“You didn’t have to,” Mitchell reminded him. “Flashes of insight, remember?”
Kirk frowned. “All right,” he conceded. “Maybe I do think the opportunity might be appreciated more by someone else.”
“Then you’d be wrong,” said Mitchell. “Nobody wants to get to the stars more than I do.”
The upperclassman fixed him with his gaze. “And you think you’re going to get there with parlor tricks?”
The cadet stiffened a little. “Are you telling me [67] intuition isn’t valuable, Lieutenant? Or that it wouldn’t go a long way toward understanding a species we’ve never encountered before?”
Kirk couldn’t say that. For all he knew, it might be an asset at that. But it didn’t seem right that Mitchell should get by while his fellow plebes studied their tails off.
“I ought to be getting to my next class,” said the cadet.
Unable to carry his protest any further, the lieutenant nodded. “You’re dismissed, Mr. Mitchell.”
The younger man looked at him. “And you won’t spread this around? My having this talent, I mean?”
Kirk wished he could. “As I said, you have my word on it.”
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow ... sir.” And with that, the cadet left the lieutenant’s classroom.
Kirk stood there for a moment, resenting Mitchell on behalf of everyone who ever stayed up half the night trying to master a first-year curriculum. But he had to admit he envied the man a little, too.
After all, Mitchell did seem to understand people, and that was an area where the lieutenant still needed some work.
Chapter Six
GARY MITCHELL was lying on his bed in his underwear, going over the day’s events in his mind as he tossed a blue rubber racquetball in the air. Catching the ball on its way down, he said, “I’m not bothering you, am I?”
Gangly Karl-Willem Brandhorst, who was bent over his desk on the other side of the room, grunted and shot a glance at him. “And if you were?”
Mitchell shrugged. “I guess I’d find some other place to pass the time. Of course, I’d be hard-pressed to say where that might be. The Academy isn’t exactly a hotbed of sensory stimuli at this time of night.”
“For good reason,” said his roommate. “Most people are studying. And those who aren’t, are asleep.”
Mitchell tossed the ball in the air again and caught [69] it. “You know,” he mused out loud, “Kirk got me thinking today.”
Brandhorst feigned surprise. “You think? I mean, in addition to all your other amazing talents?”
The other cadet smiled to himself, unoffended. “I wouldn’t have admitted it to the lieutenant, mind you, but his lesson wasn’t the most boring thing I’d ever heard. There were a few moments there when I actually found myself listening to him.”
Brandhorst grunted. “That’s quite a compliment, coming from you.”
“Yeah,” said Mitchell, acknowledging the truth of the remark. “It is a compliment, isn’t it?”
He launched the racquetball at the ceiling, trying to see how close he could come without hitting it. The ball peaked within a few inches of the smooth, white surface before gravity claimed it and brought it plummeting back to earth.
Then Mitchell’s mind switched tracks. “You say Lieutenant Kirk is the fair-haired boy around here?” he asked.
“That’s what they tell me,” said Brandhorst.
“There’s something about him, all right,” Mitchell agreed, considering the various aspects of the lieutenant’s personality the way someone else might consider the facets of a diamond or the electron orbits in a duranium molecule. “Something different, y’know? The man could go places ... providing he gets some assistance from the right people, of course.”
The redhead looked at him. “Pardon me for asking ... but what the devil are you talking about?”
Mitchell propelled the ball upward and watched it [70] come within a hairsbreadth of the ceiling. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he snatched it out of the air on its way down.
“I mean,” he said, “Kirk’s in a funny position here. He’s too young to be friendly with the other professors and too hoity-toity to rub elbows with his fellow cadets.”
“So?” Brandhorst prodded.
“So I’m going to take the guy under my wing,” Mitchell replied matter-of-factly. “I’m going to make him my personal project.”
His roommate rolled his eyes and returned to his studies. “You—a first-year cadet who can barely find his boots in the morning—you are going to take a lieutenant under your wing? A man who’s been earmarked for command?”
Mitchell shrugged. “That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”
Brandhorst sighed. “Honestly, Gary ... sometimes I don’t know what planet you’re on.”
Mitchell glanced at him with a straight face. “Gee, Karl-Willem. Maybe you need to study a little harder.”
Then, having laid out his course of action, he balanced the ball on his navel and went to sleep.
Kirk scooped some white chalk powder out of the tray in front of him, rubbed it into his palms, and assumed a position beneath the gym’s stainless-steel horizontal bar. Jumping up, he caught the bar in his hands and felt his weight make a statement in his shoulder joints.
[71] His arms were still sore from carrying all his tapes the day before, but not so sore that they’d hold him back in his exercise regimen. Besides, it felt good to stretch out, to expand every muscle in his body from his fingertips to his groin.
For a moment, the lieutenant just hung there, taking in deep breaths to fortify himself against the considerable rigors that awaited him. Then he kicked out and began swinging from the waist, gently at first, but with ever-increasing authority.
On his fourth swing, Kirk brought his legs in closer to his body and slipped them over the bar. A single dizzy moment later, he came to rest with his hips against the unyielding steel. Checking his grip, he took a couple more deep breaths and rolled his body forward into a somersault.
That got him swinging again. He swung back and forth with considerable grace, finally reaching an almost vertical position on his backswing. When he came forward, it was with all the force he could muster.
Finally, at the apex of his swing, he let go of the bar and tucked his knees into his chest. He could feel the gym spinning around him ... once, twice, and then a third time, his blood pounding in his ears.
As soon as he felt he had completed the third flip, the lieutenant unfolded his legs, keeping his knees bent only slightly. A fraction of a second later, his arms outstretched for balance, he felt the jolt of something solid beneath his heels.
Then his senses stabilized and he saw he was [72] standing on one of the gym mats, the stainless-steel form of the exercise apparatus a meter or so behind him. He grinned and coiled his fingers into fists.
Yes, he thought.
It was the first time he had ever executed the triple flip. He wished his brother, Sam, had seen it. He wished—
Abruptly, a sixth sense told Kirk he wasn’t alone in the room. Whirling, he caught sight of two of his fellow educators standing in the open doorway. One was Mayhar-Perth, the xenobiologist. The other was Aaronson, who taught third-year subspace mechanics.
Both of them considered the lieutenant for a second. Then they turned and went back the way they had come, though their garb was a clear indication that they had planned to use the gym.
Kirk sighed. The year before, Aaronson and Mayhar-Perth wouldn’t have left. They would have come in and used the parallel bars or the pommel horse, and in the process they would have shared some funny stories with him—even though he was a cadet and they were his instructors.
But then, that was before he had seen fit to rat on Ben Finney.
Mitchell was eating lunch with Brandhorst and a couple of their first-year colleagues, trading stories about their various classes, when Kirk walked into the mess hall.
The lieutenant got a tray full of food from one of the slots.
Then, scanning the place with a glance, he frowned slightly and took a seat by himself in a corner [73] of the room. As he started to eat, he kept his eyes fixed on the contents of his tray.
One of the other cadets sitting with Mitchell—a guy named Covaleski—shook his head. “Serves him right, I’d say.”
Mitchell looked at him. “Who? Kirk?”
“That’s right.”
“Serves him right for what?” Brandhorst inquired.
Covaleski smiled a grim smile. “For what happened on the Republic.”
“I guess you haven’t heard,” said Chan, the fourth diner at their table.
Mitchell glanced at Brandhorst, whom he trusted to monitor all Academy gossip. “Do you know what these guys are talking about?”
Brandhorst shook his head. “Not a clue. Does this have anything to do with the Battle of Axanar?”
“Not even close,” said Covaleski. “That was later.” He leaned in a little closer to his fellow cadets. “Every year, we get to board a starship for a training mission somewhere in the Federation. The Republic is one of the ships designated as a training vessel.”
“Okay,” said Mitchell. “That much, even I’ve heard. But what’s this got to do with Kirk?”
Chan leaned closer, too. “Last year, he went on a couple of those missions. The ship he went on was the Republic. And one of the instructors that went with him was a guy named Ben Finney.”
The name didn’t sound familiar to Mitchell. “Should I know him?” he asked.
“Kirk knew him,” said Covaleski. “He and Finney had gotten to be friends. You see, Finney was the [74] youngest instructor here and Kirk was some kind of prodigy. They just hit it off.”
“Anyway,” said Chan, “the two of them were on the Republic, and Finney drew the first night watch. Kirk was scheduled to take the second one. But when Kirk came around to relieve his pal, he found a circuit open to the Republic’s impulse drive.”
Mitchell didn’t know much about impulse engines, but an open circuit sounded pretty dangerous. Chan’s expression confirmed it.
“If it wasn’t closed in time,” said Covaleski, “it could have blown up the ship. So Kirk closed it.”
“What’s the matter with that?” asked Brandhorst.
“Nothing,” Covaleski replied. “Except Kirk didn’t stop there. He reported the incident to the captain.”
Chan nodded. “Regardless of how it made Finney look—in other words, pretty bad. As it turned out, Finney drew a reprimand for it. And even worse, he was moved to the bottom of the promotion list.”
Covaleski eyed Kirk across the room. “That’s what the good lieutenant did to a friend—a guy he liked. You can imagine what he might do to someone he couldn’t stand.”
“And that’s why the other instructors steer clear of him,” Chan explained. He smiled. “Finney, in particular.”
Mitchell regarded Kirk as well. “I see.”
He had imagined it was just Kirk’s age that kept him from fraternizing with the other instructors. Now he knew the truth of the matter.
Chan got to his feet and picked up his tray. “I’ve got to get going. Stellar cartography awaits.”
[75] “Me, too,” said Covaleski, rising alongside the other cadet. “What about you guys?”
Brandhorst announced that he was heading to study hall. Apparently, he still had some reading to do before his metallurgy class.
Only Mitchell decided to remain there in the mess hall. After all, he had something to say to the erstwhile James T. Kirk, and he wanted to say it man-to-man.
Fortunately for Mitchell, it didn’t take the lieutenant long to eat his meal. Without anyone to talk to, he didn’t seem eager to linger. Minutes after he had come in, he was done.
Mitchell watched Kirk take his tray to the proper receptacle and insert it. Then, brushing his hands off, the lieutenant made his exit.
A few of the instructors looked up to watch him go, but none of them said anything. They just exchanged meaningful glances. A moment later, they returned to whatever they had been discussing.
That’s when Mitchell got up, took care of his tray as Kirk had, and exited the room. He moved quickly, so the lieutenant wouldn’t get too big a head start. After all, the Academy building was a honeycomb of corridors and he didn’t want to lose sight of his objective.
Kirk was turning a distant corner as Mitchell emerged from the mess hall. Seeing that, the cadet broke into a jog in an effort to catch up with the lieutenant. He was starting to gain on his quarry as he came swinging around the corner.
[76] That’s when he felt something slam into his face with the force of a phaser set on heavy stun.
Unprepared for the impact, Mitchell saw everything go dark for a second or two. His knees buckled and a metallic taste filled his mouth. When his head cleared, he found himself sitting on the floor, his legs splayed out in front of him.
A steely-eyed Kirk was standing over him, his lips pressed together in a straight, angry line. The upper-classman was holding his right hand, the knuckles of which looked chafed and raw—as if he had just used them on an unsuspecting fellow cadet.
Mitchell nodded appreciatively as he propped himself up on one arm. “Nice shot,” he conceded, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand as he gathered his legs beneath him.
Then he launched himself at the upperclassman with a quickness that had served him well on the streets of his hometown. This time, it was Kirk who was caught unaware.
The two men went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Mitchell drew back his fist and got in a resounding shot to Kirk’s jaw. Then another. But as it turned out, the lieutenant was no pushover. As he and Mitchell rolled on the floor, he got some leverage somehow and wound up on top.
“All right,” he rasped, grabbing a piece of Mitchell’s shirt with one hand while making a white-knuckled fist with the other. “Suppose you tell me why you’re stalking me.”
Mitchell looked at the upperclassman disbelievingly—then burst out laughing. And why not? It was the [77] funniest thing he had heard since he’d arrived at the Academy.
“Stalking you?” he echoed. “You’ve got to be kidding. I just wanted to catch up with you. To talk to you.”
Kirk’s eyes narrowed. “About what?”
“About Ben Finney,” Mitchell replied. “And the way you reported him for not noticing that open circuit.”
The lieutenant’s face darkened with anger and embarrassment. “I didn’t exactly enjoy that.”
“Of course you didn’t,” the underclassman told him. “That’s the whole point. Finney was your friend, but you turned him in anyway. All I’m saying is it took some guts.”
Clearly, Kirk hadn’t expected to hear that. He let go of Mitchell’s shirt and got off him. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, the lieutenant reached down and helped Mitchell to his feet.
“Thanks,” said the plebe. He wiped his mouth again. “They teach you how to fight that way in Nebraska?”
Kirk looked at him. “Iowa. But how—?”
Mitchell shrugged. “It’s that ruddy-cheeked, farm-boy look. Iowa would have been my second guess.”
The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. “Not bad,” he said begrudgingly.
“I told you so. Now you guess. Tell me where I’m from.”
Kirk shook his head. “I’m not the one with the intuition.”
“Guess,” Mitchell told him.
[78] The lieutenant shrugged. “Chicago. Or Detroit.”
“New York. Close enough. You got the big-city part.” Mitchell pulled down on the front of his shirt to straighten it. “City mouse, country mouse ... so I guess it’s up to me to broaden your horizons, right?”
The lieutenant gazed at him as if he had grown another set of ears. “Broaden my horizons ... ?” he asked.
“Uh-huh. And believe me, you need it.”
Kirk looked at him askance. “If you don’t mind my asking ... what the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ve obviously grown up much too sheltered, Lieutenant. You need to loosen the reins, let your hair down, take a few chances. And you know what? I’m just the guy to show you how.”
Suddenly, Kirk’s attitude changed—as if he had suddenly remembered who he was and whom he was talking to. When he spoke, his voice resounded with the timbre of command.
“Listen,” he said, “I appreciate the sentiment, Cadet—but it’s misplaced, to say the least. If anyone’s going to give any lessons around here, it’ll be me. Understand?”
Mitchell managed a smile. “Aye, sir.”
“I’m the teacher,” Kirk reminded him. “You’re the student.”
“Absolutely. Whatever you say, sir.”
“You’d do well to remember that,” said Kirk.
“I’ll do my best,” the plebe promised him, though he didn’t mean a single word of it.
Kirk spent another moment trying to figure Mitchell out. He didn’t seem to get anywhere. But then, the [79] underclassman thought, better men than the lieutenant had tried and failed in that regard.
“See you in class,” Kirk said finally.
“In class,” Mitchell echoed. “Aye, sir.”
Frowning, the lieutenant walked away.
Apparently, Mitchell mused, Kirk was wrapped a little tighter than he had anticipated. Taking the Iowan under his wing wasn’t going to be as easy as it had looked.
But that was all right. There was nothing Mitchell liked better than a challenge.
Chapter Seven
KIRK WAS halfway along the corridor when he realized what kind of ridiculous, boneheaded stunt he had pulled. All Mitchell had wanted to do was pat him on the back a little.
And how had he, the coolheaded upperclassman, responded in his infinite wisdom? How had he rewarded the plebe’s sincere and spontaneous expression of admiration?
He’d belted the guy.
Nice going, Kirk told himself. That’ll look great on your record. “Command candidate assaults unsuspecting underclassman in Academy building for no good reason whatsoever.”
But in the end, it wasn’t the lieutenant’s record that sent him back down the corridor in search of the other cadet. It was his conscience. He owed the [81] younger man an apology and he was damned well going to give him one.
STAR TREK: TOS #85 - My Brother's Keeper, Book One - Republic Page 6
