"Thanks for making that coffee," she said. "It was the best I've ever had. Really."
"It's the water. It's imported from Mars. And it's handmade from real grounds, not from the synthesizer. Sometimes the old ways are the best."
"Yeah, that's just what I thought about last night."
"Oh, stabbed." He clutched his heart.
"I didn't mean—"
"That's all right." Kirk smiled. "You know what I got from Starfleet when I retired? A gold chronometer. This was much better."
"This wasn't entirely a question of hero worship, Captain. You're an attractive man." She encircled his stomach with her arms and laced her fingers behind his back. "You might be a little out of shape, but you're a very attractive man."
"I'm not sure I can stand any more of your compliments, but I'd like to see you again."
"You don't have to say that. I'm a big girl."
"You're an extraordinary girl. And honest. How about tonight. Dinner."
"All right, where?"
"Let's see—" Kirk realized he hadn't taken a woman out on a formal date in a while.
"I'll tell you what," she said. "While you were in the shower I put my terminal address in your computer. You can send me a message. Just look under my name."
"Oh, fine. Uh, that is, well, I, uh—"
"And my name"—her face crinkled up with her big smile again—"is Barbara O'Marla. You can call me Babs."
"I'll be in touch. I will. Babs."
"Have a good day. Jim."
She kissed him and stepped out into the apartment corridor. She walked down the hall to the turbolift. He watched her wait for the car. Then he heard the latch click on another front door just across the hall. He stepped back into his apartment feeling embarrassed, and closed the door.
As he walked toward his kitchen he passed a mirror. I think I'll go to the gym today, he said to himself.
Kirk spent the morning at his club, Sutro Selestial Baths, where he rowed several kilometers in the hydroplane, boxed with a machine set at intermediate level, and relaxed in the steamy, invigorating Mercury Room. Afterward he went shopping, and watched as a hologram of himself materialized in a number of new tunics. He picked out two that he thought made him look young, and had them sent to his apartment.
By late morning he was idly walking along the beach and gazing out over the crystal blue Pacific Ocean. He watched children skim along the waves on space boards. He admired the sand artisans. But it was the toy Starships that put him into a contemplative and nostalgic mood he couldn't shake off. He sat on a bench for half an hour and watched elaborate model starships as they were piloted by remote control in a dazzling series of races and maneuvers in the air over the breaking waves.
He wandered idly through the pine trees and down to the shuttle docks. There he watched uniformed personnel depart for the big Starships that would take them to the uncharted frontiers.
Instead of living great adventures, I'm talking about the old days. Instead of facing Klingons, I'm wandering around spacedocks, mooning over the sleek Starships that are under somebody else's command.
He walked slowly across the city, through the lush green park, up and down hills, past habitats, and through the downtown area teeming with shops carrying exotic goods from all over the galaxy. He reentered his apartment just after noon. He went to his computer terminal and turned it on. Before he could read a summary of the day's news, however, the screen lit up with a bright red facsimile of a bouquet of roses. They started as tiny buds, burst open, and bloomed. They settled their green stems in a beautiful, ancient Asian vase. Cursive writing curled across the bottom of the monitor: "All best, Babs." He smiled to himself. He looked at the pretty graphic for a minute before he waved his fingers over the console built into his desk, and left her a message, asking her to meet him at 1930 hours at a romantic restaurant. Then he called up the Intergalactic News Network.
A list of keywords he had placed in his computer's memory ran instantly against the stories on the public frequency channels that day. An updated report on the Excelsior crew trapped in Beta Prometheus flashed across his screen.
Starfleet Command "deplored the actions" of the Prometheans. The Office of the President of the Federation Council said that everything was being done to "insure the safe return of the nine Federation citizens." All diplomatic channels were being employed. There were sidebar pieces on the Promethean civilization and the history of dilithium crystal trading. Sulu and his team were named and profiled.
Nothing new, and nothing was being done.
Kirk paced his apartment, worrying. He settled into his commander's chair, a gift from his old crew of the Enterprise, which was bolted to the floor in front of his window, and tried to put the story out of his mind by reading fiction from late-nineteenth-century England. Usually he found that to be entirely absorbing, but not this afternoon. Finally he fell into a short, troubled sleep. In his dreams he saw jumbled images of deep space, the young Barbara O'Marla, and the face of his old comrade, Sulu.
When Kirk awoke from his nap, he felt the sluggishness he associated with … what? Old age. Impossible. He ran two kilometers on his treadmill, changed his clothes, and went out to meet Barbara O'Marla at the restaurant Nebulae, where they dined together. He was glad to have somebody to talk to. His restlessness had increased as further news of the Sulu hostage incident was not forthcoming.
"No news is bad news in a case like this," Kirk said. "I've been reading up on these Beta Prometheans. They're not trustworthy. As long as Sulu and his crew are at their mercy, they're in grave danger."
"You're very loyal, aren't you?" she asked.
"Loyal? I hadn't thought about it that way. Sulu was certainly loyal. He had several chances to transfer off the Enterprise to other assignments that might have advanced his career faster, but he never did. He got us out of hot water more than once with his skills as a helmsman. When he finally took up his own command, we all missed him. I'm worried about him. Apparently the Federation isn't," Kirk finished with a touch of anger.
"You're becoming obsessed with this, James," Barbara said quietly.
"I suppose I am. Maybe I should get my mind off it."
"What about your memoirs? You told me you were writing them. I think they would make a hell of a book. It would become required reading at the Academy."
"I started on a memoir once. I wrote 'These were the voyages of the Starship Enterprise …' Then I stalled. I think they call it writer's block. Anyway, trying to do that made me feel as if it was over. I didn't like that feeling."
Afterward, they walked back to Kirk's apartment. Barbara took her coat off and walked over to his desk, where a large model was under construction.
"You've taken up a hobby," she said, indicating the work. "This is the original Enterprise, the ship my first command was named after. It's a sailing ship, built during the nineteenth century for trading and sailing the Atlantic ocean. It predates man's ability to fly. I'm building a fairly exact model. Then maybe I'll take it out to the Bay and try it out."
"Where's the engine?"
"It doesn't have an engine. The wind takes her."
"The wind?"
"You see these? They're sails. They're raised and lowered to catch the natural wind. That's the only power she has. If there's no wind, she's becalmed. When there is, she runs in front of it. She must have been beautiful to captain."
Barbara watched Kirk's face as he explained the details of the great sailing ship to her. "You must miss traveling."
"You can't imagine what it's like, cruising through a cloud of gas, illuminated by a nearby star, all pink and purple, brilliant colors. Or the uncertainty of traveling to an uncharted planet. And then there's warp speed," he said to her, his tone changing. "You're racing faster than light, covering enormous distances in microseconds. Sometimes the old Starships rattled a bit, vibrating under your feet."
He had unconsciously wandered to his big window and looked up at the night sky. She came ov
er behind him and put her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his broad back.
"You're a man of dreams, James."
They made love, slower and more tenderly than they had their first night, and he tried hard to be attentive to her needs. She's a fragile gift, he thought. A gift a man my age doesn't usually come across. I have to take this relationship slowly and carefully.
He was distracted by the view outside. More than once he looked over her shoulder and thought about the darkening sky, as the stars came on like lights, one after the other, until they were twinkling in the millions and millions and millions, their light racing through the Earth's atmosphere, right to his window.
"You're going to do something, aren't you?" Barbara said to him while they lay back, side by side, in the middle of the night.
"Yes," he said, hearing his own voice echo in the bedroom. "Yes I am."
How did she know? he thought. How did she know, when I didn't know myself, not until this very minute?
Kirk laid awake the rest of the night while Barbara slept at his side. He watched her breathe easily, ran his eyes over her white skin, her smooth muscles, her black hair. She aroused him even in her sleep, even after the night of lovemaking, even in his distraction. He felt the yearning and the energy again. He stared at the stars beyond his window. It was no coincidence that Starships were thought of in the female gender, he mused. Women and Starships had a great deal in common. They were sleek, mothering, energizing. They were exotic and erotic. They were temperamental, transitory.
And you could ride them into forever, he thought.
Day Five
HE WAITED UNTIL she had left for work. Then he went to his closet, and stared at his clothes.
If he wore civilian clothes he would be stopped by any security personnel who didn't recognize him. Yet he hadn't worn his uniform in almost a year.
Starfleet never actually mustered anyone out of the service, or even officially retired anyone. All officers were placed on inactive status, allowed to pursue their own interests, and kept in reserve against the day their talents might be needed. As, officially, a reserve officer, Kirk could have worn his uniform when he held a seminar at the Academy, or attended an official function. He never did. It felt somehow fraudulent now that he was no longer the captain of a Starship. And he didn't want young cadets to call him sir. Nevertheless, he had the right to wear it, and it might just come in handy today. On that small excuse, he pulled it out and put it on. Then he traveled across the Bay to Starfleet Headquarters.
There he strolled across the great grassy field around which the giant bureaucracy of Starfleet centered. It was crisscrossed with officers, but he saw no one he recognized and no one glanced at him a second time. So far so good, he thought. He passed under the great glass arch topped with the Fleet's insignia and walked into the fifty-story atrium that was lined with offices on either side. Starfleet personnel were everywhere. Kirk remembered when, as a young cadet, the hallways of operations were continually deserted because all communications took place electronically. Now they were busy. It was rumored that the Fleet's Department of Humanoid Resources began some years ago to encourage face-to-face meetings where possible. The department apparently now felt that the failure of electronic dialogue to carry useful nuances and improvised content was a factor in inhibiting the quality of collaborative decision making.
Kirk was halfway across the great space when he realized he had never felt comfortable at Starfleet Headquarters. He knew and loved every inch of the ships that had been under his command, but the labyrinthine village represented a bureaucracy from which he had been happy to escape. He was not sure how much of his reason for being there he wanted to divulge, and found himself hoping he wouldn't run into anyone he knew. Something deep inside him, a vague instinct for what could happen, cautioned him to avoid drawing attention to himself. He strolled over to a bespectacled young cadet sitting behind a console, and said quietly, "I'm looking for an old friend. He's a science officer. But he's on leave, and he's probably gone back home. Which department do you think could help me?"
"You probably want Humanoid Resource Records, sir. That's right here in this building. Level thirty-two. Unless he prefers to be unlisted, then we won't be able to help you unless you have a class-triple-A security clearance."
"I do," Kirk said, not having the faintest idea what that was. "Records," Kirk repeated. He looked up at the towering glass shaft that held the turbolift, and walked toward it, feigning casualness. "Thank you," he said over his shoulder.
He got off the turbolift at level thirty-two. He headed down the main hallway, reading the holographic signs next to the doors as he strolled along.COMMSATTRAC, ALLANGTRANS, GALVEGRE, RESTROOMS.Communications Satellite Tracking, Alien Language Translation, Galaxy Vegetation Research, thought Kirk. Then he saw large letters floating in double glass doors at the end of the hall. RECORDS, it said, in a startlingly simple statement. Kirk went through the doors.
Inside he found only a series of cubicles, each with a chair and a computer. Some of them were occupied with Starfleet personnel, but most were empty. He sat down at one and read:
Welcome to the Starfleet database.
Please enter your password.
He hadn't used his Starfleet password in all the years he had been in space, and was momentarily stymied. When he recalled it, he was surprised to find that the simple seven-letter word he had chosen as an idealistic and passionate youth still suited his self-image. He leaned over and said quietly to the console, "Voyager."
"Password and voice identification confirmed," a flat and mechanical voice said. "You are cleared for full access. State nature of inquiry."
It should have been discontinued six months earlier when he retired, but it worked. One thing about bureaucracies, Kirk thought, they're always months behind.
He paused for a moment. Suppose he couldn't find them? Suppose they didn't want to come with him? Was it putting them in an awkward position even to ask? Each would have his or her own life now. He had a right to ask. Each would make his or her own decision.
Who first? he thought. Of course.
"Locate," he said. "Spock. Captain. Science officer."
The terminal flickered and read:
SPOCK
Rank: Commander (inactive)
Contact:
Vulcan Science Academy
Shikar
T'Khasi
40 Eridani A (19.5, 60.0-0.6)
Kirk downloaded the information to his own handheld tricorder, then requested another entry, and another. When he had uncovered all their whereabouts, he exited from the database.
Then he connected to a database for travel information. He asked it to plot a course for him, starting at once. When the arrangements had been confirmed on his tricorder, Kirk left Starfleet Headquarters.
His visit had not gone unnoticed. The young cadet who steered him to the correct department had been too polite, or perhaps too startled, to let on that he had recognized Kirk, but as he had only recently come through the Academy, and as Kirk's holographic image was used to teach the Kobayashi Maru scenario—not to mention that Captain Kirk himself was something of a legend—he had in fact recognized the officer immediately. And gossip being what it was, especially in the hothouse environment of the Academy, the cadet was well aware that a friend of his was having an affair with the captain. The young cadet couldn't resist, and he communicated Kirk's presence in the building with Barbara O'Marla.
If he isn't here to visit me, she thought, I won't seek him out. When he left the building without looking in on her, she felt a pang of sadness, and realized that she felt much stronger about him than she had admitted to herself. Now she could only sit back and wonder why he made an impromptu visit to the Records department, when he was almost stubborn about not having anything to do with Starfleet these days.
In a sleek office overlooking the bay, high in Starfleet Command Headquarters, someone else was thinking about Kirk's short vi
sit. Admiral Caius Fesidas had been apprised of it when his own terminal flashed a message that the password "Voyager" had entered the data-management web. He watched as the password was cleared, knowing it would be, because only the day before he had reattached the highest security clearance to the retired password. He tracked it to the thirty-second-floor Records department. He saw the five locations flicker across his own screen. He didn't have to match their service records; he could guess who they were. And if he knew his man, he could guess why Kirk was tracing them. He wasn't the type to organize a reunion, and it was months before holiday greeting cards were due.
The admiral spoke briefly to an aide, then returned to his previous business.
In the Neutral Zone
"Sarek." The 129-year-old Vulcan nodded after he gave his name. "I have been asked to represent the United Federation of Planets."
"Kannish," the figure that sat across from him at the huge black onyx table said. "I represent Beta Prometheus."
Sarek knew the Beta Promethean had not been elected, was born into the Ruling Family. The representative looked tired and old. But Sarek knew that it took an iron will to maintain leadership in an aristocracy, and Kannish was one of the principal family members.
"My son was an officer on the Sundew when the Federation Starship attacked it."
Long experienced in negotiating with non-Federation civilizations, Sarek kept his face still at the sudden statement.
"Then," Sarek began carefully, "you have heard a first-hand account of the incident."
"No, I haven't." Sarek saw the mottled dark gray skin lighten imperceptibly. "My son Kornish was killed during the … in what you call an incident."
This is not going to be easy, Sarek thought.
The Fearful Summons Page 10
