knew I was being framed for the murder. And the problem was, I was a great suspect: I had means, motive, and opportunity.

  Time passed. The darkness made me hallucinate. I thought I was beginning to see glowing orbs or bubbles, but then I’d put my hand in front of my face and it wouldn’t block the light; it was true darkness. I began to think I was already dead; I had the urge to scream, just so I’d know I was still alive. But I wouldn’t; I didn’t want to give my jailers the satisfaction. I slammed my hand against the wall ’til it bled, then put it in my mouth. I could taste the blood. I was losing a sense of time and myself. Maybe the war had already started. Billions were dying because of me. They’d open the door and shoot me. There was no hope.

  And then I felt it on my back. My thoughts were foggy. What was it, an insect? No, it didn’t move. Then I remembered. Spock had put his hand on my shoulder before I left the bridge of the Enterprise for the Klingon ship. I thought he was uncharacteristically patting me on the back, wishing me good luck, but instead he had placed something there. I knew immediately what it was: a viridian patch. A little technological marvel that would allow the Enterprise’s sensors to locate me over 20 light-years away. As angry as I’d been at Spock for dragging me into this, he was still looking after me. I gently rubbed the patch. I smiled; it felt like he was in the room with me. He was going to save me.

  Shortly thereafter, the door opened and light flooded in. I squinted as two guards grabbed me. I forced my eyes open in the glare and saw McCoy being dragged along with me.

  “Bones,” I said. “Are you all right?”

  “Not at all,” he said.

  They brought us to the transporter and beamed us down to another prison. (We were on Qo’noS, but we didn’t get a tour.) The guards threw us into a cell, this time together. This one at least had a toilet, and they gave us the leg of some dead Klingon animal, which we both tore apart. I was going to tell McCoy about the viridian patch, and then thought better of it; the cell could be bugged.

  A few hours later, a younger Klingon, dressed in military robes, came in. He introduced himself as Colonel Worf, who’d been assigned to represent us at our trial.

  “I am familiar with the facts of your case,” he said, “but we should go over them to be certain nothing important was left
out. First, why did you kill the chancellor?” (It reminded me of the famous example of the “loaded question” of ancient Earth, “Have you stopped beating your wife?”) We were emphatic that we had not killed Gorkon. We went into great detail about what had happened from our point of view. Worf was another Klingon who surprised me; he believed us. He said he didn’t think humans would carefully plan an assassination and then beam themselves into custody.

  The trial was in a grand hall, with hundreds of Klingons yelling for our heads. The evidence was piled high against us, and my reputation for hating Klingons was well known. But in case the judge wasn’t convinced, they played an excerpt from my log.

  “I’ve never trusted Klingons, and I never will. I’ll never forgive them for the death of my boy.” I couldn’t deny that those were my words. But I knew in that moment that it wasn’t only the Klingons who were framing me. I’d recorded that a few days before; only a member of Starfleet, a crewman on my ship, could’ve gotten that log excerpt.

  My own people were part of this. As angry as I was at the Klingons, it had blinded me to much closer enemies. And I had been an unintended coconspirator.

  I had assumed Gorkon was lying, that he didn’t want peace; I couldn’t imagine a Klingon who’d seek the same things I did. And I would have let all them die rather than help. David’s death festered, and I didn’t want it to heal. It was easier to hate and blame. I understood the conspirators.

  McCoy and I were of course found guilty, but due to Worf’s spirited defense our death sentence was commuted to life imprisonment on Rura Penthe, the frozen prison planet in Klingon space. Thanks to the viridian patch, Spock was able to rescue us from there, and then we rooted out the conspirators.

  Their leader was Cartwright.

  I arrested him and put him in the brig on the Enterprise. I was personally going to take him back home to stand trial. I also wanted to talk to him. As we began our trip to Earth, I went to see him in his cell. He looked me straight in the eye; he was not sorry for what he’d done.

  “I was trying to protect us,” he said. He used the excuse men had relied on for centuries: war is necessary for security. I wanted details of the conspiracy. I knew it had involved several highly placed Klingons as well as the Romulan ambassador. All of them wanted the same thing: the same balance of power and the same borders that kept the Galaxy the way it was. Cartwright wouldn’t give me too many details, and he apologized for having put me in prison. But he felt the consequences were too great.

  “They’re animals,” he said. “We can’t live with them.” A few days before, I might have agreed with him. But now, I took great pleasure in pointing out something he’d missed.

  “Lance, don’t you see? You proved that we can live with them. You hate Klingons more than anyone, and yet your conspiracy proved that, when Klingons and humans have a common goal, they work together just fine.”

  I’ll remember the look on his face for the rest of my life.

  I went back to the bridge and looked around at my old friends. Spock, McCoy, Uhura, Chekov. We had all been brought to the brink of a holocaust that would’ve cost billions of lives, by a bunch of old men whose fear of death made them seek an unobtainable measure of security. Men like me, who’d grown up hating Klingons, and didn’t know there was another choice. Men who’d gotten used to being the inner circle of a democracy’s military, thinking they knew best, and depriving the rest of us of our right to make decisions. I’d seen it firsthand working with Nogura. And now, my contemporaries and I in the upper ranks at Starfleet had almost missed it. “The price of liberty,” the American patriot Thomas Jefferson wrote, “is eternal vigilance.” We needed the next generation to start keeping watch.

  It was time for me to go.

  We brought the Enterprise home, again. Or maybe the Enterprise brought us home, it’s hard to know which. As we pulled into Earth orbit, we passed a space dry dock, where the next Enterprise sat, almost completed. This was truly the end of my era as captain of the starship; I didn’t even know who would be taking over. I said goodbye to my friends, certain I would see them all again soon.

  As I usually did after a long trip in space, I went back to Iowa. My father was there, and we sat on the porch on a pair of antique rocking chairs. Mom had taken off again to a conference, this time on Andoria. Dad was in his eighties; he was big and stocky, and still vital. He asked me what I was going to do now. I said I wasn’t sure. I thought about the fact that I had nothing to come back to, no wife, no children, no home that I’d built myself. I looked over at my dad and saw myself, but also my opposite. He had all the things I didn’t, and I had much of what he’d given up.

  “Dad,” I said, “did you regret giving up your career?” He took a long pause.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I made a decision. My dad was never home; I wanted you and Sam to know I would always be here. I don’t know if it was a good choice, or the right choice; it was just my choice.” We sat and talked a while longer, and then noticed a Starfleet officer walking up the path to our house. It was Peter, now in his thirties. Dad said he heard I was coming and decided to take a quick shore leave. He’d gotten a new assignment, commanding the Starship Challenger. I stood up to greet him, and he grabbed me in a hug.

  “Great to see you, Uncle Jim,” he said. I stood back and took in his new rank insignia.

  “Great to see you too, Captain Kirk,” I said.

  That was several months ago. When I announced my retirement from Starfleet, a historian at Memory Alpha contacted me. He requested if he could collaborate with me on my autobiography. With no other projects on the horizon, I agreed. I sit now, having finished it.

  Tomorrow, they are christening that new Enterprise. I will be there, but there will be another captain in the command chair. I suppose the journey back through my memories has made me realize that perhaps I had retired too soon, because as long as I sat in that chair, I felt relevant. I have some regret that I could never figure out how to break the cycle of my life, finding relevancy in something besides Starfleet. I suppose that makes me like a lot of other people, who don’t really know how to change.

  My collaborator, upon reading an early draft, noted that he was surprised I didn’t mention any of the commendations I received from Starfleet, and I had to examine that. I realized that the medals I have do remind me of my victories, and that’s the problem. The Duke of Wellington said, “Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won.” Too many people died for me to win those medals. And all those victories I suppose made it hard for me to connect, to foster relationships and a life. I just kept going back to being a captain. In that chair, I felt like I accomplished a lot; it felt like I helped more people than I hurt. I hope that’s true.

  Even as I sit here, this doesn’t feel like an end. I realize 60 is not all that old. Starfleet may not want me, but maybe I can get a decommissioned ship. I could fill it with people like myself, who still want to help but have been mustered out. We could set our own missions, help where we can, try to stay out of trouble. But also get into some trouble.

  I laugh. The cycle, it’s starting again. I’m not finished with the Galaxy, not ready to walk away from command. I want more.

  But then, who doesn’t?

  * * *

  * EDITOR’S NOTE: Hodgkin’s Law of Parallel Planet Development was from a theory first proposed by the 21st-century biologist A. E. Hodgkin. He showed that if two planets had a similar biology, this could translate over time to similar societal developments. His theory was proven after his death when parallel humanoid societies were discovered across the Galaxy.

  * EDITOR’S NOTE: This is a well-known Vulcan proverb, but its origin is unclear. It derives from the events of 20th-century Earth, when President of the United States Richard Nixon opened diplomatic relations with Communist China. The meaning of the proverb refers to the fact that it was considered a political success because of Nixon’s career history of being a virulent anti-Communist
; as such, none of his opponents could accuse him of being “soft” on Communism. It is unclear, however, what Vulcan was a student of Earth history to the extent that they created a proverb. And it couldn’t be “ancient,” as the events it referred to were only 300 years old.

  Kirk’s graduation photo from the academy yearbook.

  The travel pass issued to young Kirk for his journey to Tarsus IV.

  James Kirk with his friend Gary Mitchell taken aboard the U.S.S. Hotspur.

  Kirk’s diploma from Starfleet Academy.

  Kirk, Spock, and Yeoman Janice Rand taken around 2266.

  A painting from the Starfleet Museum that commemorates the meeting of James Kirk and Christopher Pike. (The illustration favors Kirk; in reality, Pike was several inches taller.)

  Photos and artifacts from Kirk’s journey to the 1930s found among his belongings after his death. Edith Keeler is seen in the photo strip, a common souvenir in 20th-century Earth.

  This handwritten draft of a message to his son David, whom he had not met, was among Kirk’s effects. From the events described, it’s estimated to have been written in 2268 when David Marcus was around seven. It appears the message was never sent.

  Dr. Carol Marcus and her son David, at age two.

  Kirk, Spock, and Dr. Leonard McCoy on a camping trip to Yosemite National Park in 2287.

  Kirk and Spock during Kirk’s first year as commander of the U.S.S. Enterprise.

  AFTERWORD

  BY SPOCK OF VULCAN

  JAMES T. KIRK WAS REPORTED KILLED IN ACTION shortly after completing this manuscript. He was aboard the new Enterprise, and helped save it from destruction. The report said he was blown out of the ship when the hull was ruptured. His body was never recovered.