Open Writing

Each member of the crew spent the next ninety days in a variety of ways. Since just the seven of them manned the ship, they were together a great deal of the time; consequently, much of their off-duty time was spent in solitary isolation as the galaxy flashed by. Such was the skill of Montgomery Scott that the ship’s engines never once faltered, and the Enterprise continued on its way, totally unaffected by the speed records she was setting almost daily.

Occasionally, they did get together, in pairs or sometimes a larger group, sometimes to play poker in Scotty’s or McCoy’s cabin, mah-jongg in Sulu’s; to watch old movies with Chekov or simply just to talk anywhere. But most of all they valued the time they spent alone, away from the responsibilities and duties connected with the ship. Alone with the things they had seldom been able to find the time for while on active duty, but which they now had in abundance.

*

Hikaru Sulu, wearing only a loincloth and a headband, body lightly oiled and glistening with sweat, faced his holographic opponent and took up the standard quarte-guard position. Sulu’s cabin had been fitted out to resemble a Japanese dojo, with tatami mats on the floor and rice paper screens separating the various compartments. Replicated oil lamps burned in the corners; delicate samisen music played faintly, and there was a scent of sandalwood in the air.

His adversary, generated by the ship’s computer, recorded any hits made against it, while points scored against Sulu were similarly recorded. The man-shaped figure hummed with electronic life, and Sulu gripped his saber lightly but firmly in the palm of his hand, holding it between thumb and forefinger, with the little finger giving support. Sulu considered the saber to be the most difficult of all the swords to master, even more so than the ancient Japanese sword of his samurai ancestors, and he took a quiet pride in his proficiency, although of course he would never allow his pride to show.

Hikaru was under no illusions as to why he was here; he had followed James Kirk around the known galaxy for more than twenty years, gaining experience while nurturing his own ambition. He had moved steadily up through the levels of Star Fleet, reaching at last the exalted rank of captain. Now, he had his own command, the Excelsior, flagship of the Fleet. Like Kirk, Sulu had risen to become the number one captain in Star Fleet; an admiralty was rumored to be not far away.

But Hikaru Sulu had ambitions that reached far beyond that of a simple soldier. For several years, he had been nursing a secret desire to involve himself more deeply in the workings of the Federation, at a more political level. A few more years, he had decided. Get the promotion, spend a few years at the top, put out feelers to the political people, and let them know I’m interested. They’ll jump at having a former admiral of Star Fleet on the Federation council. Then, who knows? Maybe even the Presidency wouldn’t be too grand an aspiration.

His opponent made an opening thrust, followed by a cut, and Sulu parried them both easily. He had programmed the computer to provide him with a difficult opponent, and these were but the opening moves. Following his parries, Sulu responded with several cuts and thrusts of his own, which the computer parried in copybook fashion. The computer, in theory, knew everything there was to know about the noble art of fencing, and the Asian put thoughts of political ambition, for the moment, out of his mind.

He knew he would have to be very good indeed to defeat the program; still, he was confident. Not for nothing was he Star Fleet saber champion for the last seven years, and he looked forward to an enjoyable match.

*

Montgomery Scott lay on his bunk in his cabin in the engineering section of the ship. He was scanning a disc he had picked up just before they had left earth detailing the latest advances in Trans-warp technology; as always, the technical manuals remained his favorite reading matter. A music disc of ancient Scottish airs played softly on the room’s audio system, and Scotty hummed along lightly with the music. A heavy crystal glass of one hundred-year-old single malt Scotch whiskey sat on the table beside the bunk, and he felt content for the first time in three years as he took a sip and smacked his lips in satisfaction.

Montgomery Scott had never married; he, along with the captain and most of the others believed that people like them should never have families. Instead, the closeness they felt towards each other meant that they were, in effect, each other’s family. Consequently, he had, not very far into his retirement, felt at a complete loss, almost overwhelmed with a feeling of ‘What am I going to do now?’

Now, he was back where he belonged, back in the place he never should have left, hence his contentment. In his younger days, the Scotsman had enjoyed a considerable reputation as something of a hellraiser; not quite a girl in every port, but close. Then, as he grew older, the need for female companionship diminished until, by the time he left Star Fleet, he did not feel the need for any company in the lodge on Loch Ness. Well, almost none, anyway.

But even seemingly confirmed bachelors sometimes have their secrets of the heart, and such was the case with Montgomery Scott. Gentleman that he was, he had kept his for many years, and would probably go on keeping it until the day he died, be that day near or far off. For a moment, his attention strayed from the normally engrossing technical manual to the object of his secret desires. Aye, but she was bonny. For the thousandth time, he wondered if he would ever find the courage to tell her to her face.

Then he shook his head, muttered “Och, ye daft auld bugger,” and concentrated again on the disc.

*

Pavel Chekov was also in his quarters watching a disc, although its content differed greatly from that being enjoyed by the chief engineer. Instead of dry statistics and mathematical formulae, the Russian’s cabin resounded to gunshots, hoofbeats and the roar of engines as a famous adventuring archeologist battled the evil Nazis and the forces of darkness.

Chekov loved all the old movies from the last three hundred years, but his favorites were those of the twentieth century, the so-called “Golden Age” of cinema. He had discs of many of these films in his personal gear and he watched them often, alone in his cabin. Many an evening would find him, an icy glass of thick, treacley vodka at his elbow, immersing himself in the adventures of his heroes.

For Pavel Andreievitch also had a secret, although his, unlike that of the chief engineer, did not involve matters of the heart. Instead, the boy from east of the Urals, from a farm on the outskirts of the Siberian city of Novosibirsk was, in his most secret fantasies, a Cossack.

A student of horsemanship since boyhood, when he was singled out from a thousand of his classmates and sent to the Star Fleet Academy, Chekov loved anything to do with horses, and his romantic Russian nature saw to it that he always championed the lone adventurer battling impossible odds.

Star Wars, the Indiana Jones films and the great John Wayne were his personal favorites, especially “The Duke” as Davy Crockett at the Alamo. While pursuing his career in Star Fleet, Pavel Andreievitch had not had much time to pursue his love of the equestrian arts, but he made time in his infrequent shore leave visits to his parent’s farm at Cerbenko, on the shores of the Novosibirsk reservoir. There he could be what he knew, in another life, he might well have been happy being; a simple horse wrangler, helping his father Andrei tame the wild horses captured from the steppes, preparing them for sale at the yards in the city.

But another call had come for Pavel, a call he could not let go unanswered. As big and far-ranging as the steppes were, even they could not compare to the galaxy, with its myriad worlds and unknown adventures. And so he had left Russia to find his star among the countless other stars, and although he occasionally looked back with a certain wistfulness, he had never regretted his decision.

To preserve the memory of his home, Chekov had cultivated his Russian accent, although he could speak nearly flawless English when he wished. Throughout his career, he had clung stubbornly to his ancestry, never forgetting the roots from whence he came. When he had finally gained his own command, he had staffed the Gorbachev with officers of similar background to himself, and Russian was spoken at least as much as English was on her bridge.

Three years of missions as a starship captain had left him with little time for daydreams, but now he found that he had that time, and to spare. He lifted the small, chunky shot-glass and tossed its contents to the back of his throat, then settled back to enjoy the movie. On the screen, Indy and some bearded Scotsman were tied to a chair in a burning castle, and things looked grim for our hero.

*

Nkolo Uhura was also off duty, although she was not in her cabin. Instead, she was the sole occupant of the main observation lounge, located forward of the bridge and affording the best view on the ship of the way ahead.

She smiled slightly as she surveyed the cosmos, stretching out infinitely before them. Not bad for a girl from a village on the Kenyan shore of Lake Victoria, a shabby collection of mud huts so poor, so insignificant, that it did not appear on most maps. Not bad at all. Her exceptional intelligence had been noted by a visiting team from Star Fleet when she was thirteen years old and she, like Chekov, had found herself whisked away at bewildering speed to join the thousands of hopefuls dreaming of seeing the stars.

Well, she thought, as she gazed out of the huge viewport, there they are. Right up front and in your face. She smiled at the old-fashioned expression. Uhura had never been one for the latest styles; she had, for the most part, eschewed socializing with her contemporaries. Apart from a couple of post-teen affairs, and one huge crush on her first commanding officer (unrequited, even his name long forgotten), she had had little to do with men.

Her striking African beauty had made her the target of many a would-be suitor, but she had rebuffed them all. She shared her shipmates’ view of marriage and a career in Star Fleet; they did not mix. And the one for whom she could have been persuaded to make an exception might as well be a million light-years away, for all the attention he had ever paid her.

Despite her many years away from Africa, she still felt its pull, and her tribal roots still held her fast in their embrace.
So, when she was alone in her cabin, Uhura danced. Clad in only a loincloth and beaded necklace, she danced to jungle drums and rhythms, and her cabin thrummed with sounds not heard anywhere but her village, and the surrounding African bush. The steady thumping at once relaxed and aroused her, and the sweat shone on her ebony body, caught in the light from the ceremonial torches burning at the four corners of the room. She had had to get special permission for that, to override the computer’s automatic fire alarm. No one had questioned why she had wanted it, or why a holographic representation would not do just as well. Uhura smiled to herself as she reflected that there were still some things a captaincy in Star Fleet was good for, after all.

At such private times, smiling a small, wistful smile, eyes closed and completely lost in the ancient rhythms, Nkolo Uhura danced, and dreamed of love. Now, looking at the immeasurable sprawl of the galaxy, Uhura felt a strange disquiet. She told herself that her unease was merely the result of traveling so far from home, and from any possibility of help from the Federation. But in her heart, in her secret African soul, she knew it was more than that.
Nkolo Uhura looked at the stars, and was afraid.

*

Leonard McCoy lay on his bunk trying to concentrate on a discbook of an ancient Zane Grey western, and failing totally. The glass of Jack Daniel’s sat undisturbed beside him, and he stared at the screen without seeing. Like Uhura, the doctor was troubled by misgivings but, unlike the African, his were not forebodings of evil times ahead for the mission. Instead, McCoy was concerned on a more personal level. Since his recall to active duty, he had been giving the matter of his future careful consideration. He now acknowledged that the last three years had been probably the most miserable of his entire life; now that he was back on board the Enterprise, that much was undeniable.

What McCoy was trying to come to terms with was the increasingly inescapable conclusion that he was not cut out to be a country doctor. Nor any other kind of doctor, unless it was one who served on board a starship. Twenty-seven years as a Star Fleet officer had left its indelible mark on him, and McCoy saw now that he had no choice.
He was going to have to do that which he had sworn never to do.

He had to re-enlist.

But in order to do that, he would first have to undergo the rejuvenation therapy that he had for so long resisted. Neither Kirk nor Scotty had taken advantage of the revolutionary process which, it was claimed, could extend your lifespan by up to half as much again. It was said that, if you repeated the process every twenty years or so, you could live for up to one hundred and fifty years, perhaps even more. And therein lay the problem.

Although McCoy, as a doctor, was in favor of any technique that prolonged human life, he had forsworn the treatment for himself, as had the other human members of the Enterprise’s crew. Spock, being a Vulcan, had no need of it; he would live naturally to a span more than twice the average human’s, and anyway, the treatment did not work on his race.

McCoy’s dilemma was simple, if ironic. When the greatly improved process had become generally available some five years previously, he had discovered, to his mild surprise that he was, at heart, an old-fashioned conservative Southern Baptist. Although not a particularly religious man, he had found that, somewhere deep inside, the idea that a man ought not to seek to live too far beyond his allotted four score years and ten was alive and flourishing.

He had resisted such an ideology originally, but not too vigorously, and had eventually come to accept it. He had reconciled these principles with his sworn oath as a physician on the grounds that the oath applied to the way he treated his patients, but that what he did with his own life was his own business, and nobody else’s. Including Hippocrates’. Consequently, it was not until he found himself out of Star Fleet for the second time, retired and moldering away in that sleepy little Southern backwater where he had been born that he had finally admitted the truth to himself. A simple life was not for him; ordinary, everyday matters bored him, and he had discovered that he needed periodic bouts of excitement.

The last time he had returned to Star Fleet had been during the affair of the Voyager probe that had returned to wreak its strange havoc on its creators. That time, McCoy had been drafted; now, he would return on his own terms although, ultimately, the result would be the same.

McCoy instructed the computer to turn off the discbook, and reached out and picked up the glass of smoky bourbon. Well, Leonard, he thought, it looks like you’re going to lose those wrinkles whether you want to or not. He drained the glass in one swallow and placed it on the side table. As soon as we get back, he thought. Wonder what Jim will say when I tell him I’m re-upping? He picked up both glass and bottle and poured himself another large measure. Probably laugh himself sick, he thought as he sipped from the glass. Probably laugh just fit to bust.

*

Spock sat cross-legged on a cushion, his long, elegant fingers lightly stroking the strings of a Vulcan harp. The amazing range of sounds that issued from the small instrument was at odds with its fragile appearance, but anyone who knew the Vulcan’s reputation with it would not be surprised at the extraordinary variety of tones he was coaxing from its eleven strings. Spock was a virtuoso, a universally acclaimed maestro of the instrument, and had given recitals before royalty; Human, Vulcan and Romulan.

Although he would never have admitted it to anyone, Spock was proud of his skill, and of his accomplishments. He also knew that, while his Vulcan half gave him the mental discipline that made such perfection possible, it was his human half that imbued his playing with soul and beauty. The piece he now played was one that he knew would never be heard by anyone but himself and, perhaps, one other. It was a bittersweet lament dedicated to the soul of his mother that he had composed in the days following her death, and that he was now playing in its entirety for the very first time.

That Spock was half-human, half-Vulcan was well known. What was not so well known was the fact that he was the only such one of his race. His father, Sarek, was the first and - so far - only Vulcan to marry a human woman and, as Spock was unmarried (and likely to stay that way), the interplanetary racial experiment seemed fated to die the most natural of deaths.

Spock stroked the strings, and the lament continued. He played with only part of his mind, his massive intellect and many-chambered Vulcan brain allowing him to concentrate on more than one thing at a time. He thought of the mission, and of his own reasons for agreeing to be a part of it. He also thought of his reasons for leaving Star Fleet in the first place, three years ago. His mother had been ailing even then, and that was the pretext he had used; the truth he kept to himself, as he did with all of his inner feelings. Locked within the strict code of Vulcan impassivity, his life was ruled by logic alone.

Well, that was the theory, at least. But try as he might, he could never completely suppress his human half. He took pride in his accomplishments, and was happy in the company of those he considered his friends. He had never expressed his thoughts regarding his shipmates, except that one time, at the end of his first life, when he had declared his friendship for Jim Kirk. It had been enough that he had stood beside Kirk and the others when they had been indicted after the events that had led to his rescue from the Genesis planet, and his re-birth.

He had spent almost one-fifth of a Vulcan lifetime among these humans. He had shared perils with them, had saved them and had in turn been saved by them. They were as close to him as his own family; closer, really, since it was his decision to join Star Fleet which had caused the estrangement from his father, Sarek, an estrangement that had continued until his resurrection.

During his time away from his friends, he had missed their company. Uhura, for her grace and elegance; Scotty, for his gruff good humor and encyclopedic knowledge of starship engineering; Sulu, for his unfailing calm and efficiency, and for being the best pilot of any flying craft that Spock had ever known; Chekov, for his loyalty and courage under fire, despite his insistence that everything worthwhile had been “inwented” by a Russian; McCoy, for the deep compassion for life, all life, which he hid behind a mask of ill-temper.

And Captain Kirk. Jim Kirk. Jim. His friend, closer even than his own half-brother, Sybock, whom they had left behind on the mythical planet of Shaka-Ri. Jim Kirk. His real brother.

The last notes of the lament died away, and Spock pushed the emotional thoughts aside. He was a Vulcan; it was unseemly for him to be even thinking such things. The inner self was not for public display, to be put on show as though it were some form of entertainment. His Vulcan half was dominant, his father was great among Vulcans, and Spock was determined that he would comport himself as became one of his line.
Friendship was permitted, of course, but it must not be allowed to rule one’s mind, or ultimately to influence one’s actions. He laid the harp down, and rose smoothly to his feet. It was time he was on the bridge. There must be no more lapses of this kind, he thought. The mission deserved his complete and undivided attention. With these thoughts uppermost in his mind, Spock laid out his uniform and began to dress for duty.

***