"Very good, Scotty," Kirk said. "Anything you need, just ask; I'll stay out of your hair."
"No problem, then, Cap'n, and thank ye."
"Don't mention it. Kirk out." He thumbed the communications channel to DISENGAGE and said over his shoulder, "Lieutenant Uhura, have we heard from Dr. McCoy yet?"
"He's just calling in now, sir; please stand by." Uhura said something into her lip mike, then turned to the captain. "The doctor's on frequency four, sir."
"Bones!" Kirk greeted. "What's going on?"
"Busy down here, Jim," came the gravelly voice of the ship's chief medical officer. "I've got a sick list that's seventy-three names long so far—almost all trauma cases. Most of those are from that wallop we took when the gravity first went haywire, but some people are down here with typical zero-G problems: muscle strains, bumps, bruises, space sickness and so forth. I've even got a crewman who damn near drowned in the water from his own sink. No dead, though, and no one in any real trouble. Glad you got the air moving again, Jim; Nurse Chapel looked pretty silly waving those medical charts around in here."
Kirk smiled. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. If you could release Iziharry from bridge duty, I could use her down here."
"Done. Kirk out." The captain looked up in the air over the navigation console again; Nurse Iziharry was still poking at the flinching Chekov's injured eye. "Nurse?"
Iziharry, all concentration, did not respond.
"Ahem! Nurse?" Kirk repeated.
With a start, Iziharry looked down toward Kirk. "Oh! Yes, Captain?" she said.
"Miss Iziharry, if you're finished up here, Dr. McCoy needs you in Sickbay."
"Oh, I'm done. Thank you, Captain." Constance Iziharry turned back to Chekov. "Now, Pavel," she lectured, "stay away from sharp corners and swinging doors for at least aweek. You've got the pain medication, but I'm not going to give you anything for the swelling. It'd just make you drowsy, and you don't really need it anyway. Just tie some ice in a rag and hold it against your eye; that's what Grandma would have done. Okay?"
"Hokay, Connie," Chekov replied. "Sorry for the trouble."
"No trouble," Iziharry answered, and smiled. God, she is gorgeous, thought Chekov. Vhy did I never notice before?
From his chair Kirk watched Chekov and Connie Iziharry orbiting slowly around each other. The captain hid his smile. It's an ill wind, thought Kirk as Iziharry pushed off Chekov and headed for the turbolift; Chekov, automatically sent in the opposite direction, headed toward the ceiling, came up against it with his hands, and pushed himself toward the deck. The ensign landed neatly by the navigation console, grasped it with a hand, and lithely swung himself into his seat. "Thank you, Peter," he said to Siderakis. "I'm ready now." Siderakis smiled, nodded, and unslaved Chekov's board from his own.
"Welcome back to duty, Mr. Chekov," said Kirk.
"Happy to be back, Captain."
Just then, Spock called out, "Captain! Shut down the warp engines immediately!"
"Do it, Siderakis!" Kirk yelled. The helmsman's hands blurred across his board; Kirk heard the subtle whirl of the Enterprise's powerful warp drivers die away quickly.
Kirk turned his head to face the science officer. "What's happening, Spock?"
"Another system failure, Captain," Spock answered. "The matter-antimatter balance in our warp engines was suddenly disrupted—by what, I do not yet know—and the computers did not order a protective shutdown. Had this not been noticed, we would have undergone an involuntary self-destruct sequence with no warning. Captain, we can no longer trust the computers to do anything for us. I suggest we convert to manual operations until the computers can be overhauled and reprogrammed."
Kirk frowned. "Thank you, Mr. Spock." Spock nodded in acknowledgment, once. The captain addressed Uhura over his shoulder. "Lieutenant, get me Starfleet Command. Message: 'Am diverting to Starbase Nine for emergency repairs to Enterprise computer complex. See Appendices A and B for details.' Uhura, stick a list of our problems at the end of this; stick Mr. Spock's recommendation at the end of that. Uh, 'Our ETA at Starbase Nine is'—Mr. Chekov?"
Chekov consulted his board. "At best speed on impulse power only, Captain, ve vill arrive not earlier than stardate 7516.7."
"'—7516.7, subject to delay.' Sign it and send it, Lieutenant. Mr. Chekov, lay in a course for Starbase Nine—best speed under impulse power, just as you said."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Just then the lights on the bridge began to flicker and dim.
"Shorted wires throughout th' main pylon," MacPherson called out. "We're losin' current up here. Switchin' t' bridge batteries, Captain." The chief thumbed a button, but the lights continued to dim.
"Switchin's nae good," MacPherson reported to Kirk. "Lemme work on 't for a while." The big Scot pulled himself down and scrambled under his engineering console.
Uhura's communications board emitted a distinctive—and foreboding—audio signal.
"Captain," she said worriedly, "we're getting a priority Alpha-Red message."
Kirk was startled. "Is it genuine, or just another computer foul-up?"
"Genuine, sir. Confirmed. I can't print out the message for you in code, Captain, because the main computers aren't paying any attention to me today—but I can give you a printout in the clear."
Kirk considered it, and shrugged. "Nothing we can do about it, regulations or no. An uncoded printout will be fine, Uhura."
"Yes, sir." Uhura did things to her board, and a tongue of paper began unrolling from the right arm of Kirk's command chair. He tore it off and began reading.
MESSAGE BEGINS
MESSAGE FROM STARFLEET COMMAND STOP
BREAK PRIORITY ALPHA-RED STOP
BREAK STARDATE 7513.2 STOP
BREAK EYES ONLY CAPTAIN JAMES TIBERIUS KIRK
SC 937-0176 CEC COMMANDING USS ENTERPRISE NCC-1701 STOP
BREAK BREAK MESSAGE FOLLOWS
BREAK PERMISSION TO DIVERT TO STARBASE 9 DENIED REPEAT DENIED STOP STAND BY FOR COMMAND ORDERS STOP SECOND ALPHA-RED MESSAGE FOLLOWS IMMEDIATELY STOP SIGNED BUCHINSKY CINC STARFLEET
BREAK BREAK MESSAGE ENDS
Bull Buchinsky? Starfleet's commander-in-chief? With an Alpha-Red? Now just what the hell does Bull have in mind? Kirk wondered.
Uhura's board made that insistent, foreboding sound again. "Second message coming in now, Captain," she reported. "Printing it out now …"
MESSAGE BEGINS
MESSAGE FROM STARFLEET COMMAND STOP
BREAK PRIORITY ALPHA-RED STOP
BREAK STARDATE 7513.3 STOP BREAK EYES ONLY CAPTAIN JAMES TIBERIUS KIRK SC 937-0176 CEC COMMANDING USS ENTERPRISE NCC-1701 STOP
BREAK BREAK MESSAGE FOLLOWS
BREAK CODE HELLFIRE REPEAT HELLFIRE STOP SUBJECT IS NEW ATHENS CENTAURUS REPEAT NEW ATHENS CENTAURUS STOP THIRD ALPHA-RED MESSAGE FOLLOWS IMMEDIATELY STOP SIGNED BUCHINSKY CINC STARFLEET
BREAK BREAK MESSAGE ENDS
There was an expectant, worried silence on the bridge.
"Mr. Chekov," the captain quietly said at last, "belay that course change to Starbase Nine, and stand by for new orders."
Kirk crumpled the printout and let it float away.
Joanna McCoy, he thought miserably. Oh my dear God.
Chapter Three:
Long Ago
ENSIGN JAMES T. KIRK, the twenty-two-year-old tactical weapons officer aboard the U.S.S. Farragut, had been badly wounded in the ship's final battle against the pirates of Epsilon Canaris III—bloodthirsty types who had taken full advantage of the thin spread of Federation law in that sector to set up a thriving business in hijacking, slavery and drug smuggling.
The Farragut, outnumbered six to one, had taken a terrible pounding. Toward the end of the battle a heavy stanchion on the Farragut's bridge had come loose and crashed down directly onto Jim Kirk's leg, crushing the knee and shattering the thigh.
The young Kirk had never known such incredible pain, but he had learned his life's lesson in duty that day. He had stayed at
his weapons console, keeping a tenuous hold on consciousness. The citation for Kirk's Decoration for Valor—his first Starfleet award—would read: "Ensign Kirk, despite the severe pain of his wound, accurately returned the combined fire of the enemy, round for round. He did not slacken until Captain Garrovick declared the enemy destroyed and the ship safe. Only then did Ensign Kirk report his physical condition."
Kirk had "reported" his condition to Garrovick by dragging himself toward the captain and passing out at his feet. A long time later Kirk had awakened in the Farragut's Sickbay, his leg splinted and encased in a stasis field. The leg didn't hurt at all; in fact, under stasis, it felt dead.
Captain Garrovick had stopped by shortly after Kirk had awakened. He had shaken Kirk's hand firmly and had said only one thing: "You belong in this service, Jim. I'm glad you're aboard my ship."
Kirk had been proud to receive that praise.
Starbase 7 began its career as a tough plastic dome mounted on the ragged equator of an irregularly shaped free asteroid in interstellar space. More than a century before, Starfleet had begun adding to that dome. Now the asteroid was completely covered with several decks' worth of facilities and was staffed by some six hundred Starfleet personnel and civilians.
About two weeks after the Epsilon Canaris battle, the Farragut limped into Starbase 7 for repairs to the ship and medical treatment for ship's personnel. Kirk was at the top of the sick list, and the admitting medico from the starbase hospital came into Farragut's Sickbay to see the ensign.
"Good afternoon, Mister, ah, Kirk," the doctor said. He gave Kirk's ruined leg a quick look. "Your captain wasn't kidding me, Ensign," the medico said. "That's a nasty bump you've got there."
Kirk nodded. "What do you think?" he asked a bit hesitantly. "Am I going to lose it?"
The medico shrugged. "Dunno." He scratched his chin and examined Kirk's leg closely.
"Well, I don't think we'll have to saw it off," the doctor finally drawled. The corner of his mouth turned up. "I've got something I'd like to try first. It's a fairly new approach; I'd like you to go into this with your eyes wide open, because I'm not giving any guarantees this week. We can talk about it. Okay?"
Kirk nodded. "Anything you say, Doctor—?"
"McCoy. Pleased to meet you, Ensign." They shook hands.
Leonard McCoy took full charge of Jim Kirk's rehabilitation. First, the skilled young doctor teased Kirk's thighbone into regenerating; under gentle pressure from drugs and electrotherapy, the thighbone reformed itself and redeveloped the superstrong interior lattice that is one of the marvels of the human body.
The knee was even tougher—There are so many things the cells have to be taught to do! McCoy thought in wonderment and weariness—but, eventually, Kirk's knee regenerated and then regained its range of motion. Then, finally, muscle and skin reformed, without a scar.
Kirk's leg took four long months to regenerate. The ensign was physically whole now—but more months of physical therapy lay ahead; Kirk had to be taught how to use his new leg. He was a twenty-two-year-old man who had never used that leg in walking, running, kicking—or even in supporting his own weight unassisted. Kirk had to learn how to walk all over again.
It was a painful process; Kirk's nerves screamed in agony as his new leg muscles were forced to do the hard work of moving him around. Leonard McCoy worked with Kirk every day through that ugly period of pain and despair. "There's still no better way to practice using the leg than to use the leg," McCoy told Kirk once, early on, as the sweating ensign groaned his way through a three-kilometer treadmill walk. "It hurts, Jim, I know it does—but you have to get through that pain."
Kirk gritted his teeth and nodded … and got through the pain.
Seven months after Kirk's arrival at Starbase 7, McCoy pronounced his patient completely cured. The doctor personally did the paperwork on his patient's discharge. Jim Kirk went to Dr. McCoy's hospital office for his exit interview.
"I see they've cut your orders for a return to the Farragut as tactical weapons officer," McCoy observed.
"That's right," Kirk replied. "I'm glad about that; I wouldn't want another ship. The rendezvous flight leaves from here in two months. I've got some R and R coming to me. I think I'll take it—I could go for a long walk in somebody's woods, or something."
"Hmmm," McCoy said. "Sounds better than drawing light duty in Starbase Seven's clerical department." The doctor scratched his chin. "Y'know," he drawled, "I've been working on your case just about every day for the past seven months. This organization owes me some R and R, too, I think. Why don't you tag along with me?" He grinned. "I'll show you some woods that'll take your breath away."
"Delighted, Doctor."
"Call me Bones," McCoy said. "All my friends do."
Bones McCoy's official residence was in a small, private room in Starbase 7's medical dormitory—but his home was on the planet Centaurus, just about half a light-year from the star base. McCoy rated four free trips home per year via available Starfleet transportation—usually a supply ship—and Kirk, still excused from regular duty for medical reasons, rated a trip if his doctor prescribed one.
His doctor did. McCoy and Kirk flew to Centaurus aboard the U.S.S. Cook County, an old, small, impulse-only cargo craft that took nearly a week to get there. McCoy and Kirk spent the time talking about women, playing cards, blue-skying about their career plans, and talking some more about women.
Kirk had never been to Centaurus before; he knew it only as Alpha Centauri IV, an Earth-type planet orbiting a star fairly similar to Sol. The name of the planet had come from the star group's traditional name. "Sure, you need sunglasses on Centaurus," McCoy told Kirk once when the doctor had been in a hometown mood. "Alpha's half again as bright as Sol and a tenth bigger, too. Plus, there's Beta. But so what? Think of a Caribbean island on a hot, clear day and you've about got it. Jim, I tell you, the planet's lush. Earth flora and fauna just love it there. Just wait—my sister and her husband have a nice place in Athena Preserve; that's a government park just outside New Athens. You'll see."
McCoy called the planet home not because he'd been born there—he hadn't been—but because his nine-year-old daughter Joanna lived there with McCoy's older sister and her husband. "A starbase is no place for a kid," McCoy told Kirk. "I want her to get sun and fresh air and meet different kinds of people. I never want her to become a Starfleet brat."
Kirk knew McCoy was divorced, but the doctor never talked about his failed marriage and had never encouraged questions from Kirk about it. Once, during the long trip on the Cook County, McCoy volunteered the information that he had first met "what's-her-name" in his native Georgia; Kirk had not felt free to pursue the subject.
But McCoy worshiped Joanna. Kirk took it as a supreme compliment that the doctor had given up two home leaves to stay with Kirk during his recuperation. Now McCoy had invited Kirk to go home with him. Kirk had not been especially close to anyone in the service—part of that was Kirk's basic reticence, and the rest of it was due to his heavy schedule of work and study as an ensign still under review—but Kirk had warmed to McCoy during his long recovery, and McCoy's generous offer of hospitality had cemented their friendship.
The Cook County set down at the military field attached to New Athens Spaceport. Kirk generally disliked meeting children, but he liked McCoy's daughter on sight. Kirk first saw Joanna McCoy at the military arrivals gate; she was waiting there with her aunt and uncle.
"Daddy!" she cried happily upon seeing the doctor. She glanced at Kirk, gave him a polite smile of the kind appropriate for strangers, and then turned her full attention back to her father. McCoy dropped his personal kit, snatched up his daughter and hugged her powerfully. "Hiya, Squirt," McCoy said, his eyes watering.
"You big mushball," Joanna said mock-scornfully, too low for anyone but McCoy to hear. "Don't get sloppy on me." Joanna cheerfully ignored her own tears. She was a small girl—brown-haired, blue-eyed and slightly built, just on the edge of the beauty that wou
ld be hers beginning in her teens.
Joanna broke her hug and McCoy put her down. She looked at Kirk and waited politely, with an interested expression. "Oh, I'm sorry," McCoy said. "Jim Kirk, this is my daughter, Joanna; my sister, Donna, and her husband, Fred Withers." Kirk nodded politely to Donna Withers and shook hands with Fred; he had a firm, salt-of-the-earth grip.
Kirk then turned to Joanna and extended a hand. Joanna shook it with a ladylike grip, squeezing once and pumping twice. "I'm very happy to meet you, Joanna," Kirk said. "I've heard a lot about you from your father." Kirk addressed her, standing; he felt this child would not tolerate the easy condescension of his stooping to talk to her.
Joanna beamed and McCoy said to himself, Jim passes inspection. Thank God. Joanna may yet let him enjoy this vacation. "Well!" McCoy said happily. "Let's get going!" Kirk, the McCoys and the Witherses began threading their way through the concourse crowds, heading for the nearest slidewalk to the transient parking lot.
Ensign Kirk, once and future tac weapons officer of the U.S.S. Farragut, was used to the presence of perhaps twenty or so people at any one time; starships are spacious, for the number of people they carry, and hospitals through the centuries have always been known for their empty, lonely, impersonal hallways and corridors.
But the concourse was throbbing with thousands of people of all kinds, shapes and sizes.
Agoraphobia? Kirk wondered nervously. At my age? Or maybe I mean . . . xenophobia? Kirk felt his hackles rise with a subtle, irrational fear of the crowd of travelers. There are just too damn many people! Kirk complained to himself. I'm not used to this …
Kirk felt a small hand slip into his own. He looked down. Joanna McCoy was looking back at him, very seriously.
Crisis On Centaurus Page 3
