Kirk shook his head when he considered the political machinations of the Tholian Assembly, as well as those of the United Federation of Planets. He remembered his own experiences with Starfleet Intelligence, including a particularly harrowing assignment into Romulan space to purloin one of the Empire’s cloaking devices—an assignment Kirk had opposed because it had put his crew at tremendous risk.
Wesley seemed to want to say no more on the subject of his mission as governor of Mantilles, and so Kirk let the matter drop. Instead, he turned the conversation back to Lexington. “Well, I’m glad you’re back to exploring now.”
“So am I, and grateful for it too,” the commodore said. Kirk thought that Wesley wore his gratitude more like relief. “What about you? How long before the Enterprise heads back out?”
“According to Scotty, we’ve got another three or four days here,” Kirk said. He picked up his cordial glass and sipped at it. Suddenly, the flavor of the liqueur struck him less as refreshing and more as medicinal.
“So a total repair of ten or eleven days,” Wesley said. “That’s not bad for a damaged warp nacelle.” The commodore hesitated, then added, “And I’m sure you want to waste as little time as possible with your mission nearing an end.”
Wesley’s mention of Kirk’s five-year command of Enterprise coming to a close felt somehow like a betrayal. “We’ve still got almost a year left,” the captain said, careful not to sound defensive.
“And then clear sailing to commodore,” Wesley said.
Kirk hadn’t previously heard any suggestions of an upcoming promotion for him, but he knew that rumors propagated through the fleet at warp speed. In his case, he thought such speculation made sense, considering the record of accomplishments his Enterprise crew could already boast. The possibility of an increase in rank meant little to him, though, and he told Wesley that. “The only thing that interests me is standing in the center of a starship bridge.”
The commodore looked away from Kirk, first down at his glass, then out into space. The unspoken implication sent a shock through the captain. “Bob?”
When Wesley looked back, he wore an apologetic bearing. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t know anything.”
“But you’ve heard something,” Kirk said.
“Scuttlebutt,” Wesley said. “There’s probably nothing to it.”
“Come on, Bob,” Kirk said. “Of course you think there’s something to it. Otherwise you wouldn’t look like you just jettisoned an ion pod in clear space.”
Wesley did not respond for a moment, and it seemed as though he wrestled with what more he should say. The commodore raised his glass again, but when he realized that he’d already emptied it, he set it back down on the table. “Yeah, I’ve heard a couple of things,” he finally said. “Including that you might skip commodore altogether and move directly into the admiralty.”
The statement dumbfounded Kirk. He’d never heard of anybody in the service being promoted two levels in rank. More than that, he knew of nothing in the regulations that even permitted it; upward movement, as far as he knew, required not only an exemplary record, but minimum service time at each stratum within Starfleet’s hierarchy. “That sounds to me like idle gossip,” he managed to say. “I mean, I’d be honored—”
“They’d want you to be,” Wesley said gravely.
“But the truth is that not everybody at headquarters is . . .” Kirk cast about for the right word or phrase, and as he did so, he even allowed a grin to play across his features. “. . . enamored of my command style.”
“I’m afraid I can’t argue with you about that,” Wesley said.
Even though Kirk had made the assertion in the first place, it troubled him to hear it so easily confirmed by a fellow starship captain. In fact, the entire turn of the conversation troubled him. Choosing to put the matter to rest, to quash a rumor assuredly spurious, he said, “They couldn’t vault me over the rank of commodore anyway. It’s not as though there are any admirals out there commanding starships.”
Wesley cast his gaze down at the table, where he wrapped both hands around his empty whiskey tumbler. His glass of water still sat untouched. When he looked back up, his expression had become severe. “Jim,” he said, “from what I hear, your days on the bridge of a starship may be numbered.”
Kirk could only stare back at Wesley. He wanted to scream his frustration, wanted to transport back to Enterprise and contact the commander in chief of Starfleet, wanted to demand that he be compensated for his years of service and lengthy list of achievements simply by being allowed to remain in the position in which he had enjoyed so much success. Instead, he sat there motionless, as though the strength had drained not only from his body, but from his will.
“There’s a lot of talk about refitting the Constitution-class vessels,” Wesley said, “and I think Command wants to use that as an opportunity to reassign you. I’ve heard that they might want you in charge of a starbase, or that they might even want you to oversee an entire sector.”
A glut of thoughts spun through Kirk’s head, and he settled on voicing one of them. “Basically, they want me somewhere they can keep a tighter leash on me,” he said. “They want me to have less autonomy than I do on the Enterprise.” Kirk could see in his memory the stern countenances of the admirals—not many of them, but apparently enough of them—who disapproved of the captain’s methods and style. He wanted nothing more than to deny them their intentions for his career—for his life. “I don’t have to accept promotion.”
“No, you don’t,” Wesley said. “But your only alternative might be resignation.”
Kirk felt as though he’d been slapped in the face. “Would they really force that on me? Would they that readily dispose of everything Starfleet has invested in me, of all my experience?” The notion seemed absurd on its face. Kirk leaned forward on the table, and his voice slipped down to a whisper, as though pleading with the commodore for an answer. “Could they do that to me?”
“Jim,” Wesley said, “after three decades in Starfleet, with half of that time spent commanding starships, I ended up as the governor of Mantilles.”
“But they brought you back,” Kirk said, as though that excused strong-arming the commander of a starship into taking on a job he didn’t want.
“And I hope I’m on the bridge of the Lexington to stay, at least until I’m ready to step down on my own,” Wesley said. “But I know now that I can’t really count on that.”
“Bob . . . I’m sorry,” Kirk said. “I had no idea.”
“Thanks, but it’s all right,” Wesley said. “I’ve made my peace with it. Plus I’ve earned some favor in Starfleet Command for being a good soldier, for going where they wanted me to go, for doing what they needed me to do.” The commodore paused, but clearly wanted to add more. At last, he said, “It’s not as though Starfleet Command is a villain or an enemy. They weren’t trying to hurt me by asking me to go to Mantilles. And I could have refused.”
“But what would have happened if you had?” Kirk asked.
“Maybe nothing,” Wesley said. “Maybe I would have continued as the captain of the Lexington. Maybe I would have been forced to resign. I don’t know. But I understand that Command is doing the best they can to keep the Federation safe, and that means assigning personnel to do the jobs that need to be done. There were enough admirals who felt that I was the best choice for the Mantilles operation.”
“So what you’re telling me is that there are enough admirals who think I’d best serve Starfleet by being posted to a starbase,” Kirk said, unable to hide his bitterness at the thought.
“Again, I don’t know for sure,” Wesley said. “Jim, everybody knows what you’ve done out here . . . the first contacts, the exploration of unknown space, the diplomatic missions. But you know as well as I do that some of your decisions, and probably even more of your methods, haven’t set well with certain people.”
Kirk glanced down at his cordial glass, still half-filled with its purplish r
ed contents. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked quietly.
“Jim, I only mentioned this because I wanted to prepare you for what may be coming,” Wesley said. “What may be coming. For all I know, Command may ask you to re-up for another five-year mission. But I remember when we installed the M-5 computer aboard the Enterprise.” The supposed next step in the evolution of processing technology, the M-5 had been the brainchild of the brilliant scientist Doctor Richard Daystrom. Enterprise had functioned as a test bed for the computer complex, which had been intended to replace the entire crew of a starship. “Starfleet didn’t brief you about the M-5, didn’t bring you into the decision-making process, until I showed up in your transporter room with the news. I thought that was wrong, and I hated being the one to spring the operation on you. Even though I’m not involved in the determination of where your career goes from here, I didn’t want you to be blindsided.”
“I appreciate that,” Kirk said.
“I just thought that if you have enough time to think about it,” Wesley said, “if you consider the situation from all angles, then you’ll be able to make the choice that’s right for you and for Starfleet.”
Kirk understood the commodore’s reasoning, but couldn’t conceive of willingly agreeing to step away from the command of a starship. At the same time, just discussing the matter had exhausted him from an emotional standpoint. For the moment, he needed to stop thinking about it.
“Well, I already know what I’m going to do.” Kirk raised his glass and upended it into his mouth. Preparing to lighten the mood and move the conversation in a different direction, he said, “I’m going to have another drink.” He motioned over toward the bar and caught the waiter’s attention. Garo immediately hurried over to the table.
As Kirk ordered another round—not another Denebian liqueur, but a Saurian brandy—he knew that he would have that next drink, complete his visit with Bob Wesley, and then head back to Enterprise. And once Scotty and his staff completed the repairs to the warp nacelle, the captain would take the ship back out beyond the borders of the Federation and, with his crew, explore the unknown for the next year.
After that, though, Kirk had no idea what would come next.
Dresden
II
Seven
Sulu retreated slowly across the greensward, measuring his steps carefully so that he didn’t lose his footing on the uneven ground and damage the delicate cargo he carried. He headed toward the middle of the grassy expanse, away from the coppices that intermittently bordered the open area, and away from the other people out in the park. When he reached a distance of twenty-five or so meters from Trinh, he stopped and waved back to her. “How’s this?” he asked, raising his voice so that she would hear him. She’d instructed him on what to do, but as an utter novice, he wanted to make sure he made no mistakes.
“That’s good,” Trinh called. She pulled back on the cord in her hands, and Sulu felt the line tauten. “Okay,” she said, “let’s launch.”
Sulu raised his arms, lifting the kite as far up as he could reach, careful to keep it properly aligned with Trinh. About three meters wide and in the form of a symmetric lens, the main body curved up at the ends, creating a gentle, sweeping curve, almost like the wingspan of a large bird in flight. A flat rectangle emerged backward from the center of the body, attached to two more lens-shaped figures, also flat, that formed a tail. A light, bright-red fabric covered the frame of polished, lightweight wood.
“Okay,” Sulu called, stretching as high as he could. Even as he did, though, the kite gently slipped upward, a breath of air catching it as Trinh drew back on the line. Sulu watched the bridle—a network of cords designed to spread the force of the pull—and appreciated its combination of geometric beauty and engineering utility. The kite continued to rise, and so he started to sidle back across the grass to Trinh, his head turned so that he could follow the ascent.
By the time Sulu reached Trinh, the kite had climbed to a height of at least twenty meters. It flew almost as though floating, as if relying not on air currents but on antigravs. “You did it,” Sulu said, his voice reflecting the enthusiasm he felt.
“We did it,” Trinh said, and indeed they had. Over the course of the previous six months, the two crewmates had spent more and more—and recently, almost all—of their off-duty hours in each other’s company. They socialized too with other friends—Pavel Chekov, Uhura, Jackie Trieste, Clien ch’Gorin—but usually together. As a consequence, Sulu and Trinh had gotten to know each other quite well.
Two weeks earlier, in anticipation of their first real shore leave as a couple, they had begun discussing what they should do. Unfortunately, with Enterprise outside of Federation space for the prior half-year, the ten-day furlough that the crew had earned would not coincide with a visit to a world like Risa or Pacifica or Allarin, but to Starbase 25. The facility possessed some features the ship did not—an elegant bar, several restaurants, a number of shops, a few sporting amenities—but it essentially equated to the same setting: a limited, closed environment, filled with recycled atmosphere and artificial lighting, hanging in the punishing void of space. Sulu and Trinh craved fresh air and sunshine—perhaps a beach, perhaps the mountains, perhaps something else entirely—but they sought the allure of nature.
Starbase 25 orbited Dengella II, a Class-M planet with little tamed wilderness. It hosted several midsized settlements, but beyond the borders of those populations, the Federation’s Department of the Interior considered the land unsafe for visitation. That left Sulu and Trinh—and the rest of the Enterprise crew—with few options.
In the days leading up to their shared shore leave, the two had decided on a number of activities. Star-base 25 featured a ten-story climbing wall in one of its massive gymnasia, as well as a low-gravity flying chamber, both of which sounded like fun. They also wanted to try one of the base’s eateries, Shadows, which had a reputation as a cozy, romantic bistro that featured soft music, warm candlelight, and exquisite desserts.
Trinh had also researched the inhabited areas of Dengella II. She suggested a trip to the one art museum on the planet, along with a picnic in one of several parks on the surface. The latter proposal had kindled another idea in Sulu’s mind.
During the six months of their relationship, Sulu and Trinh had asked each other about their lives, and had relished telling and hearing the stories that, when added together, had brought them into one another’s arms. Trinh spoke fondly of her childhood in Vietnam, a place she’d left at the age of ten, when her parents had relocated to Bradbury Township on Mars. With plenty of family still residing on Earth, though, she returned there regularly, and she later stayed for an extended period when she earned her baccalaureate and master’s degrees in Hanoi.
When Trinh had proposed enjoying a picnic lunch in one of the parks on Dengella II, it had spurred Sulu to recall one particular set of memories that she’d shared with him. As a young girl, she had learned from her grandfather how to construct and fly kites, including a traditional type called a dieu sao. Trinh spoke of her time with her mother’s father almost with reverence, so important a place did it hold in her heart.
Sulu had performed some basic research via the ship’s library-computer, after which he enlisted the aid of some of the ship’s engineers to help him fabricate the materials required. Once he completed his preparations, Trinh arrived at his quarters one evening to find the components for a kite scattered over the deck, chairs, desk, and bed. He would always cherish the moment she walked through his door, looked around, and realized what she saw; she actually gasped before running into his arms with tears spilling down her cheeks. They ended up clearing his bed so that they could make love, but in the days that followed, they shared their love in a different way, working together to assemble the dieu sao so that they could it fly on shore leave.
As Sulu watched the kite sailing above the park on Dengella II, he felt a happiness—a joy—that he’d never before known. “Yes,” he echoed Trinh, “w
e did it.” He watched as she played out the line a bit, then pulled some of that length back. The kite drifted higher into the air, the crescents of the planet’s two moons a striking backdrop in the azure sky.
“Actually, we haven’t done it, not yet,” Trinh said. “The wind shifted.”
At first, Sulu thought that she worried about being able to control the kite, but he saw that she had no difficulties keeping it aloft and steady. Then he felt the breeze at his back and realized her concern. With the currents of air moving away from them and toward the dieu sao, they couldn’t experience the kite’s full effect.
“Let’s move around that way,” Trinh said. Sulu looked away from the kite to see her point to the left. She began walking in that direction, turning her body as she did, essentially keeping the dieu sao in the same place in the sky as she moved around it.
Sulu did not immediately follow Trinh. Instead, he watched her. For their special day in the park—they’d planned a picnic, kite flying, a stroll to the small lake there, and a leisurely boat ride for two—Trinh had chosen to wear a traditional Vietnamese outfit, an ao dai. Made of silk, it consisted of a golden-yellow tunic, with a formfitting bodice, that split at the hips and hung front and back down to her shoes over white pantaloons. Embroidered florets adorned the torso of the ensemble. The ao dai flattered her petite figure and provided a dramatic contrast for her dark hair.
“There it is,” Sulu heard Trinh say. She seemed gleeful. She turned to look at him, but then peered around when she didn’t see him beside her. “Hey,” she called over to him.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said, trotting over to join her.
“Were you woolgathering?” she asked as he caught up with her.
“I was Trinh-gathering,” he said. “I just couldn’t take my eyes off you. You’re beautiful.”
Trinh tilted her face down and looked up at him as though embarrassed by his attention, but the sly smile told him that it pleased her. As she stared into his eyes, he heard the sound she’d been seeking, but that the wind had carried away from them. Completing the dieu sao, Sulu and Trinh had mounted atop it five small flutes of varying length. As the kite hovered at the other end of the line, air currents passed through the simple, diminutive instruments, playing notes.
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