by Diane Carey
Kirk turned. “What’s he doing on—never mind. Put him through.”
“Sulu here, Captain.”
“Mr. Sulu, what are you doing on the farm ship?”
“I was working on some shirtsleeve botany when a major hull leak broke in the hydroponic section. There’s no time to seal it from inside, sir, and we’ve got five minutes until there’s a total loss of crop. Permission to use phasers to seal the hull from inside.”
“Go ahead, your discretion. Contact us as soon as you know whether or not it worked. We’ll send assistance if you need it.”
Under the blood-colored jacket, Kirk felt his shoulders tense like warning sensors going off. Kilvennan was watching him, gauging his response, his every word, his tone and posture. The other captain knew, somehow, that he wanted to go out there, chafed to go, ached to go, that he hated leaving others to handle trouble. Torn between his desires and his responsibilities, he battled with himself while Kilvennan watched. The others were watching too, but he knew in some mysterious way that the privateer was the only one who really understood. Command had its viruses.
When he turned back to the immediate problem, he was careful to change his demeanor. Kilvennan was a captain, after all. This was one of the niggling problems for Kirk, who had spent his life in space as a captain, not as an admiral. In deep space, he had seldom had to deal with anyone of equal rank or better. Now he had more than seventy of his own species to deal with. Muscle and might wasn’t working with Kilvennan. The mind of a privateer captain was a peculiar mechanism. Such men as Kilvennan were in that business because they didn’t think anybody else was worth serving under. Every one of them had earned, usually the hard way, the respect of his crew. None of them were under assignment or orders. Brute force wouldn’t work.
Thinking quickly, Kirk opted for an unfamiliar trick.
“I’ll make a new bargain with you,” he attempted. “You see us through to the lightship Hatteras. After that, go where you want. You can turn back when the Republic does, and go with them back to Federation space. I’ll take care of the Expedition the rest of the way. Your parents, if they stay, your brother here . . . and anyone else.”
Everyone was watching them. Moments ticked by.
Slowly, Kilvennan shifted again and unfolded his arms. His expression mellowed. He glanced briefly at his brother, who took hold of his arm in silent emotion. Kilvennan had been trumped. Kirk had used an all-expenses-paid power play and won without forcing Kilvennan to lose, letting him off with pride intact by leaving him a choice. No brig, no threats. A short-run solution.
A grin of irony tugged at Kilvennan’s trim beard when once again he locked eyes with Kirk. “Bully,” he derided.
Kirk felt his own expression change. Just the eyes, really. He winked.
Just so everyone else would know he wasn’t gloating, he extended a handshake to Kilvennan, not at all sure it would be taken.
And he would never know. Behind him, the bridge jangled its electronic noises and a warning klaxon went off. Uhura’s voice cut through a second time. “Sir, emergency call from Mr. Scott!”
She didn’t wait for his order this time, but cued in the audio speakers.
“Scott here! I’m aboard the Comanche!”
Kirk dropped to the command deck. He knew that tone. “Nature of the trouble, Scotty?”
“Imminent catastrophic explosion! Mule engine malfunction, got a mighty hot potato on m’hands, sir! Clear the other ships away from us!”
“Stand by. Governor, Captain Kilvennan, get back to your ships and get them out of range. Mr. Spock, clear the Enterprise of any nonenlisted personnel. Red alert.”
“Red alert,” Spock repeated. “Gentlemen, the emergency evacuation transporter pads are on Deck Two.”
Stepping aside for the governor to go first into the lift, Kilvennan cast a glance around the suddenly active bridge, where the lights had gone to emergency scarlet and the crew had already forgotten about him. As he took Quinn’s arm and nudged past Dr. McCoy, he cast one final connecting look down to Kirk, who met his eyes for a last salute of understanding.
Kilvennan pulled his brother into the lift, and as it swallowed them, he jovially broadcast his opinion. “Give a man a new uniform and he thinks he rules the galaxy!”
The Captains’ Meeting
October 31, 2272
“Ladies and gentlemen, just before we launch the Belle Terre Colonial Expedition, we at Starfleet Command wanted to be sure our officers and crewmen won’t fade into the background during such an important expedition. Therefore, we went shopping. When you go looking for our personnel from now on, look for the new Fleet-issue uniforms. And since it’s Halloween . . . I’ll change my costume.”
Indulging in a bit of stagemanship, Jim Kirk stepped away from the podium from which he addressed the flock of captains gathered for the last strategic meeting before the Expedition’s departure hour. This was it, the last time they’d see each other in a group. After this, they would be voices and numbers, communicating over chunks of open space, trying diligently not to collide or get in each other’s way.
There probably wasn’t any other occupation in the universe that would bring together so diverse a collection of men and women as the captaincy of a mixed flotilla. Each was doggedly individual in style and method, yet there were common goals and an instinctive mutuality of purpose that couldn’t be trained in.
A yeoman came forward with a box, which Kirk opened, and from which he drew a spanking new brick-red uniform day jacket, trimmed in pitch black and iceberg white. The yeoman took the jacket and slipped it onto Kirk’s shoulders, then settled it into place. Kirk winked the young fellow back and folded the diagonal chest placket closed himself, and flipped the brass toggle on the shoulder strap that held the placket up. Finally he brought the black belt around and snapped the delta-shield buckle.
Like his duty undershirt, the shoulder strap, the wrist bar, and the inside lining were crisp white, suiting his command rank, while the belt loops and placket trim were cannon black.
Cannon, glacier, and blood. The new uniform described Kirk’s whole life.
With dry palms he touched the front of the jacket, ran his hands down the sleeves to the admiral’s rank pin and service bars on the wrists, then lowered his arms to his sides. Suddenly he felt dressed.
As applause erupted and rang through the hall, Kirk was caught unexpectedly blushing. Despite his years of experience and his mountain of accomplishments, he felt deeply humbled, as if he were wearing the support of thousands who had sacrificed their lives so he could have this moment.
He gazed down at his long-wrought friendships—Scotty, McCoy, Sulu, Chekov, Uhura, and of course Spock; white was for senior command, for the sciences sky blue, medical services’ fern green, security and engineering’s gold, and dove gray for ship operations—
Traveling through another rite of passage with him, his old friends shined up at him as if they were all alone here today, having a private moment, promising him that they would embark with him on another spectacular adventure, danger and trouble and all, beating off the thought of strains that would come to challenge the new Starfleet issue, playing steward to thousands of hopeful pioneers who had no real idea of just how far they were going. No one could know who hadn’t already been out there.
Kirk put out a staying palm to slow the appreciation, warmed by the smiles throughout the crowd. Even a couple of the privateer captains were grinning with cheerful envy through their don’t-mess-with-us-but-we’ll-wait-while-you-decide attitudes. He thought about their freewheeling life and fielded a bit of envy himself. They had no codes or regulations forcing them into prefabricated images. They and their rugged ships were archetypal symbols of the intelligent maverick. How would they deal with his authority, inflicted upon them by UFP edict during the last few weeks of a job they had accepted as theirs alone?
Could they see how worried he was? How long he had hovered here, in secure space, hungering for the dangerou
s life he had somehow survived? Could they tell he was nervous about reacquiring it? Would he remember how to do this? Was he still young enough to be reckless? There were a lot of lives depending upon him, more than ever before in a spaceborne operation. He’d watched whole planets die, and yet this somehow was a hundred times more disturbing. Did he still have the touch?
When the applause fell away, Kirk let the silence go on for several seconds, to saturate the room with sobriety for the task ahead.
“When we get out into deep space,” he began slowly, “that’s all there is. Whatever we take with us will be all we have. We’ll have only each other to depend on. We’re going to be passing through a very large desert and we’re not sure what’s on the other side. As the senior officer of Starfleet who’ll be going with you, I promise we’ll get you there or die trying. If anyone starves, Starfleet will starve first. If anyone’s in danger, we’ll be there first to share it. If anyone dies, we’ll be the first to die. That is Starfleet’s promise, and I’ll be personally keeping it. My friends . . . let’s go build a Beautiful Earth.”
Snug as a hammock, battered to perfection, just slovenly enough to be user-friendly, the old privateer Hunter’s Moon was hove to with the rest of the Expedition during an emergency situation. The ship was quiet—most of the crew were off watch, sleeping, and didn’t know yet what was going on out in near-space.
Michael Kilvennan ignored the searching eyes of those who were up and aware. He didn’t have answers and didn’t want any questions. He had beamed off the starship without even knowing the nature of the emergency yet.
“What’s happening?” He charged onto the weather deck and climbed the vertical ladder to the quarterdeck.
“Didn’t you see it?” Engineer Sylvie Graves was already riveted to the three forward screens, showing a view of the volatile situation now developing. “Comanche’s mules are firing in two independent directions,” she gasped, breathing in shallow gulps. Her short blond hair was plastered flat, making her ears stick out.
“Can’t do that,” Kilvennan opposed. “They’re plugged into a single control system.”
“Look for yourself. They’re pulling the Conestoga’s hull in two different directions. They’ll peel the ship apart in a matter of minutes.”
She was right both ways. On the privateer’s dashboard of easy-view interconnected screens, black matte shapes with running lights bumped and jolted in unnatural movements. The bulbous shape of the Conestoga suffered the glow of overload on both its mule engines, casting garish lights on the people-movers’ flanks.
Kilvennan’s mouth went dry. “What’re the odds of every failsafe crashing on two mules?”
Graves shook her head in disbelief. “Every failsafe crashing on one mule is impossible. You want me to call all hands?”
“Where’s Starfleet? Republic? Beowulf?”
“They’re both on rearguard, more than fifty minutes back. Impeller’s off looking for American Rover.”
“Tugantine?”
“Twenty ships back, towing a disabled mule.”
“Jesus.” Kilvennan swallowed hard, then suddenly thought of his brother. “Start praying, Quinn . . .”
In space, with no sun to illuminate them, the ships of the Belle Terre Expedition looked like bunched-up stars themselves. Running lights—white, red, blue, and the occasional yellow—made identifiable patterns on the velvet curtain of space, some crossing in front of each other, making patterns without sense that looked more than anything else like Christmas trees in the dark. Not since the last Great Starship Race had so many ships been gathered in one close area. Beyond them, real stars, nebulae, and clusters glowed without a flicker.
From here they had an unblocked view of the endangered Comanche, its gourd-shaped side lit up by scene lights from its own mule engines, lights usually used for tractoring and towing movements and disengagement of the mules. Overlaying the scene lights was the terrible glow of overload—demolition cast a light of its own on both sides of the people-mover.
“What do we do?” Graves asked, her voice quavering.
“We wouldn’t even be here if I hadn’t come up to talk to Kirk,’ Kilvennan said. “Let him handle it. He wants control. Let him have it. Maybe he can famous the problem away.”
“He used to be famous. Now he’s an echo. Closest he gets to his past is a wall full of medals.”
“Pardonnet thinks that’s why he came on the Expedition. To get back that old feeling.”
“Has-beens are pathetic . . . oh, God . . .” A disembodied voice grumbled from below.
Kilvennan bent over, craned a little, and found his first officer lying on his side, peering into the open repair trunk, moaning every few seconds. “Troy? Are you on the deck?”
“Yeah . . . yeah, down here . . .”
“You all right?”
From the deck, First Mate Troy Augustine’s voice was ragged and aggrieved. “It’s making me sick. . . .”
Bending a bit more, Kilvennan twisted until he could see Augustine’s close-cropped Nordic hair and the direction he was looking into the trunk. “Oh, watching the direct feeds.”
“Comanche’s thruster exhaust,” Augustine groaned, “the direct heat index sensors. Those people, Michael . . . they’re dead.”
The removable towing engines were an idea conjured up by Fleet Coxswain Dan Marks, then developed on a scale of dozens, within weeks, by Montgomery Scott. The independent mules were fundamentally simple, tug engines without a tug, with inboard generators and cooling systems, and each with a powerful impulse drive and its own warp core. They ran basically with on-off switches, and could be jettisoned almost instantly, or taken off and put in the roundhouse ship Colunga for repair.
So why weren’t they being jettisoned?
“Syl, click on the comm system. Let me hear what’s going on.”
“Comm,” she repeated.
A crackle broke sharply through the speakers, and Montgomery Scott’s voice, broken by electrical interference, was mixed in with James Kirk’s.
“—overload on both systems—put up the Conestoga’s shields to shore up her hull integrity.”
“That won’t hold indefinitely. Scotty, why can’t you jettison those mules?”
“They’re hard-riveted onto the hull. Whatever happens to us, if you didn’t have concrete evidence of sabotage before, you bloody well have it now.”
Troy Augustine jumped up from the deck, stumbling a moment on his bad knee. He scanned the upper screens until he found the one with the view of the Hunter’s Moon’s upper starboard quarter. “Here comes Enterprise! Wow, she’s close!”
Graves jumped to the helm as if to make an adjustment.
“Hold position,” Kilvennan barked. “Don’t confuse them with changes.”
As the privateer held her ground, the starship skated over them at collision proximity, a huge black shape illuminated only by the sconce lanterns on her hulls and nacelles. Watching Enterprise’s lovely swan shape, cloaked in shadow and sprayed with funnels of frosted light from her own mounts, Kilvennan tried to imagine any maneuver that would change the fate of the shuddering Conestoga out there.
“What does he think he can do alone?” Graves wondered. “A Conestoga’s heavy as a lead asteroid. Why aren’t they signaling for help?”
“He could try holding it in place with traction while pushing against one of the mules.”
“Won’t work,” Kilvennan said. “The other mule’ll pull them into a spin. It’s crazy.”
“He’s only got one ship.”
“And I didn’t come out here to wreck mine!” Kilvennan reacted. “Or to leave my kids without a father either. That wasn’t the deal I made and neither did you.” When they were silent a moment, slapped back by his venom, he asked, “How many passengers on Comanche?”
“Four thousand sixty at last count.”
“God save them . . .”
Augustine’s whole body shook. “Why isn’t Kirk calling for additional thrust?”
Graves bit her lip. “Maybe because he doesn’t want to up the death count.”
Kilvennan whispered to himself. “Or because I told him we wouldn’t come.”
“Kirk here. Scotty, we’ll try to use our tractor beams to hold on to the Conestoga while we push against the starboard mule’s outboard thrust at the same time. Direct pressure. How much time do you need?”
“Don’t know that yet, sir.”
“He can’t keep it up,” Graves deduced. “He’d have to pull for three weeks till the mules run out of fuel.”
In his mind Kilvennan could imagine what was going on, the bridge of the starship tense and efficient, Mr. Spock measuring Engineer Scott’s activities with sensors, down to the five-hundredth decimal place, frowning the way he did when things weren’t going well. Kirk prowling the lower bridge, his eyes never leaving the screens, cooking up idea after idea and having them smashed by reality, then cooking up more.
“All ships, Enterprise. Plan is to shut down mule engines simultaneously. Chances are poor. Keep safe distance. Repeat, keep safe detonation distance.”
“See?” Kilvennan pointed out. “He knows. What good would it do for us to get ripped apart with them?”
Graves coiled her arms tightly around her thin body and bounced on her toes as her nerves began to fray. “I feel like I’m in a lifeboat watching thousands of people die in front of me.”
Sensing it was time to give her something to do, Kilvennan forced himself to cough up an idea. “Sylvie, contact Kirk and offer to use his wide-beam transport to beam people off that ship and onto Hunter’s Moon. We can cram five or six hundred into our hold and companionways. He can take another fifteen hundred.”
“There are four thousand on that Conestoga.”
“Other ships could come in for a second wave. Call, call.”
Frantically Graves typed the message into her fingerboard, keeping the conversation from broadcasting on audio. It was enough the crew could see what was happening, never mind hear the disaster unfolding. Kilvennan wanted to keep his options to himself for the moment.
