Captain’s Log, Stardate 3795.4
The Enterprise is paused in interstellar space for a much-needed rendezvous with Starfleet refueling tanker Jamnagar, which is replenishing our ship’s supply of antideuterium and delivering a consignment of fresh dilithium crystals for our warp reactor.
“Computer, end recording. File log entry.”
Captain James T. Kirk leaned back from the small desk in his quarters. He had far more on his mind this morning than the Enterprise’s routine operations, but his other concerns were matters better suited to a personal log than to the ship’s official record.
So where to start? A personal log? He reached toward the log recorder controls, only to reconsider before switching the device on. A dozen thoughts twisted through his troubled mind, eluding him as he tried to focus. What was this? Confusion? Guilt? Regret?
Maybe I just need a cup of coffee.
A glance at the ship’s chrono confirmed it was just after 0700. Plenty of time to grab a bite in the officers’ mess before heading up to the bridge.
Kirk left his quarters to find everything business-as-usual on deck three. A pair of Chief Engineer Scott’s red-jumpsuited technicians were busy running diagnostics and making repairs to a duotronic cable relay inside a Jefferies tube. On his way to the turbolift, Kirk noticed the overnight deck officer, Lieutenant Willa Roscoe, checking to make certain that the doors to restricted areas of the ship were locked in accordance with regulations.
If Kirk was surprised by anything, it was that Scott didn’t have more of his people working double shifts to catch up on needed repairs. It had been less than a week since the Enterprise and its crew had survived a brutal encounter with an extragalactic alien “doomsday weapon”—a planet-killing machine that had assumed a direct heading toward some of the most densely populated star systems in the United Federation of Planets.
Though the mission to stop the planet-killer had been successful, that victory had come at a terrible cost. The monstrosity had claimed the life of Kirk’s friend Commodore Matt Decker, and Decker’s command, the U.S.S. Constellation, which had been a Constitution-class starship like the Enterprise. Compared to those losses, which included more than four hundred members of Decker’s crew, the extensive damage and few dozen casualties the Enterprise suffered under Decker’s temporary and ill-advised command might have seemed minor, but when it came to his ship and crew Kirk felt every wound and mourned every loss.
Is that why I can’t stop thinking about it? Am I grieving for Decker, or am I raging at him for getting so many of my people killed and my ship pummeled?
Questions without clear answers. No matter how many times Kirk pondered them he found neither closure nor comfort.
He remained distracted by melancholy as he entered the officers’ mess and made his way to the food synthesizers. At an open slot he inserted his meal card, which, like those of all Starfleet personnel, was programmed to create meals he would enjoy that would also satisfy his nutritional needs, in portion sizes appropriate to his recorded physical activity profile. This morning he had a choice of three options for breakfast. He chose meal number one: three scrambled eggs, wheat toast with butter and jam, a fruit cup, and a mug of hot black coffee.
Semimusical machinations whirred behind the food slot’s closed panel. When it slid upward to reveal Kirk’s morning meal on a tray, he savored the mingled aromas of eggs, toast, and coffee. To him, that would always smell like a good morning waiting to be met.
He carried his breakfast to an open seat at a nearby table. As usual, most of the junior officers made a point of giving the captain his space. Living together for months or even years in the close confines of a starship taught people to respect others’ boundaries. In that circumstance, sitting apart from someone wasn’t a sign of disfavor but a gesture of respect for their privacy.
As appetizing as his breakfast had seemed just a minute earlier, once Kirk sat down he found himself poking at the eggs and thinking they felt rubbery. The fruit cup tasted off, and the toast had gone cold more quickly than he’d expected. All in all, a disappointment.
At least the coffee’s still good. Thank heaven for that.
He sipped his java and thought once more about Commodore Decker—Matt. Kirk had nearly been forced to sacrifice himself in order to pilot the limping husk of the Starship Constellation inside the planet-killer and then trigger its self-destruct package, to cripple the alien machine from the inside. Thanks to the planet-killer’s neutronium outer hull, a suicide run had been deemed the only viable tactic for stopping it before it reached the Rigel colonies. But the Constellation had been Decker’s ship, and if anyone should have been there to pilot her to a noble ending, it should have been him. But Decker had snapped; he had succumbed to crushing guilt and threw away his life by flying a defenseless shuttle into the planet-killer.
So it had fallen to Kirk to guide the Constellation to its end, to trigger the self-destruct sequence that would turn it into a weapon against the unthinkable.
All to stop the mindless destruction of a technological nightmare that Kirk still could not believe any rational, advanced civilization would ever want to build. Who would make such a pitiless horror? Worse, who would unleash such a thing without some means of halting its rampage? The only solace he found in the matter was Spock’s conclusion, based on several factors, that the planet-killer had originated somewhere beyond the Milky Way galaxy. Perhaps in one of the Magellanic Cloud galaxies, or the Sagittarius Dwarf Elliptical, or perhaps even from somewhere in the great void of intergalactic space.
At least none of our neighbors in this galaxy have built anything like that. He sipped his coffee as his inner pessimist added, Yet.
The recorded subspace message downloaded to the terminal in Commander Spock’s quarters while he finished getting dressed. He was due on the bridge for first watch within the hour, but he was confident he still had sufficient time to procure some fruit and tea for breakfast.
A soft ping from the desk console informed him that the message was ready for playback. He pulled on his blue uniform tunic and smoothed its front, then pressed the PLAY button.
The face of his mother, Amanda Grayson, appeared on the small screen mounted to his desk. She appeared to be healthy and in good spirits, and she wore traditional Vulcan garb, as was expected of the wife of one of his homeworld’s most prominent diplomats.
“Hello, Spock.” Amanda started to smile but quickly reined in that human affectation. “I apologize for not having contacted you sooner, but your father’s schedule keeps us quite busy.”
Behind her Spock noted a plain terra cotta–hued bulkhead, a common feature aboard most modern Vulcan civilian vessels, and he presumed that she and his father, Sarek, must presently be traveling in connection with Sarek’s role as a Federation ambassador emeritus.
“As always, I’m precluded from saying where we’ve been, where we are, or where we’re going. Though I’m sure you could find that out if you really wanted to.”
She was correct, of course. As the first officer of a capital vessel in Starfleet, Spock had a high enough security clearance to obtain such information whenever it was needed. Though why he would want or need to abuse such a privilege to assuage a curiosity he did not feel with regard to his parents’ whereabouts, he could not imagine.
“In case you haven’t heard, your half-brother Sybok is still alive. Or at least he was, as of several weeks ago, when he and a dozen of his acolytes were expelled from Toroth Prime. Rumor has it he invoked your father’s name to escape charges of mass brainwashing.”
Spock appreciated the irony of Sybok trading on their father’s political status for favor, when he was likely the only person in the galaxy Sarek held in a deeper degree of contempt than that which he reserved for Spock.
Amanda’s tone acquired an edge. “Now, lest you think I’ve used up all my criticism on your sibling, I have a grievance of consequence with you, as well. I know your father and I can be difficult to reach at times, especially when he’s traveling on official Federation business, but that’s no excuse for failing to invite us home to Vulcan for your wedding, young man.”
A man with lesser control of his involuntary emotional responses might have flushed with anger or embarrassment at being rebuked in such a manner by his mother. Spock said nothing. To argue with a recording would be most illogical. He merely arched one eyebrow by the slightest measure and waited for Amanda’s message to continue.
“As I understand it, you returned to Vulcan last month because you’d finally experienced your first pon farr. Is that correct? I imagine that must have come as quite a surprise after all those medical opinions we heard in ShiKahr when you were young.”
Her reminiscence led Spock to confront an unpleasant memory from his first several years in Starfleet after receiving his commission. He had felt great embarrassment about not experiencing his first real pon farr in his early twenties, as most Vulcan men did. At the time Sarek had tried to console him by saying Spock should be grateful to avoid the indignity of a crude biological assault on his logical Vulcan mind. He had wanted Spock to believe that his body’s rejection of the pon farr was a blessing. As Spock had grown older, he had hoped the human half of his ancestry might spare him the exquisite agonies of the blood fever, or plak tow.
His mother’s countenance softened. “As I’m sure you’ve already surmised, I’m not really upset with you, Spock. Sarek and I both understand why you might have wanted to keep the news of your pon farr private, after all these years. And considering the deplorable behavior of T’Pring, and how close her scheme came to ending in tragedy for everyone involved, I think it perhaps was for the best that Sarek and I were off-world. Had we been present to witness what she did, I think your father might have momentarily found his logic to be… uncertain.”
Spock paused the message’s playback.
He appreciated Amanda’s talent for understatement. T’Pring, to whom Spock had been betrothed in a childhood ceremony decades earlier, apparently had harbored the same dashed hope as he had, that he would never experience pon farr or return to claim her as his mate. In her case it was because she had, in the time since they had last seen each other, found a new mate, Stonn. Consequently, she had invoked the koon-ut-kal-if-fee, or “marriage challenge by combat,” to permanently end her bond with Spock. In what Spock had to grudgingly admit was a masterstroke of logical cunning, she had designated not Stonn but Spock’s closest friend and commanding officer, James Kirk, as her champion in the kal-if-fee.
To claim his mate, Spock would have to kill his captain.
If he had won the challenge, he would have left Vulcan to be court-martialed, and T’Pring would have been free to be with Stonn. If Spock had died, Kirk would not have claimed her, and again she would have been free to resume her relationship with Stonn.
Her logic had been cold and unassailable.
Lost in the throes of the plak tow, Spock had been unable to stop himself from fulfilling his species’ biological imperative. Thankfully, a clever deception by Doctor McCoy had enabled Kirk to be legally dead for nearly two minutes but still able to be revived after being transported back to the Enterprise.
Believing his opponent in the kal-if-fee slain, Spock had been set free of the plak tow and the urges of pon farr. Expecting to face a court-martial for his actions, he had released T’Pring from their pledge and bade her and his homeworld farewell, for what he presumed might be the last time. Only after his own return to the Enterprise did he learn that Kirk was alive.
He remembered shouting “Jim!” with greater relief and joy than he had ever felt before. It had been only a momentary lapse in his control of his emotions, but Kirk had seen it, as had McCoy and Nurse Chapel. Spock’s elation had turned to self-consciousness and embarrassment, both of which he had struggled to conceal behind a mask of detachment.
It intrigued Spock to imagine Sarek’s emotional discipline lapsing in the face of T’Pring’s treachery. Despite Amanda’s assertion, he doubted Sarek would ever allow that to happen.
My father prizes his control far too much to ever succumb to base emotions.
But can I say the same?
Self-doubt plagued Spock, as if he were yoked beneath a terrible weight. His missions aboard the Enterprise, first under Captain Christopher Pike and now beside Captain Kirk, had subjected his mind to a great many unexpected invasions, violations, and traumas. How many times had his emotional control been tested and found wanting? How many more times might it happen again? What if he lost control of his dark side? The fusion of his Vulcan and human physiology had gifted him with a brain structure and neurochemistry that was truly unique. As savage as Vulcan emotions could be, Spock knew from years of introspection, meditation, and psychic training that the human components of his psyche were possibly even more violent, more dangerous, and more powerful than any Vulcan could imagine.
What if the darkness inside me someday takes control?
It was a possibility that filled Spock with trepidation. Until recently he might have dismissed such concerns as hypochondria. But until a month earlier he also had thought himself immune to the fires of the plak tow and the barbaric compulsions of pon farr. After everything he had endured from powers outside himself that had sought to control his mind, it had been primal forces from deep inside him that had reduced him to little more than a bloodthirsty animal.
Might such impulses continue to lurk in the shadows of my mind? How can I ask my shipmates to trust me when I am unsure whether I can trust myself?
He pressed PLAY to hear the rest of Amanda’s message.
“At any rate, Spock, your father and I heard how you and your shipmates resolved the matter, and we commend you all. You turned what might have been a tragedy into a victory”—she permitted herself a fleeting ghost of a smile—“but that’s always been your forte, hasn’t it?” A bittersweet sadness crossed her face like a passing cloud. “I love you, Spock. So until we meet again”—she raised her right hand to offer the Vulcan salute—“Live long and prosper, my son.”
Her image was replaced by blue laurels and stars on a field of white, the emblem of the United Federation of Planets, and then the screen went black and reverted to standby mode.
Live long and prosper, Mother. For both our sakes I will find a way to be the man you believe I am… whether Father believes me capable of such a feat or not.
Free time was a rarity aboard a starship, and the phenomenon known as the long lunch was rarer still. Determined not to waste a second of it, Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu and Ensign Pavel Chekov had rushed through their meals in the officers’ mess and then hurried down to the rec room to continue their epic match of three-dimensional chess. The gold-shirted young men had started the match the evening before but had been compelled to leave it unfinished when they’d realized they had barely reached the middle game shortly after 0100. Luckily for them, Petty Officer Chong, who was one of three noncoms who supervised the use of the rec room, agreed to make sure their game pieces would remain undisturbed until they completed their match.
Watching his young opponent from across the table, Sulu grinned. “Ready to resign?”
Chekov squinted at one level of the board and then another. “Never.” His heavy Russian accent and youthful timbre provided a dramatic contrast to Sulu’s rich baritone and flat American delivery. “I’ve got you right where I want you.”
“You want me to be two moves from putting your king in check?”
Sulu’s gentle verbal jab drew chuckles from the small crowd of the crew who had gathered to watch them face off in a game most of the crew associated with Spock or even Captain Kirk. Side talk and whispered wagers circled the table like a lazy breeze.
After several more seconds of procrastination, Chekov gently rotated the platform on which the three-level board was mounted. Perhaps he thought that looking at the game from a different angle might somehow change the rules or the relative positions of the pieces. Sulu was happy to let the ensign take all the time he wanted. It wasn’t going to change the outcome; he was sure he had left the young Russian no viable route to a counterattack.
Of course, that’s what I thought the last time I played Spock, and he wiped the floor with me. Then again, who am I kidding? Chekov is no Spock. If it weren’t for his bowl cut’s crazy bangs, I’d probably see creases forming in his forehead right now.
Chekov reached toward one game piece but stopped shy of touching it. Grimacing in frustration, he reached instead toward a different piece only to hesitate once more.
Sulu widened his grin. “There’s no shame in conceding.”
The mere suggestion seemed to offend Chekov. “Of course there is shame. There is always shame in losing.” He withdrew his hand from the pieces and curled it into a fist. “Would you consider calling it a draw?”
“I would not.”
Glowering at the board, Chekov muttered a string of Russian curses. After a heavy sigh, he said, “I will resign if you will tell me how you beat me.”
“Fair enough. You telegraphed your intentions from the start, by opening with the King’s Indian attack. You pressed a reckless attack during the middle game, even after I’d weakened your flank with an Aldabren exchange. When you committed to a Kriskov gambit, I knew you had to be desperate—no one uses a Kriskov gambit after both their rooks are gone. I neutered your late-game attack with an el-Mitra exchange, and from there it was just a mop-up job.”
With a tap of his index finger, Chekov knocked over his king on the middle board, signaling his surrender. “I hate you.”
“Don’t hate the player, Ensign, hate the game.”
The small crowd of spectators drifted away, some arranging for payment of wagers won or lost, others critiquing Sulu’s and Chekov’s respective strategies with all the confidence that comes from knowing the ending of the game and not having had to play any part of it.
Chekov glared as he shook his head at Sulu, but then he offered him his hand in congratulation. “Well played, Hikaru.”
Sulu shook his friend’s hand. “Thanks, Pavel. And seriously, you played a great game. It wouldn’t have lasted”—he looked over his shoulder to check the chrono on the bulkhead—“over six hours if you hadn’t. So I’m not kidding when I say, ‘You made me work for it.’ ”
“Kind of you to say. But next time I will not be so merciful.”
“Hang on. You’re not implying you let me win, are you?”
“I would never say such a thing…. But chess was invented in Russia.”
“I’m pretty sure it was invented in India.”
“But perfected in Russia.”
“No, adapted in southern Europe.”
“And then perfected in Russia.”
“I’m reasonably sure Russia had nothing to do with the creation of the game. Though I’ll grant there’s a long tradition of excellence in chess within the Russian culture.”
Chekov regarded him with a weary stare. “You can’t just let me have this?”
“If I do, Pavel, where does it end? I’ve heard you give credit for just about everything in human history to Russia. Next you’ll be telling me jazz was invented in Russia.”
“It was.” Somehow, Chekov had spoken those words without a trace of irony.
“You see, this is what I’m talking about.” Sulu stood from the table, and Chekov rose from his chair and followed him toward the rec room’s exit. “Name one good thing from Earth that you think wasn’t invented in Russia.”
The question gave Chekov a moment of pause. His pale expression brightened as he replied, “Haggis!”
“I said a good thing.”
“That’s not fair. Have you ever had haggis?”
Sulu stared in disbelief at Chekov. “Have you?”
The rec room’s door slid open before they reached it, and Doctor Leonard McCoy, the ship’s chief surgeon, strode in, looked around, and seemed to deflate. “I missed it, didn’t I?”
“Our match?” Chekov asked. “Da.”
Sulu nudged Chekov’s elbow and prompted him under his breath, “Yes.”
“That is what I said,” Chekov replied in a tense whisper.
McCoy folded his hands behind his back and shuffled his feet. “Damn. I had a few bets riding on this one. Mind telling me who won?”
Sulu cracked a prideful smile. “Who do you think, Doc?”
“So not the ‘Moscow Mule’ here?” He frowned in disappointment, then grumbled half to himself, “That’ll teach me to back the underdog.”
An electronic boatswain’s whistle shrilled from the room’s overhead speaker, and it was followed by Spock’s voice. “Attention, all decks: refueling operations have been completed. Stand by to decouple from the tanker Jamnagar. Senior officers, report to duty stations.”
“That’s our cue,” Sulu said. The three officers headed for the door.
Leading the way, McCoy asked over his shoulder, “When’s your rematch?”
Sulu smiled. “Soon.”
Chekov scowled. “When hell freezes over.”
Kirk scrawled his signature across the bottom of the data slate, confirming he had approved the transfer of antideuterium and dilithium from the Jamnagar, and then he handed the slate back to Yeoman Martha Landon. The tall young officer in an operations division red minidress wore her strawberry-blonde hair in a complicated style: it had been swept back from her brow and gathered in an elegant braided crown on the back of her head, from which spilled a long fall of more loosely braided golden tresses. It was an eye-catching style, judging by the attention Landon had garnered from her fellow officers during her recent visits to the Enterprise’s bridge.
Only one of those officers, however, seemed to command her attention. More than once when handing a data slate and stylus back to Yeoman Landon, Kirk had noted that she appeared to be distracted. On this occasion he was quick enough to catch the angle of her eye line and trace it back to the object of her interest: the ship’s boyish navigator, Ensign Pavel Chekov.
That surprised Kirk, though only slightly.
I would have sworn she’d been looking at Spock. Though I guess Mister Chekov would be a more age-appropriate romantic interest for Landon. To each their own, I suppose.
“Thank you, Yeoman,” Kirk said a bit louder than normal, to help break Chekov’s inexplicable spell over the woman.
Landon blinked and recovered her composure. “Aye, sir.”
She put away the stylus, tucked the data slate under her left arm, and headed for the turbolift. She paused to collect a data card from communications officer Lieutenant Nyota Uhura, whose flawless brown skin and elegantly coiffed crown of sable hair stood in bold contrast to Landon’s fawn complexion and flaxen hair.
From the forward dual console, Chekov tried to steal a furtive look at the departing yeoman, only to find himself looking into the steely, knowing eyes of his captain.
Not one to waste an opportunity to put ensigns through their paces, Kirk said, “Mister Chekov, have you finished your scan of the adjoining sectors?”
To the young man’s credit, he answered with cool professionalism, “Aye, Captain. No threat vessels or navigational hazards detected. The Jamnagar’s path home is clear.”
Kirk glanced at Spock, who confirmed Chekov’s report with a nod. “Very well. Lieutenant Uhura, please inform Jamnagar actual that she’s cleared to depart.”
Uhura lifted her right hand to the transceiver she wore in one ear. “Aye, sir. Relaying message now.” As she transmitted the message, another channel flashed on her console. She switched over to the second comm circuit, listened for a moment, and then looked at Kirk. “Captain, we’re receiving a live subspace communication from the office of Admiral Fitzpatrick at Starfleet Command, on a priority channel. Urgent.”
Kirk swiveled his command chair forward. “On-screen, Lieutenant.”
The image of the departing fuel tanker was replaced by a closely framed shot of Vice Admiral Theodore Fitzpatrick. He wore a gold command tunic adorned by a special insignia used only by the Admiralty. His ruddy, weathered face had jowls that were starting to sag, and his head was topped by a thinning layer of hair that once had been blond but now was turning silver. He wore the expression of a man who had long ago forgotten what it meant to be happy or content.
“Kirk! How’s your ship? I heard you took a bit of a beating last week.”
“Yes, sir. Our repairs are mostly complete, or at least as far along as they can be without a stop at a starbase.” The Enterprise’s battle with the planet-killer had happened only five days earlier, but Kirk saw nothing to be gained by correcting an admiral on so minor a point.
If Fitzpatrick actually gave a damn about the content of Kirk’s answer, he didn’t show it. “Splendid. I have new orders for you and your crew. A search-and-rescue mission.”
“Search-and-rescue, sir?” Kirk did his best to stay informed of events in any sector to which he was assigned. He hadn’t heard of any Starfleet ships or personnel going missing recently, but clandestine operations went wrong all the time.
“Affirmative, Captain. A civilian scientist, one Doctor Johron Verdo, a Zee-Magnees Prize–winning xenobiologist from Ardana.”
Spock looked up from the sciences console to interject, “I’ve read Doctor Verdo’s paper on recombinant xenogenetics. His work has been nothing less than revolutionary.”
Kirk nodded at that factoid and then returned his attention to the admiral. “What, exactly, were the circumstances of Doctor Verdo’s disappearance?”
“He left three weeks ago on a private research expedition with two of his senior associates: Doctor Mozhan Rashid of Mars, and Lofarras th’Sailash of Andoria. They were supposed to check in after reaching their destination, but according to Verdo’s people on Ardana, that message never came. Twenty-one hours ago, a brief and very weak distress signal was sent from Verdo’s ship, the S.S. Heyerdahl. Attempts to establish two-way contact failed, but the signal’s origin was confirmed as the equatorial region of planet Kolasi III.
“I want you to take the Enterprise to Kolasi III, mount a search-and-rescue operation for Doctor Verdo and his assistants, and recover as much of their research and data as possible.”
It was not Kirk’s nature to refuse direct orders, but something about this mission felt off. “Admiral, with all respect, wouldn’t a civilian agency be better suited to this mission? I fail to see why three missing civilians merit the diversion of a capital starship.”
His pushback prompted a grim nod from Fitzpatrick. “Normally, I’d agree, Kirk. But there are complicating factors that elevate this matter to one concerning Federation security.”
“Such as?”
Fitzpatrick’s face went from stern to exhausted, as if he had been hiding his fatigue. “First, the missing Doctor Verdo is the brother-in-law of Ardana’s representative on the Federation Council. Since she’s one of the more influential members of the security committee, we’re taking heat directly from the president’s office to find this man.
“Second, Kolasi III is a primitive Class-M world with a small pre-warp humanoid civilization—and it’s located inside the newly established Federation-Klingon Neutral Zone. So we’ve got both Prime Directive issues and treaty-violation problems to contend with. Not exactly the kind of thing I’d want to leave in the hands of amateurs.
“Obviously, proceed with discretion inside the Neutral Zone. But if the use of force becomes the only way to rescue Doctor Verdo and his people, and to save his research, do whatever you need to do and let the diplomats sort out the rest. Is that clear, Kirk?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“Then I suggest you get moving. Fitzpatrick out.” The admiral closed the channel, and the image on the main viewscreen reverted to the serenity of a wide-open vista of stars.
If only we could take a moment to enjoy this view, Kirk lamented.
“Helm, set course for Kolasi III, warp seven. Mister Spock, compile a mission dossier and gather all senior personnel in the briefing room in one hour. We have lives to save, and the clock is ticking.”