VII
The Enterprise was being prepped for departure as per standard procedure, but on the sealed interior cargo deck near where the shuttle docked, there was turmoil. Like a whirlwind trapped in place, this rotated around the ship’s chief engineer, who was railing loudly at a pair of patently unhappy but persistent security officers. The streamlined white-and-gray object of Scott’s consternation rested on a hover palette floating beside the two immovable visitors.
“No. Absolutely not. I’m not signing anything!” Angrily he passed a transparent info tablet back to the nearer of the two officers. “I’m not puttin’ me retina stamp on anything that’s a blind delivery, especially on behalf of a load like this!” With a glance, he indicated the hovering palette. Following his gaze, Kirk decided that he could sympathize with the chief engineer’s position.
The palette was stacked with gleaming photon torpedoes of a design and type unknown to him—the new weapon described by Admiral Marcus.
“Get those bloody things off my ship!” As Scott started to turn away from the unwanted cargo, he caught sight of the newly arrived Kirk. “Captain!”
Taking a deep breath and flanked by Spock, Kirk prepared to deal with the altercation.
“Mr. Scott,” he said calmly. “Is there a problem?”
“You bet your . . . !” The chief engineer calmed himself with an effort. “Aye, sir-there’s a ‘problem.’” He gestured forcefully in the direction of the two security officers. “I was just attempting to explain”—he glanced at Spock—“in the most calm and rational way possible, that I cannot authorize additional weapons comin’ aboard unless I know exactly what’s inside them.” He gestured at the palette and its coldly ominous load. “Especially when those weapons are of a new and unfamiliar type.”
“Mr. Scott raises another concern,” Spock began.
Kirk did not give the science officer an opportunity to elaborate. “Mr. Spock, report to the bridge. Now, if you please.”
“Yes, Captain.”
While his expression betrayed no reaction, the Vulcan’s body language indicated that he was unhappy with the summary dismissal. Nevertheless, he complied.
As soon as his first officer was out of earshot, Kirk turned back to his chief of engineering. “Mr. Scott, I understand your concerns, I sympathize with your position, and I admire your adherence to procedure-but we need those torpedoes on board.”
Scott was openly puzzled. “Pardon me, Captain, but—why? The Enterprise is fully armed. There’s not enough spare room in the weapons bay for a catapult, much less a load this size.”
Kirk smiled. “I’m sure you can find space, Mr. Scott.”
“It isn’t even that, sir. Photon torpedoes run on their own miniaturized drives, each specific to a type an’ model.” Once more he gestured at the palette’s heavy load. “But I kinna get a readin’ on any o’ these because their drive compartments are shielded. And the sections that are supposed to be open to inspection and repair are combination locked down. I could force one, but without knowin’ the specifics of what’s inside, I dinna think that’s an especially good idea. Not while the device in question is aboard ship, anyway.” He nodded at the nearest of the two security officers. “I asked to have the operational specs transferred over, and when I did”—the chief jerked a thumb at the man standing behind him—“he said—”
“It’s classified,” the officer finished for him.
“‘That’s classified,’” Scott echoed. “To which I said: No specs, no signature.” His voice turned pleading. “You talk to them, Captain. Try to make them see reason from an engineering standpoint. Each of these little ship-busting packages has its own drive. If I don’t know the specs on those drives, how am I supposed to be certain that when they’re activated, they won’t interfere with the Enterprise’s own drive, or some other critical component of the ship?”
“Come on, Scotty,” Kirk urged him. “D’you really think Starfleet would put a new type of torpedo on one of its vessels without first testing to make sure it wouldn’t cause any problems?”
“I’m sure they’ve tested it, Captain.” The chief drew himself up. “And just maybe me refusal to blindly accept them is part o’ that same testin’. I dinna know what tests Starfleet has run on them or with them, but I do know that none o’ them ’ave been run on the Enterprise, and I’m not ’avin’ those things on me ship unless I know what’s inside them besides maybe gerbils runnin’ nowhere inside little metal wheels!”
Sulu’s voice sounded from above. “Captain, the ship’s ready for departure on your orders.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sulu! Scotty—”
The chief took a step backward. “If you’ll excuse me, Captain, I’ve got a core to prime.” Looking to his right, he barked at his first assistant. Checking storage instructions imprinted on its topside, the stubby Roylan was straddling one of the torpedoes. “What are you bloody gapin’ at, Keenser? Get down!” Turning, he strode off toward Engineering with the silent alien ensign trailing behind and struggling to keep up. Thoughts churning, Kirk watched Scott in silence until he was interrupted by the senior of the two insistent security personnel.
“Captain? We need a decision regarding this cargo.”
“I know what you need. I’m trying to decide what I need. Stand by.”
Behind him, an unhappy McCoy looked up from his recorder. “Jim, these numbers aren’t good.”
Looking up the corridor, Kirk raised his voice. “Scotty . . . dammit!” When no response was forthcoming, he hurried off in the chief’s wake, leaving a more than usually perturbed McCoy behind.
Kirk did not catch up to Scott until he reached Engineering itself, at which point he just did manage to intercept the chief before he disappeared among the Enterprise’s imposing drive components. Unable to flee openly, Ensign Keenser had to content himself with keeping as clear as possible of the two senior officers.
“Mr. Scott, I need you to approve those new weapons. They have special properties that may prove essential to the success of our mission. We can’t leave without them, and as chief engineer, you’re the only one who can authorize their loading. I can countersign for them. So could Mr. Spock. But Security won’t relinquish them without your okay.”
The two men regarded each other for a long moment. Then Scott turned and pointed with deliberation. “D’you know what that is, Captain?”
Kirk did not bother to look in the indicated direction. “No, Mr. Scott. As captain of a starship, how could I possibly be familiar with her propulsion system? Let me think a moment now. Could you be referring to the ship’s food-processing facilities? Her hygienics systems? Or might you just possibly, just maybe, be indicating the warp core?” His tone hardened. “I don’t have time for a lecture, Scotty, especially about aspects of ship technology with which I am more than marginally familiar. We have to—”
“It’s not only the warp core, Captain: It’s a matter-antimatter catastrophe waiting to happen. I dinna know what kind of mini-drive propels those new torpedoes, but ’tis reasonable to assume they would be more powerful than those they replace. Or differently configured. Otherwise they wouldn’t be very ‘new,’ now would they?”
Kirk found himself hesitating. “Go on.”
“More powerful drives implies the use of more powerful magnetic containment fields for the intermix. Dependin’ on how they’re utilized and the nature of the payload they’re carryin’, they could generate a greater magnetic field shift when they’re activated than any earlier models. That could create an interaction with the main core’s containment fields. Consider, Captain: In a combat situation where all weapons are armed, we’d be dealin’ with six dozen photon torpedoes of a new type about whose individual drive containment fields I know nothing and to whose relevant specifications I am being denied access. If their activation interferes in any way with the core containment field, we could lose the ship.”
Kirk fought for patience. “Mr. Scott, do you still think Starfleet would let new weapons on a vessel if they hadn’t first been fully tested to ensure that such an event was impossible?”
“I guess I dinna ’ave your confidence in ground-based laboratory testin’, Captain. This whole mission is a rush job. The crew were rushed back to the ship, the ship is being rushed out of orbit, and these bloody bang-sticks are bein’ rushed on board.” He shook his head. “Maybe it’s a fault o’ me trainin’, but I’ve this congenital dislike o’ bein’ rushed. Especially when it involves new weapons systems and potential warp core breaches. Letting those things on the Enterprise is the last straw.”
Kirk frowned. “I’m missing something, Mr. Scott. What was the first straw?”
“What was . . . ?” The chief engineer struggled to contain himself. “There are plenty of straws. A middle straw was Starfleet confiscatin’ my transwarp equation and now some madman’s using it to hop across the galaxy. Where do you think he got it?”
Kirk was running out of time as well as patience. “Put your personal issues with Starfleet aside, Scotty. As you yourself just pointed out, this is not a typical mission. We have our orders.”
“That’s what scares me. The more atypical a job, the less I trust it. This is clearly a military operation. Those torpedoes make it so. C’mon, Captain. I mean, six dozen torpedoes? Of an entirely new type? In addition to our standard compliment of weaponry? Is this what we are now? Because I thought we were explorers, I thought we boldly went where no man has g—”
Knowing his chief engineer as well as he did, Kirk also knew this unresolved debate could go on for hours. He did not have hours. He was charged with taking the Enterprise out now. Nor did he want to linger and perhaps give Starfleet Command the opportunity to countermand Marcus’s directive. While he understood Scott’s position and empathized with his concern, he would not give in to it. Like everyone else on board, the chief would simply have to find a way to cope with an unusual situation.
“Mr. Scott, I’m not interesting in arguing the matter any further. Sign for the torpedoes. That’s an order.”
“An order, sir? You’re asking me to violate me own principles, t’go against me own judgment?”
“Don’t make such a major issue out of it, Scotty. It’s just a palette of new weaponry. Such deliveries are made all the time.”
“I kinna sign for them.” The chief folded his arms across his chest. “I’d be twa bubbles aff the center if I did.”
Kirk was equally adamant. “You will sign for them, Mr. Scott. You have no choice in this matter.”
“Is that so, Captain? You’re right about one thing: I do have no choice. No choice but t’resign me duties.”
It was the one response Kirk had not anticipated, and his surprise was evident. “Scotty. Come on, you can’t be serious.”
“As you say, you leave me no choice, Captain.”
More frustrated than angry, Kirk consulted his own quietly beeping information tablet. It was filling up fast with queries, requests, and demands for decisions only the ship’s captain could make. “You’re not leaving me a choice. I don’t have time—”
“D’you accept me resignation or not?”
Kirk tried one more time. “Will you as chief engineer sign for those torpedoes?”
“I will not.”
“Then I accept your resignation. You are relieved of duty, Mr. Scott.”
The chief looked shocked. This quickly gave way to a flush of anger, which he repressed, and finally to unabashed concern, which he did not.
“Jim—for the love a’ God, whatever happens, do not use those torpedoes.”
With that, Scott handed over his work tablet, turned, and strode away without so much as a backward glance. He did, however, throw a murderous glare in the direction of Keenser. There being no need for additional explanation of the chief engineer’s mood or meaning, Keenser likewise turned in his tablet and fell in beside his superior.
Kirk was left to wonder what he had just done. There wasn’t a better chief engineer in Starfleet than Montgomery Scott, and he had just accepted the older man’s resignation. Where was he going to find even a halfway suitable replacement? He had only moments in which to do so, not days or weeks. Even a competent chief would need time to familiarize himself with the Enterprise. Though platforms were unified across classes of ships, each vessel had its own peculiarities, its own modifications and upgrades that were specific to it. Furthermore, if he put in a request now, scarcely moments before scheduled departure, Starfleet was going to want to know why. Conflict between a captain and his chief engineer was unlikely to inspire confidence, and if word of Scott’s resignation got out, it might jeopardize the entire mission.
What was it Marcus had recalled that Pike had said about James T. Kirk? That he was impetuous? Had he just demonstrated that particular flaw?
Time. Dammit, he had no time. Especially for nonsense like this. No matter the nature of a mission, insubordination could not be tolerated. Not even from Montgomery Scott. He had given his chief engineer a direct order, and it had been rebuffed. Despite what he believed, it was Scott who had been the one with choices. In contrast, Kirk had none.
Lieutenant Uhura fell in step alongside Kirk as he made his way toward the bridge. Around them, commotion was turning to order as more and more of the crew reached their stations and settled into departure mode.
“Captain, I’m so sorry about Admiral Pike.” She was eyeing him intently. He did not return her stare.
“Thank you for your concern, Lieutenant. We all are.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine, thank you, Lieutenant. Just a lot on my mind. The usual pre-departure concerns.”
He increased his pace, and she had to walk faster to keep from being left behind as they stepped into the turbolift.
Once he was sequestered in the lift with his chief communications officer, something prompted Kirk to unburden himself.
“Actually, Scotty just quit. As if that wasn’t bad enough, your boyfriend is second-guessing me every chance he gets.” At the look on her face, he was sufficiently abashed to add, “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate. But he’s so damn cold and removed and above it all. He’s as affected as anyone else by what happens, but he doesn’t bat an eye. Just occasionally raises a brow. Sometimes I just want to rip the bangs off his head. Sometimes I think our minds are on exactly the same track, and then when I look around, I’m heading one way and he’s going the other. I can’t have a first officer who’s always secondguessing me.”
“Isn’t that part of his job? Isn’t that the reason there are first officers? If all he has to do is say ‘yes’ to every one of your decisions, you don’t need an intelligent second-in-command for that. A small machine with an endlessly repeating verbal loop will work just as well and won’t argue with you.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Kirk snapped. “What I mean is—oh hell, maybe it’s not Spock at all. Maybe it’s me. I’m still new at this. I mean, I doubt it’s me, but maybe it’s me.”
“As long as it doesn’t affect your usual unshakable confidence.” When he didn’t respond to her gentle dig, she added tiredly, “It’s not you.”
“It’s not?” Her tone moved him to think of something besides himself. “Wait—are you guys in a fight?”
Turning away from him, she focused her attention on the turbolift wall. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Do you guys fight? How does that work? Do you take a swing at him and he responds with five minutes of logical disquisition on why your primitive physical reaction was irrational and unproductive? Or do—?”
Before he could finish, the doors opened to reveal none other than the first officer of the Enterprise.
“Ears burning?” Kirk ventured pleasantly.
In response, the science officer eyed the captain uncertainly, but said nothing.
Time, Kirk told himself as he crossed the bridge to Chekov’s station. He was always running out of time.
“Mr. Chekov. I know that you’ve made it a project of yours to shadow Mr. Scott and his work.” He smiled encouragingly. “A genius like yourself gets bored easily.”
The young navigator looked pleased, but a tad bewildered. “Uh, thank you, Keptin.”
“Admiral Pike himself once called you a whiz kid.” Kirk turned momentarily nostalgic. “I had to look up what that meant. Anyway,” he continued brightly, “I gather that it means you’re familiar with the engineering systems of this ship.”
“Affirmative, sir.” Chekov indicated his station and its abundance of readouts. “It’s not that Navigation isn’t fulfilling all by itself; it’s only that in my spare time—”
“Your spare time has been put to good use. You’re my new chief engineer. Go put on a red shirt.”
Chekov hesitated. “Keptin, when I said that in my spare time I—”
“Are you reasonably familiar with the Enterprise’s engineering and drive systems or not?”
“Reasonably familiar.” Chekov murmured something to himself, then rose. “I suppose I have to answer in the affirmative, Keptin. But before I move to Engineering, may I ask what happened to Mr. Sco—”
“No, you may not.” Kirk’s response was quick and unyielding. “Report to your new duty station, Mr. Chekov. If anyone in Engineering has any questions about your move, you may refer them directly to me.”
“Aye, Keptin.”
“And Mr. Chekov, one more thing.” The ensign paused expectantly. “On your way to Engineering, I need you to stop in the cargo bay. There’s a load of new torpedoes there that needs to be signed aboard. As acting chief engineer, you’ll need to take care of that. Inform me as soon as this has been done and the delivery team has disembarked.”
“Certainly, Keptin. I’ll attend to it immediately.”
Chekov was as good as his word. It was mere minutes later that Kirk received the notification for which he had been waiting and that had caused him so much grief. If only Scotty had . . . He put all thoughts of the disheartening confrontation out of his mind. Too much else demanded his attention. He turned to face the helm station.
“Retract all moorings, Mr. Sulu. Inform Dock Command that we’re getting under way and transmit the usual exit information. We’ve been cleared for departure for over an hour, and we’ve spent enough time sitting here.”
“Working, Captain,” Sulu told him.
“Mr. Chekov, how are things looking down there?”
Chekov’s reply was encouraging, if not entirely confident. “All systems normal, Keptin.”
“Copy that.”
“Warp available at your command,” Chekov added.
“Thank you, Mr. Chekov.” Kirk addressed his helmsman without looking at him. “All right, let’s ride.”
“Yes, sir,” Sulu replied.
Instruments shunted commands. Monitors reported conditions. Matter was annihilated, and the Enterprise vanished from the vicinity of Earth.
Kirk continued dispensing commands. “Uhura, give me shipwide.”
“Channel open, sir,” she replied after complying.
Feeling much more confident now that he was dealing with straightforward matters of command instead of the far more complex business of interpersonal relations and individual introspection, Kirk leaned forward just enough for the command chair to recognize his voice and separate it from the rest of the softer-voiced conversation on the bridge.
“Attention, crew of the Enterprise. This is the captain speaking. As most of you know by now, through official channels or otherwise, Christopher Pike, the former captain of this ship and our friend, is dead.” For those who had not yet heard, he paused a moment to let that sink in. “The man who killed him has fled our system and is hiding on the Klingon homeworld—somewhere he believes we are unwilling to go. We’re on our way there now.”
If some of the crew had been listening nonchalantly to the captain’s departure address, to a man and woman and off-worlder, they now ceased what they were doing and turned their full attention to the words that seemed directed at each and every one of them individually.
“Per Admiral Marcus, it is essential that our presence go undetected,” Kirk continued. “Tensions between the Federation and the Klingon Empire have been high from the time of first contact and have in no way subsided since. Any direct provocation could lead to all-out war. Each of us should strive to see that does not happen. We will carry out our mission in secret and as swiftly as possible, before our presence can be noted and our ship identified.” He started to sit back, paused, and added, “These are our orders.”
As he started to recline, he caught sight of Spock. From his position at the Science station, the first officer was eyeing him with as blatant a look of disapproval as a Vulcan could manage. Kirk’s first instinct was to ignore it entirely. That was when some recent words of Uhura’s came back to him. No harm, he told himself, in admitting to uncertainty—as long as the admission was made to oneself.
“All right. Let’s go get this sonuvabitch.”
Throughout the Enterprise, expressions hardened and activity quickened. There were even a few spontaneous cheers. Nothing of the kind emanated from sickbay, however, as McCoy finished running the last pre-departure checkouts of personnel and equipment.
“Great,” he grumbled to no one in particular. “I’m told Qo’noS is delightful this time of year. And the Klingons are famous for their hospitality.”
The biography Spock was perusing as he sat at his station was not especially long. This was understandable, given the age of its subject. Despite its brevity, it was impressive. Certain details he noted and committed to memory with particular interest. They were not, however, the ones that would normally have attracted the attention of the casual browser. With a slight frown, he dismissed the readout as soon as he had finished it, rose, and headed for the turbolift.
From the other side of the bridge, Uhura watched him leave. Ever since they had left Earth, the science officer had been more than usually preoccupied. Which for Spock meant that he was essentially noncommunicative. Whatever was on his mind was evidently not for sharing, since he hadn’t mentioned the subject of his new preoccupation to her or, as far as she could tell, anyone else.
That included McCoy, who in passing Spock acknowledged with a cursory, “Doctor.” He did not look up from whatever unknown held his attention, not even when McCoy responded curiously.
“Where are you running off to?” The older man gestured toward the now-unoccupied Science station. “We’re hardly under way and . . .”
But the first officer was gone, swallowed up by the turbolift and whatever was preying upon his mind. McCoy stared after him. It wasn’t like the Vulcan not to react to a direct query without at least a minimal reply, even if only an acerbic one. The doctor considered going after him, then shrugged. If it were something Spock wanted to talk about, he would broach the subject when it suited him. If it were something to be kept private, neither McCoy nor Kirk nor a small thermonuclear device would be able to pry it out of him.
No one questioned Spock’s presence in the lower levels, where senior bridge officers were rarely encountered when a starship was in warp. A few glanced his way as he passed, but the Vulcan’s stolid countenance was intimidating even to older crewmembers. If he needed help, they knew he would ask for it—even though Spock had never done so.
Having not yet been transferred to the weapons bay, the load of new torpedoes rested where they had been placed immediately following delivery. At present, they were being scanned by a science tricorder wielded by a lone officer. The expression on her face suggested that she was not comfortable with the uninformative readouts her instrument was generating. There was much here that required explanation, she had soon realized. She turned to leave. Proper inspection would require . . .
“Mr. Spock—you startled me!”
The Vulcan had come up quietly behind his counterpart. His gaze flicked tellingly from Carol Wallace to the load of torpedoes and back again, eventually settling on the device in her hand.
“What are you doing, Doctor?”
She mustered a reassuring smile. “Verifying that the new weapons’ internal guidance systems are online and updated with the latest celestial mapping coordinates. That’s critical if there’s a chance they might be utilized in non-Federation space, because—”
Spock cut her off. “I am quite familiar with the navigational properties and functions of all classes of photon torpedoes, Doctor. You misunderstand. What are you doing aboard this ship?”
She blinked at him, the smile fading. “You’re right, Mr. Spock—I do misunderstand your question.”
“Then I shall endeavor to elucidate. There is no record in the official personnel files of your being assigned to the Enterprise.”
A half-laugh rose from her throat. “Of all the ridiculous . . . I believe there must be some sort of mistake.”
Polite but relentless, her interrogator nodded in agreement. “My conclusion as well, Dr. Marcus. In addition, it would appear that you have lied about your identity. A serious charge, unless one discounts the source—and possibly as-yet-unrevealed reasons. Wallace is the surname of your mother. I have done some research, and I believe I can only assume that the admiral is your father.”
Hand and identity caught in the proverbial cookie jar, she dropped all pretense at deception. “I’d heard that you were the most persistent science officer in the fleet.”
“My interests are not dissuaded by oblique attempts at flattery, if that is your intention. Aside from the fact of your assignment to this ship via other-than-normal channels, what is the point of this subterfuge?”
She shrugged, sounding tired. “I didn’t want any special treatment.”
“Ironic, considering you are receiving precisely that. Your mere presence on this ship smacks of special treatment. I still fail to understand why.”
She opened up to him as much as she felt that she could. “Mr. Spock, my relationship with my father is . . . complicated. I know I have no right to ask this, especially since my presence here probably comprises a list of procedural violations as long as your arm, but please—he can’t know I’m here.”
An eyebrow lifted. “It was my assumption that he would have been the one to ‘pull strings’ in order to place you on the ship without going through the usual procedures. You are telling me that is not the case?”
“No. I—”
“Why are you here, Lieutenant?”
She started to explain and might have succeeded had the ship not slammed to a stop.