Star Trek: Starfleet Academy #2: Aftershock

by John Vornholt

  The upperclass dorm finally got a chance to score. In the huddle, Wainwright looked directly at McCoy. “Line up right and go long. Milkins, you go short across the middle. Lechemor, you go to the flats and wait. You’re the dump off man. Everyone else block.”

  McCoy was not surprised when he lined up and saw the same muscular, sandy-haired cadet lining up across from him. Well, it was time to show this kid a thing or two.

  Wainwright grunted a few times, and the center hiked the ball. McCoy started toward the middle, then broke toward the outside. He hoped that would fake out the kid, but he was right with him step for step. Wainwright had to throw it to the short man who only made a few yards.

  The young cadet was smiling at McCoy. “Doesn’t look like they. Want to throw it to you.”

  “Probably not,” agreed McCoy, “You can take it easy.”

  When he got back, to the huddle, he told the quarterback, “My guy is sort of short. Let me come back for it, and throw it to me high.”

  “Right,” agreed Wainwright. “Same play. Let’s block this time.”

  They lined up again, and McCoy tried not to even look at the younger cadet who was dogging him. At the snap, he ran straight down the middle, and the defender was running right with him. Then McCoy stopped short and took a few steps back.

  Wainwright was looking at him, and he cut loose with the ball—high as expected. The unlucky freshman had to skid to a stop and double back. He didn’t have much energy to jump, and McCoy plucked the ball off his fingertips and cradled it to his chest.

  He was running down the field, thinking it was TD time, when he heard what sounded like a bull behind him. McCoy peered over his shoulder to see the cocky kid coming hard, In the cool air he was snorting steam, and his arms and legs were churning like an engine.

  The freshman was gaining, so McCoy dashed for the sidelines. Only there weren’t any sidelines, because this wasn’t a real field—so he ran off the lawn toward a fence. His pursuer kept coming, and he leapt at McCoy.

  He thudded into McCoy’s midsection, and the two of them crashed through a row of hedges. They rolled up against the fence, with McCoy wheezing and gasping for breath. At once, shrieking sirens started to blare, and the area was bathed in throbbing pink light.

  “You idiot!” snapped McCoy.

  “I’m sorry,” said the kid. “I forgot it was touch, not tackle.”

  “That was stupid enough, but then you ran us into a security fence!”

  “What?”

  McCoy threw the football, and it bounced off an invisible forcefield. The freshman stood up and ran his hands along the barrier, which twinkled at his touch.

  “We’re in trouble,” said the young cadet.

  “No kidding.” With a groan, McCoy sat up and gazed past the broken shrubbery at the lawn. The other players had run for it—he couldn’t see any of them. This close to winter break, who wanted to stick around and get into trouble?

  He wagged his finger at the young cadet. “If you’re going to wash out of the academy, that’s fine with me. But next time leave me out of it!”

  “Maybe there’s a way out of this mess.” The freshman gave him a boyish grin.

  McCoy could only scowl as red-shirted Security forces surrounded them. He saw one phaser, but most of the officers had tricorders and were scanning the intruders.

  “Starfleet Security,” said a stern voice. “Identify yourselves.

  “Cadet Leonard H. McCoy, medical branch.”

  “Cadet James T. Kirk, first year.”

  Chapter 2

  The next day went as badly as possible, with McCoy doing poorly on his stasis exam, he was sure. He was barely awake after spending most of the night in the custody of Starfleet Security. Then he had the entire day to dread his appointment with Admiral Ybarra.

  The Superintendent of Starfleet Academy had his office inside a clear pyramid on the roof of quadrangle C. Interior walls gave the impression of building blocks that didn’t exist, because the outer walls were smooth. McCoy paused as he got off the lift and stared at the imposing structure.

  The door of another lift opened behind him, and McCoy turned to see Cadet Kirk stroll jauntily off. The idiot actually smiled at McCoy as if he were glad to see him.

  “What are you so happy about?” growled McCoy.

  Kirk shrugged. “I’ve never met Admiral Ybarra before. This is a chance to impress him.”

  “Impress him?” roared McCoy. “You’re here because you crashed into a security fence in the middle of the night. They don’t give medals for that.”

  The cadet smiled confidently and strode toward the gleaming pyramid. The doors opened at his approach, and McCoy hunched his shoulders and followed him in. They came to attention in front of an ensign in the lobby, and she pointed them toward the admiral’s inner office.

  McCoy glanced upward at the clear ceiling, which softly filtered a gray San Francisco day. He could tell by the slope of the ceiling that they were delving deeper into the pyramid, toward its center. Kirk bravely led the way, marching to his own funeral, thought McCoy.

  They both slowed to enter the center of the pyramid, where four translucent walls met at a pinnacle overhead. The ceiling was so high that the office felt like a cathedral. The meticulous admiral had added to the pyramid’s design with lots of stark, clear furniture. McCoy would have been afraid to sit on any of it.

  Ybarra was a small man of Eurasian descent. He sat at his translucent desk going over some documents with a female captain. He ignored McCoy and Kirk, but she glanced at them with mild curiosity. The admiral and the captain conversed in low tones until they finally agreed.

  “At ease,” said the admiral. “This is Captain Vrena, and we’ve been discussing your misconduct.”

  “Permission to speak, sir,” asked Kirk.

  The admiral peered at him through sharp black eyes. “If you’re going to make some kind of excuse, you can forget it. That was a sensitive research-and-development site you crashed into. Even if it was accidental, it was still a breach of security, and we take a dim view of breaches of security.”

  He stared from Kirk to McCoy. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir!” they both answered. Kirk snapped his mouth shut.

  The admiral folded his hands in front of him, “Seeing as the two of you have so much excess energy, perhaps it would be a good idea if you volunteered for one of our service clubs. Captain Vrena has a few suggestions.”

  The woman cleared her throat. “Cadet McCoy, the Disaster Relief Service Club is in particular need of medics. You qualify with your premedical training, and we are conducting training classes next week, during the break.”

  McCoy gasped. “You mean, I wouldn’t get to go home during break?”

  “Cadet,” said Admiral Ybarra, “Starfleet is about duty. The Disaster Relief Service Club is in urgent need of medics. It’s a dirty, dangerous job, but you get to save lives. Moreover, I would think that the break wouldn’t be enjoyable knowing you have disciplinary action looming over your heads. Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered McCoy, snapping to attention. “I volunteer.”

  The admiral nodded with approval. “There is a membership drive going on now in quadrangle A. Report over there and sign up.”

  “I’ll do Disaster Relief, too,” offered Kirk.

  Captain Vrena smiled slightly. “No, Cadet Kirk, we have another service club that is also dirty and dangerous. Would you like to try that?”

  “Yes, sir!” said Kirk proudly.

  “Good.” She nodded with approval. “I’ll put you down for mess duty. Report to the kitchen.”

  Kirk gulped. “The kitchen? Mess duty?”

  “Yes, and I like my potatoes sliced thin,” added Ybarra.

  “But, sir, this … this sawbones gets exciting duty, and I get kitchen duty. It isn’t fair.”

  The admiral stiffened in his chair. “Let me tell you something, mister, there is nothing fair about Starfleet. Today you
may get mess duty, and tomorrow you may be the youngest captain in the fleet. You have to take the good with the bad. Dismissed.”

  McCoy and Kirk hustled out, heads downcast, they strolled through the pyramid until they were outside on the roof again, both of them glum and deep in thought.

  Kirk pounded his fist into his palm. “I’m going to take over that kitchen, and turn it into the best kitchen Starfleet Academy ever had.”

  “Good for you,” said McCoy. “Meanwhile, you ruined my winter break, and I won’t get home again for eight months, if then. I needed to spend some time with my dad.”

  “Homesick, huh?” Kirk nodded sympathetically. “You have to get over that.”

  “Oh, listen to the voice of experience.”

  They stopped at the lift that went to ground level. McCoy let kirk get on, then he stepped back.

  “You’re not coming with me?” asked the young cadet.

  “No,” said McCoy, “I never want to see you again. You’re nothing but trouble.”

  “It might be hard to avoid me. See you around, Sawbones.” The lift door shut on James T. Kirk and took him out of McCoy’s life forever, or so he hoped.

  The dejected cadet made his way to quadrangle A, where the recruiting drive for the service clubs was taking place. He still couldn’t believe he was going to be stuck in San Francisco over winter break. Not only that, but he had probably done badly on the stasis exam. Maybe Starfleet wasn’t the place for him after all.

  McCoy tried to concentrate on the words of Admiral Ybarra: “Disaster relief is a dirty, dangerous job, but you get to save lives.” Wasn’t that the reason he wanted to be a doctor? Then what was he complaining about? Maybe it would be fun. At least it sounded better than kitchen duty.

  But he couldn’t stop thinking about the lost opportunity to go home. He was frightened by the course he was on, a course that would take him into space, to far-off worlds. Maybe his yearning for home was his heart telling him that he was making a mistake.

  Maybe he just wanted to see friendly faces and sleep under his old quilt. The worst of it was that they were expecting him, and he would have to call to tell them he wasn’t coming.

  McCoy’s spirits were still low when he followed several other cadets into the lobby of quadrangle A. Four color-coded, elevators surrounded him and branched off toward different dorm towers, but he was looking for the recruiters. He was thinking that he might as well get it over with.

  He found directions on the information console, which told new members to go to the recreation room. McCoy went down a flight of stairs and found himself in a game room that had everything, from Ping Pong tables to three-dimensional chess. Card tables and signs were set up for the various service clubs.

  He saw the Mechanics Club, which recycled old equipment into useful stuff. There was also the Hospice Club, which visited sick and elderly people. There was another club to work on archaeological digs, one running a food drive, another planting trees, and many more.

  Seeing all this goodwill, McCoy wondered why he had never volunteered for a service club before. He knew they existed and that they did good work, plus they looked good on one’s record. But he had always been so wrapped up in his own problems that he had never had time to volunteer. Or so he thought.

  McCoy was finally feeling good about this sudden turn of events when he spotted the table for Disaster Relief. As he strode closer, he only saw one person at the table—a tall, dark-haired cadet who looked very somber.

  Then McCoy spotted the pointed ears and odd skin tone, and he stopped short. Was that a Vulcan? He hadn’t talked to any Vulcans before, although he had seen a few of them around campus. Did they really have green blood? He wondered.

  McCoy put on a cheerful face as he approached the table. “I’d like to sign up!” He added nervously, “In fact, have to sign up, if you get my drift.”

  The Vulcan raised an eyebrow, but gave him no other expression, “This is a volunteer club. Would you like me to tell you about it?”

  McCoy lowered his voice. “There’s no need. The admiral suggested I sign up.”

  “Are you volunteering or not?” asked the solemn Vulcan.

  “No, I didn’t volunteer,” answered McCoy, getting angry as he thought about what had happened to him. “It was all the fault of that stupid freshman, Kirk!”

  “Then you should not join. This is a volunteer service club, and to join against your will is illogical.”

  McCoy blinked in amazement. “What kind of cock-eyed, bubble-brained thinking is that?” `

  “It is called logic.”

  “Listen, you … do you have a name?”

  “Yes, I do. Spock.”

  “Okay, Cadet Spock, does this service club need medics?”

  “Yes, we are in dire need of medics.”

  “Well, I’m a medical student! I already have most of the training, so go ahead and sign me up!”

  The Vulcan held up an electronic clipboard. “We have a volunteer form, and only volunteers are allowed to fill it out. You do not appear to be a volunteer.”

  McCoy was sputtering now. “Listen, you pointy-eared popinjay; what would it take for you to let me join?”

  “A full understanding of what you are joining,” answered the Vulcan. “Before choosing Disaster Relief, I studied every service club thoroughly. This club makes the most effective use of academy resources and personnel. Even so, we have been understaffed for four-point-three years, resulting in a twelve percent decrease in efficiency from our peak performance.”

  “Good help is hard to find,” McCoy grumbled.

  Spock nodded. “Precisely. Certain aspects of this club repel volunteers, such as the rigorous training and the likelihood of being called to a dangerous mission any time. All volunteers should be aware that there is danger and grueling work involved.”

  “You make it sound real attractive,” said McCoy. “What do I care if the superintendent of the academy likes me or not? I can always be a small-town doctor somewhere.”

  The Vulcan added, “Last year we saved three hundred twelve lives on five different planets.”

  “By George!” exclaimed McCoy, “that sounds like a logical thing to do! Okay, I volunteer.”

  Spock offered him the clipboard and a stylus. “You are aware that the first week of winter break is devoted to training.”

  McCoy’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, I know that. Do you think we can go home for the second week?”

  “I presume so, but you should ask Captain Raelius, our faculty advisor.”

  McCoy nodded and finished filling out the form.

  “What is the training like?”

  “I do not know. I will be taking the training for the first time myself.”

  “And you’re the recruiter?” McCoy shook his head.

  “No wonder they can’t get anybody to sign up.”

  “I am merely filling in,” answered Spock.

  “I know what you mean,” said McCoy. Just as he was about to walk away, an attractive female cadet strolled up to the table. She had beautiful brown hair, and she smiled pleasantly at both of them.

  “My name is Lisa Donald, and I’d like some information on Disaster Relief.”

  “We have been understaffed for four-point-three years, resulting in a twelve percent decrease in efficiency from our peak performance and evaluation.”

  McCoy stepped in front of the Vulcan and turned on the Southern charm. “What my friend is trying to say, Lisa, is that we really need you to volunteer. But only if you want to save lives, go to exotic places, and take a few risks. We do all the things you joined Starfleet to do!”

  “That sounds great,” said Lisa Donald. “What is the training like?”

  “Oh, it’s fun,” claimed McCoy. “It only takes a week, and there’s lots of fresh air and exercise!”

  Spock nodded thoughtfully. “There will be considerable exercise.”

  “I’ll sign up,” said Lisa. Spock handed her the clipboard.

&n
bsp; McCoy smiled at the young lady. “A wise choice. Can I buy you a cup of coffee to celebrate?”

  “Not right now, thanks. I’m meeting my boyfriend.”

  “You’re meeting with your boyfriend,” said McCoy glumly, “Did you ever have one of those days when you should have stood in bed?”

  Spock raised an eyebrow. “Standing in bed sounds like a pointless. exercise.”

  “It’s not pointless,” said McCoy. “If I had stood in bed last night, none of this would be happening to me now.”

  “That is illogical,” said Spock. “Your present would have occurred to you no matter what your posture in bed last night.”

  “You’re as dense as a two-by-four,” McCoy accused the Vulcan. “Have you listened to anything I said?”

  “Excuse me,” said Lisa. “I’ve got to get going. We don’t always argue like this, do we?”

  “No,” answered Spock. “Under normal circumstances, we are too busy.”

  “Good.” Lisa handed Spock the clipboard and hurried off. “See you around.”

  McCoy shook his head and sighed. “My luck has got to change sometime, doesn’t it?”

  “There is no such thing as luck,” replied Spock. “It is illogical.”

  McCoy rubbed his eyes. “Let me see if I can get a straight answer out of you. Is there a booth where I can call home?”

  The Vulcan pointed to an alcove in the corner. “Over there, I believe.”

  “Thank you,” said McCoy with an exaggerated bow.

  The medical student twisted his hands as he walked toward the communications booth. How was he going to phrase this to his father? He couldn’t make it sound as if it was his idea to stay in San Francisco over the break. But he didn’t want to explain exactly why he had volunteered.

  He settled into the booth and looked at the screen. Even though there was no door on the booth, noise inhibitors blocked out the sounds from the recreation room.