“I have diplomatic immunity,” he insisted.
“Not for this,” the agent said. She held in her hand a currency wafer and the override device Kirk had slipped into the pocket of the alien’s cloak when he had pretended to stumble after the fight.
The agent squeezed the card, whistled appreciatively, showed it to her partner. “Six thousand.”
“That is mine,” the Vulcan said.
Gilfillan held up the small cylindrical device. “How about this?”
“I have never seen that before.”
The agent showed it to Kirk. Kirk shrugged. “What is it? Some kind of alien gadget or something?”
The senior agent stared hard at the Vulcan as Rickard took further tricorder readings of the device. “It’s a quantum-code transmitter designed to override Starfleet security lockouts. It’s also illegal.”
The alien’s eyes widened for an instant before he caught himself and brought his face back to a neutral expression. “I am protected by—”
“Diplomatic immunity. So I’ve heard. But that only applies to local laws.” She pointed to the two equally unexpressive consular agents. “Your friends’ll tell you. Immunity does not extend to Starfleet’s Uniform Code of Justice. And this is now a Starfleet matter.” She stepped to one side and pointed to the SCIS car. “Let’s go.”
The Vulcan stood still, as if too shocked to move.
Kirk stepped forward, doing his best to look alarmed and contrite. “Okay, so I started a fight when this alien hit me, but—”
The junior agent held up her sensor wand. “Stow it, kid. Your DNA is all over that thing, too. So give it a rest.”
Gilfillan gave Kirk a firm push on his shoulder to get him and his companion started toward the SCIS car.
Kirk protested. “That guy tried to put something in my pocket and I pushed it away.”
But the agents weren’t listening and the Vulcan was not resisting.
The inside of the car’s back passenger compartment was uncomfortable and covered with a seamless coating of an easy-to-disinfect nanofilm to which nothing would stick—except the lingering odors from a hundred other prisoners. Kirk grimaced at the smell as he was thumped back in his seat and the restraints closed over him. He turned to look at the alien still cuffed to his wrist. The Vulcan stared straight ahead, his posture ramrod stiff.
Kirk frowned, leaned back, and closed his eyes as the car took off. “Well, this is going to be fun,” he said.
The Vulcan offered no response.
Kirk sighed. This was going to be a longer night than he had planned. He might as well make the best of it.
“Jim Kirk,” he said.
“Spock.”
And that was that.
9
By the dawn of the warp era, the great military academies of the past were long gone. Annapolis. West Point. Colorado Springs. All early victims of the third world war. But their traditions lived on in San Francisco, one of the few major cities in North America to escape significant damage in that awful cataclysm and the long night of the post-atomic horror that followed.
More than anything else, the city’s miraculous survival made it a beacon of hope in the years following Cochrane’s discovery of warp drive and his first contact with the Vulcans. No debates were held and no votes taken—it had simply seemed natural and inevitable that the great city should become the planet’s de facto capital, first as the home of Starfleet Command, and then of the United Federation of Planets itself. When, concurrent with the founding of the Federation, Starfleet decided to create a facility to train its officers separately from its enlisted personnel, there was no question but that San Francisco would be that facility’s home, as well.
Strictly speaking, though, Starfleet Academy was not a military institution, any more than Starfleet was a military organization. But the unforgiving hazards of space travel, the discipline required for long missions on fragile ships, and the training necessary to rationally face the unknown at any moment, drew on skills and lessons that had been honed over centuries by warriors. Risk was risk whether faced on a battlefield or on a voyage of exploration, and risk, after all, was Starfleet’s business. The challenge of facing that risk was what called humanity’s best and brightest to the hallowed halls and gleaming labs of the Academy.
Eighty-eight years earlier, Captain Jonathan Archer himself had presided over the ceremony in which the Academy’s main dormitory building was named in his honor, and Archer Hall was definitely a product of that simpler time. It still had doors that swung on hinges, windows that could open and shut, and a temperature-control system that sometimes seemed to the shivering midshipmen to be from an even earlier time, when their ancestors built fires in caves.
But Elissa Corso found nothing to complain about in the venerable old building. Like all the other mids who had taken the tests, jumped through the bureaucratic hoops, enlisted the support of politicians and serving members of the fleet to write letters of recommendation, she would have been happy to camp beside an active volcano for the privilege of attending the Academy. There was nothing in her life that was as important as achieving that goal.
Until she had met Jim Kirk.
He was smart, he was charming, undeniably attractive, and despite his cynicism for the Academy and Starfleet, he had supported her throughout the final semester of her first year, never complaining when she needed a weekend alone to focus on her coursework, always willing to help her review her studies. Sometimes, it seemed to Elissa that her boyfriend knew more than her instructors about certain subjects, and she would tease him by saying he should be attending the Academy instead of her. But he’d just tease her back in that cocky way of his or stop their conversation altogether, usually with a stolen kiss.
Elissa checked her midshipman uniform in the mirror hanging on her closet door, scolding herself for being such an easy mark. What was it about that guy, anyway? She was nineteen years old, a rational, independent adult—almost—who had demonstrated the unique talent, skills, and drive required to gain admittance to the toughest and most sought-after educational institution in the Federation. But when it came to Jim and that sunny smile of his…
“You’re acting like an idiot,” she told her reflection.
But her flushed reflection betrayed the truth. Or…like someone in love.
Elissa closed the closet door. Enough of that.
She checked the small dorm room to ensure everything was Starfleet precise, on her side and her dormmate’s. Desks neat, padds and books aligned, bunks smooth and taut, with the folded-over sheets measured to exactly ten centimeters. Good. If there was a surprise inspection this morning, unlikely at this time of year, the room would pass. Since her first lab wasn’t for another hour, she had a few minutes of personal time. She could place the call she’d been planning to make since she’d returned to her dorm room earlier this morning, the moment her evening liberty expired.
She took her personal communicator from her desk drawer, flipped it open. “Jim,” she told it.
She needed answers. But most of all, she admitted to herself, she just needed to hear his voice again. Idiot, she scolded herself as she waited, impatient for the call request to go through.
It didn’t.
For a moment, Elissa thought about leaving a message, but then had a sudden image of Kirk’s communicator in the hands of the protectors. She snapped her own communicator shut, thought a moment, flipped it open again.
“Sam,” she said.
This time, the call went through.
His apartment was a mess, and George Samuel Kirk didn’t care. Unable—as usual—to sleep, he sat back on his decrepit green couch, bare feet resting on a rectangular utility table covered with encrusted Chinese food containers. The only sound came from the soft hum of the air pump in his saltwater aquarium. The only light came from the dawn slicing in through metal blinds, fragmenting the room’s disorder even more with sharp swaths of light and shadow.
His communicator beeped
.
The device lay beside his feet, beside the half-empty, open bottle of Stark whisky and the two currency wafers from Griffyn—the first an insult, the second blood money.
Sam hesitated, his stomach tight with fear. He knew from bitter experience that if he didn’t speak with Griffyn this minute, there’d be someone at his door within the hour. That would be even worse.
Sam reached for the communicator, but hit the bottle instead and knocked it over. A quarter of its contents spilled out as he cursed and scrambled to catch it before it could roll off the table to the floor.
He caught it. Took a swig. Put it down carefully. Took a deep breath. Unfolded his communicator. Then relaxed.
Jimmy’s girlfriend.
The ID on the small display was like a gift from the heavens, not because the call would be any easier, but because, although he couldn’t lie to Griffyn, he could to Elissa.
“Hey, girl,” he said.
“Can you talk?”
Sam heard the concern in her voice. He rubbed his face, to force alertness. “Yeah, I’m at the apartment.” Because his brother hadn’t come home yet, he’d assumed he was still with Elissa. But if she was calling, upset…“Is Jimmy with you?”
“I was hoping he was with you.”
Sam swore. “When’d you see him last?”
“Last night. There was a…a bar on the waterfront.”
“Which one?”
“Venus something.”
“I know it. What happened?”
“We got in, but…Jim saw two protectors come in after us. He told me to leave and that…that he’d take care of it.”
Sam’s mind raced. That was Jimmy, all right. Taking care of everything. He looked over at his aquarium. The timer had switched on the light and he saw the orange-and-white dance of his clown fish, waiting for the morning’s blessing of food from the sky.
Sam loved those fish. But with all his absences, there was only one reason they were…
“I haven’t heard from him,” Sam said, knowing why.
“You said you were going to—“
Sam interrupted before she could finish. He doubted the computers would already be listening to this call, but he couldn’t take the chance. His little brother wasn’t like him. Jimmy acted tough, tried to make himself out to be a maverick and outside the law. But Sam knew for certain that his little brother knew right from wrong. He might get a bit confused about where those boundaries were when it came to his family and friends, but if he was in the protectors’ custody right now, it was only a matter of time before his inner compass kicked in and he did the right thing.
Sam envied him for that.
But he wasn’t willing to get dragged down and shipped off to some rehabilitation center because of it. And he knew that as soon as Jimmy started explaining why he had built his override device, and who had helped him use it on that Starfleet staff car, the computers would go to work on all communications between the three of them, and that would be the end of it.
“I got rid of all that stuff that was cluttering up the place,” Sam said, hoping Elissa would understand what he meant. She was an Academy midshipman, so it was more than likely she hadn’t pushed the limits of proper behavior in her entire life.
“Oh…You don’t think anyone else found it. I mean, all the stuff from the apartment?”
Sam gave her points for trying. “No.”
“Then why didn’t Jim come home?”
Home, Sam thought. What a joke. Home was a farmhouse in Iowa. There was nothing for either of the Kirk brothers there, except for a disappointed, bitter father and—
“Sam?”
“Look, he’s going to be okay. He’s a smart guy. He knows how to stay out of trouble.”
“It’s only…you know, in three days…”
Sam remembered what was going to happen in three days. “I’ll have him call you as soon as I hear from him.”
Elissa said nothing, but even over the silent circuit, Sam felt her worry.
“This is my brother we’re talking about,” he said. “You know he never lets anyone down, right?”
“Yes.”
“Just go to classes or whatever it is you’re doing now, and—”
This time, Elissa cut him off. “Gotta go. Bye.” The circuit went dead.
Sam stared at his communicator, unsure what to do next.
After a moment, he decided the best thing would be to wait for his brother to call. Maybe Jimmy would know what to do about that thousand-cee card, because he certainly didn’t.
Sam felt a wave of self-pity sweep over him. Why can’t I ever do anything without complications? It’s not like I plan stuff to work out that way. He looked over at the aquarium, envying his fish their lack of choices, temptations. Animals didn’t cheat or betray their friends. He thought suddenly of Fizzbin, the big white Lab he and Jimmy had shared growing up on the farm. That dog was like Jimmy, never gave up on him, never stopped trusting him.
Sam swore again in the empty apartment, angrily brushed a tear from his cheek.
His clown fish flicked back and forth in their tank.
He’d feed them in a minute or two, after he had another drink.
And after that, Jimmy would know what to do. Jimmy always had a plan.
“Who was that?”
Elissa snapped shut her communicator and guiltily slid it into her desk drawer.
Zee Bayloff stood in the open doorway. She’d just come back from her morning run, short blond bangs plastered to her forehead, Academy-issue gray sweatshirt splotched with sweat.
“Let me guess,” Zee said, still slightly out of breath. “Jim-m-m-m-m?” She drew the name out salaciously as she opened her closet and took out her pristine white dressing gown.
Elissa didn’t turn around, wondering how much her dormmate had overheard. They’d been roommates during their plebe year, and Elissa knew they had no secrets left.
“Okay, something’s wrong,” Zee said. It wasn’t a question.
“Three days until the honor board.” Elissa stared out the room’s north-facing window. The Academy’s expansive green grounds and low-profile buildings stretched out before her, with the distant pylons of the Golden Gate Bridge just emerging from the low coastal fog fading in the dawn.
“Loosen up, Corso, it’ll work out.”
Fully indoctrinated in the ways of the Academy, Zee deftly rolled her gray sweatshirt, shorts, and underwear and slipped them into the laundry bag at the bottom of her closet. She shrugged into her dressing gown and got her shower kit from the upper shelf.
“Yeah, well, whoever broke into the lab used my ID codes,” Elissa said tightly.
“Did you do it?” Zee asked.
Elissa turned around with a flash of anger. “How can you ask me that?”
“That’s my point, dummy. There’s no way they can prove you did it because you didn’t do it.”
“That’s not what the ID codes say.”
“Codes can be stolen.”
“By who?”
Zee gave Elissa a look of disbelief. “Who else?”
Elissa realized what Zee was suggesting, dismissed her sharply. “He wouldn’t do that to me.”
Zee didn’t look at all convinced. “Even I’ve heard him go off about Starfleet and this place. He thinks any officer is a sanctimonious, self-important prig. And mids aren’t much better.”
“He’s my friend.”
“Was. Until you gave him what he wanted.”
Elissa felt her face flush. “He’s not like that.”
“Look, face facts, huh? What’s a guy who hates Starfleet as much as he does doing with a mid in the first place? I mean, as soon as he learned what you were, why didn’t he put all thrusters on reverse?”
Elissa didn’t mean to say what she said next, but it came out anyway. “Zee, I think I’m really in love with him.”
“Great timing.”
“You really think he’s been using me to…to get my codes?”
Zee perched on the edge of the desk, put her hand on Elissa’s shoulder. “You know him a whole lot better than I do. What do you think?”
Elissa was honest enough with herself to know that part of Jim’s attraction for her was that he seemed somehow lost and looking for direction—something she knew she could provide for him.
But now her mind swirled with terrible questions. What if that had all been an act designed to draw her in? What if Jim had always known exactly what he was after, and now that he had it, his antagonism toward Starfleet let him walk away from her?
Jim could destroy her dream of a career in Starfleet.
What if Zee was right?
10
“You’re a long way from Iowa,” Special Agent Gilfillan said. Her clear gray eyes were almost translucent in the brilliant overhead lights of the interrogation room.
Kirk gave her a smile across the interview table. “I guess. Where are you from?” He leaned back in his chair and stretched as if he didn’t have a care in the world, as if he enjoyed being locked up in Starfleet Headquarters, slowly driving a Starfleet Criminal Investigative Service agent mad.
“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?” Gilfillan asked. Her tone was feather-light, as if, like Kirk, she had no concerns about being here for as long as it took, which meant, of course, she did.
Kirk continued his pretense of good-natured indignation. “I was in the bar, the Vulcan guy bumped into me, I overreacted. I’m sorry. I apologize. I’ll buy him a new cloak. But we’re talking about a bar fight, right? How is that a lot of trouble?”
“It isn’t,” Gilfillan agreed. “Stealing a Starfleet staff car is.”
Kirk spread his arms wide as if to ask what more Starfleet could possibly want of him. “I’ve already told you—and everyone else here. It was the Vulcan guy and his…whatever that thing was, that let him steal it, okay?”
Gilfillan lifted a padd, turned it on. “You don’t appear to have a record. At least, not much of one.”
Collision Course Page 5
