Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (10 page)

Talbot’s eyes blazed suddenly with a look that was familiar: Caithlin had seen that look before, that light of fanaticism, in the Vulcan’s eyes.

“You mustn’t be afraid of him, Caithlin.” Talbot’s voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “Sybok is our friend. He’s here to help us, to give our lives meaning again. Trust him, and it will be easier.”

“Trust him!” she said. The look on Talbot’s face chilled her; she rubbed her upper arms to warm them. “You’ve been brainwashed, Consul. What did he use on you? Drugs? A sifter?” Whatever it was, death would be preferable.”

Talbot chuckled sadly. “Ah, my dear, I can see you don’t believe me. “No matter . . . You’ll understand soon enough. I’ve been sent to take you to him.”

It was Caithlin’s turn to scoff. “I suppose you think if you ask politely, I’ll go with you.”

“Not at all,” Talbot answered pleasantly. He produced a small pistol and aimed it squarely at Caithlin’s forehead. “Rise and accompany me, Miss Dar, or I shall certainly scatter your brains all over this table . . . and Korrd wouldn’t appreciate having his nap interrupted, would he?”

“Get that damn light out of my face!” McCoy mumbled, swatting at it as if it were a fly. He was nestled comfortably in the soft recesses of his sleeping bag with the top cover pulled up to the tip of his nose. After dinner—and several more shots of bourbon—he had fallen into a deep, blissful sleep . . . only to be awakened by the horrifying vision of Jim Kirk diving head first down the side of El Capitan while the doctor stood by helplessly and cursed Jim for his suicidal recklessness.

It had taken time for the panic of the dream to subside, for McCoy to get his heartbeat back to
normal and settle into sleep again—at least an hour, probably more, while he lay awake and listened to the cries of wild nocturnal creatures, and the sounds of Jim’s snoring and Spock’s steady, rhythmical breathing.

He was therefore more than a little irritable when someone had the nerve to shine a flashlight right in his eyes.
“Dammit!”
McCoy swore again, when the light did not abate. Surrendering finally to consciousness, he struggled to a sitting position and opened his eyes.

He immediately squinted and put a hand up to shield them. The sight was eerie. . . . It wasn’t a flashlight at all, but a giant beam of light, as large as a man, and from its center, a dark figure in silhouette emerged.

McCoy sucked in a breath. For a minute, he hoped he was having another nightmare, and then he recognized the figure as it stepped forward out of the glare.

“Sorry, sirs,” Uhura said. She was in uniform—not, McCoy realized even in his stupor, a good omen. The light behind her came from the shuttlecraft. “Mr. Scott apologizes for having to send the shuttlecraft, but the transporter beam is still nonoperational. Captain, we’ve received important orders from Starfleet.”

Both Jim and Spock were sitting up in their sleeping bags. The Vulcan was perfectly groomed—
How the hell does he do it?
McCoy wondered—as if he hadn’t slept a wink. Jim, on the other hand, looked as disheveled and disoriented as the doctor felt. As Uhura spoke, Kirk frowned and ran a hand through his tousled hair.

“Then why didn’t you beep my communicator, Commander?” he asked.

The corner of her mouth twitched wryly as she answered, “Sir, you forgot to take it with you.” She bent down, out of the glow of the shuttlecraft lights, to hand it to him.

“Ah.” Kirk grinned sheepishly at her; he hadn’t, the doctor knew, forgotten it at all, though Uhura was too tactful to suggest otherwise. “Wonder why I did that?” He turned to Spock and McCoy, his tone abruptly official. “Well, gentlemen, it appears shore leave’s been canceled. Pack out your trash.”

“Hallelujah,” McCoy sighed, and ignored Jim’s puzzled glare. The doctor was sorry to leave Yosemite’s breathtaking wilderness—it renewed a part of him, made it far less painful for him to return to the narrow confines of the ship—but at least this way, he wouldn’t have to watch Jim fall off the side of a cliff in the morning. This way, at least, they could all return to the
Enterprise,
and be safe.

A
S THE SHUTTLECRAFT
Galileo 5
neared its destination, Uhura snapped on the main viewscreen for the benefit of the three passengers. It was a spectacular view.

Kirk drew in a slow breath at the sight:
Enterprise,
suspended in space, sleek and radiant against the backdrop of a full moon. For a moment, Jim allowed himself to forget that she was only a replacement, and an ill-prepared one at that. He felt moved to poetry.

“ ‘And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.’”

McCoy, seated on Kirk’s right, gave him a quizzical look as if to say,
Have you already forgotten our little conversation? That’s not
Enterprise,
that’s an impostor.
But the sight of her hull, glistening with moonlight, seemed to silence all complaints for the moment. The doctor merely said, “Melville, isn’t it?”

Jim was hard-pressed to remember.

“John Masefield,” Spock corrected. The Vulcan sat on Jim’s left, leaving Jim between the two opponents. Jim opted to stay out of the discussion, and said nothing. Spock was probably right, as usual, but McCoy leaned forward to challenge him.

“You sure about that?” The doctor eyed Spock suspiciously.

“’I must down to the seas again,’ “ the Vulcan quoted,” ’to the lonely sea and the sky, and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.’ John Masefield, ’Sea Fever,’ 1902, Old Earth Date. I am well versed in the classics, Doctor.”

“Oh, yeah? Then how come you don’t know ’Row Your Boat’?”

It was a question for which Spock did not have an answer.

Jim smiled faintly but kept his gaze directed ahead at the viewscreen. Outwardly, at least, the vessel appeared to be the
Enterprise;
certainly the sight had moved him as if she were. Perhaps he had been immature to resent the new ship....

“Ready for landing maneuver,” Uhura said at the pilot’s console.
“Enterprise,
you have control.”

“And God help us all,” McCoy muttered under his breath.

Sulu’s voice replied. “Roger,
Galileo Five.
Open bay door. Transfer power to the tractor beam.”

Both Sulu and Chekov had taken a temporary reduction in rank to serve under Kirk, and Jim felt more than a few gangs of guilt about that. Sulu had deserved a ship of his own for a long time, but as he had pointed out to Kirk, he did precisely what he
wanted to, and if Kirk did not want to make use of his services, he had only to turn down Sulu’s request.

Jim couldn’t bring himself to do it. Sulu was one of the best helmsmen in the Fleet if not
the
best, Chekov one of the best navigators. Refusing them would only serve to engender ill will. . . or at least, so Jim convinced himself. Yet he couldn’t quite shake the lingering guilt.

Enterprise
loomed larger on the viewscreen as the tractor beam took control and eased
Galileo 5
toward the landing bay entrance. The great doors parted; the shuttlecraft was pulled smoothly inside the larger vessel. Within seconds, the craft glided to an uneventful landing.

Next to Jim, McCoy let out a shaky breath.

Uhura opened the hatch and led the rest of them out of the craft. Jim’s illusion that he was returning home to the old
Enterprise
abruptly dissolved. The large bay was cluttered with debris and virtually deserted, save for a couple of repair workers scurrying across the deck.

Engineer Scott appeared, out of breath, exhausted, clad in grimy coveralls. Dark circles showed under his bloodshot eyes; he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.

“Captain!” he said, with unexpected energy. “Sirs! I’m afraid no one was available to greet you.” He made a sweeping gesture at his attire. “Sorry, this isna exactly an honor guard uniform, though I suspect it’s the uniform of the day.”

“It’s all right, Engineer.” Kirk dismissed it with a wave, impatient to ask the question that had been bothering him. “So the transporters are still out. How about the rest of her? Is she spaceworthy?”

Scott tilted his head and rolled his eyes. “All I can say, sir, is that they don’t make ’em like they used to.”

Kirk did not smile. “Mr. Scott, you told me you could have the ship operational in two weeks. I gave you three. What happened?”

Scott’s enthusiasm disappeared. He pondered the captain’s question seriously for a minute, then answered, “In all honesty, I think you gave me too much time, Captain.”

Too much time,
Kirk almost repeated, until he realized he was being had. He repressed a smile. “Very well, Mr. Scott. Carry on.”

“Aye, sir,” Scott sighed, but there was a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “No rest for the weary.” He headed off. Jim and the others made their way for the turbolift.

“I thought it was no rest for the
wicked,”
McCoy remarked.

“I doubt Scotty would appreciate the implication.” Jim glanced over at the engineer, who was waving an instrument at an unfortunate crewman bent over a console at the other side of the bay.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Scott scolded him in the most paternal of tones. “The right tool for the right job!”

Jim stepped into the lift, where Uhura and the others were already waiting.

McCoy nodded in Scott’s direction. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him happier.”

“You could be right,” Jim said. “He can’t complain that he doesn’t have the challenge of his life.”

“Level, please,” the computer slurred drunkenly.

Kirk exchanged uncertain looks with Uhura and
the doctor. Even Spock seemed mildly perturbed. “Bridge. I hope.”

The lift doors closed with a distinctly unreassuring grinding sound. Jim braced himself.

Fortunately, the lift rose smoothly upward.

He sighed and stretched his stiff muscles, which still ached after his fall from El Capitan. “I could sure use a hot shower.”

“Yes,” Spock agreed behind him. McCoy snorted.

They made it in one piece to the bridge, but only the left door slid open. The right stayed put—and McCoy walked into it He bounced off and gingerly rubbed his nose. “For God’s sake … ”

“Doesn’t
anything
work on this ship?” Kirk asked in disgust, as he stepped onto the bridge.

No one answered. The bridge was a pathetic mess. With the exception of two coverall-clad repair workers, Hikaru Sulu was the only crewman present.

Uhura and Spock moved to their stations without comment, but McCoy was indignant. “Starfleet’s got some nerve sending us out in this condition. Why, this ship’s a virtual ghost town.”

Sulu was scrunched down beneath the helm, frowning up at a couple of exposed circuits. At the sight of Kirk and the others, he got to his feet and snapped to attention. “Sirs! Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Commander.” Kirk nodded at the helm. “Don’t tell me that isn’t working, either, or we’ll never get out of here.”

Sulu answered with a cheerfulness that sounded forced. “Oh, it’s working, Captain, or she’d never have gotten out of spacedock. It’s working.” He
paused a beat, then added as an afterthought, “Pretty much.”

“Pretty much,” Kirk repeated skeptically. He walked over to the conn.

“Captain.” Uhura, already seated at the communications board, swiveled to give him a glance. “Ready for Starfleet transmission.”

As if on cue, one of the workers began drilling to remove more access panels. Jim raised his voice over the high-pitched whine. “Could we have a little quiet, please?” The embarrassed worker stopped the noise at once.

“Thank you.” Kirk turned to Uhura. “On the main screen, Commander.”

Uhura complied. An image began to coalesce—the face and shoulders of a Starfleet admiral—but before it formed completely, it blurred and began breaking up.

“Am I on?” the image asked uncertainly, and leaned forward. The sound, at least, was clear. Jim was sure that the voice was that of Bob Caflisch, an admiral with whom he’d served at Starfleet Command. Ironically, Kirk had been a grade above Caflisch in rank at the time; now the situation was reversed, and Caflisch was Kirk’s superior.

“Bob?” Jim took a step closer to the screen.

Bob seemed not to hear; at any rate, he did not respond.
“Enterprise,
this is Starfleet Operations.” The image suddenly cleared. Caflisch had bristly salt-and-pepper hair, a narrow, olive-skinned face, and a mysterious tendency to squint despite his 20/20 vision. He did so now as he peered at the screen. “Jim,
is that you?” He smiled crookedly. “You’re dressing rather informally these days, I see.”

Jim glanced down at himself and remembered he was still wearing the overripe camping jacket. He shrugged. “You know how it is, Bob. You caught me on the way to the shower.”

“Look, I’m sorry to interrupt your shore leave, but we’ve got a very dangerous situation brewing on Nimbus Three.”

“You mean the Planet of Galactic Peace?”

“The very same.” Caflisch’s thin lips twisted at the irony. “From what we can make out, a terrorist force has captured the only settlement and taken the Klingon, Romulan, and Federation consuls hostage.” He paused. “Now, I realize
Enterprise
isn’t completely up to specs—”

“That’s quite an understatement, Bob. With all respect,
Enterprise
is a disaster. There must be other ships in this quadrant—”

“Other ships, but no experienced commanders. For this, Captain, we need Jim Kirk and his crew.”

Kirk sighed. “Bob, God knows I appreciate the compliment, but we’re at a grave disadvantage here. To begin with, we don’t even have a full crew complement.”

Caflisch’s tone cooled. “That’s the way it is, Captain.”

Starfleet had apparently made up its mind, Kirk yielded, but not graciously. “Very well, Admiral. Go ahead.”

“Your orders are to proceed to Nimbus Three, assess the situation, and avoid confrontation if at all
possible. Above all, you’ve got to get those hostages out safely.”

An unpleasant realization struck Jim. “What about the Klingons . . . and the Romulans?”