The Autobiography of James T. Kirk (15 page)

A few weeks later,
Farragut
was almost completely restaffed. As I finished up my shift, Commander Coto came over to me.

“I’ve received my promotion,” he said. I congratulated him. He’d worked harder than anyone to get the ship back in shape, and I was glad he was rewarded. He then told me the ship would be leaving in two days, and he wondered if I’d reconsidered my decision, as he still had not filled the position of chief navigator. It was still mine if I wanted it. I said I did. I left the ship, my heart heavy with the fact that I now had to break this news to Carol. I decided I would tell her everything I’d been thinking, that I needed this to close out my grief. I knew she would be hurt, but I thought she would understand, knowing what I’d been through. I didn’t get the chance; when I walked in, she met me with a smile.

“Jim, I’m pregnant,” she said as she fell into my arms.

A child. I had not expected this. It was thrilling and confusing. Suddenly my self-centered arguments felt hollow. The idea of a baby was so overwhelming, so joyous, so intimidating, that I didn’t know what to say. Carol, however, immediately sensed something was wrong. She stepped back and looked at me.

“I’ll make it work,” I said. “I promise—”

“This is exactly what you said you didn’t want,” she said, through tears.

“I know,” I said. “But I love you—”

“You said you hated your mother going away; you didn’t want that for your kids.” She had been listening to me talk about the pain of my childhood. But in that moment, I thought I could do things differently. I believed I could be there as a father, and also do my job as a Starfleet officer. I would make it work. I loved her, and I wanted to have a family with her.

“Let’s have this baby,” I said. “I’ll be there for you.”

“Clear the bridge!” I shouted too late. I’d been manning the
Hotspur
’s engineering station. We’d been hit several times, and the last one had shorted out the engineering console, electrocuting the crewman who was operating it. I was trying to reroute power to the shields but had been unsuccessful. Captain Sheridan took the helm and was trying to get us out of orbit.

We had been attacked by pirates on the way to deliver supplies and medicine to Altair IV, at the edge of the Federation. Aliens in unmarked ships would often attack lone Starfleet vessels in the region, in the hopes of stealing profitable cargo. We knew, in fact, that some of these ships were actually Klingon, under orders from their government to unofficially pilfer whatever they could from Federation shipping. If caught, they would deny their empire’s involvement. We weren’t a hundred percent sure that the ship we were currently engaged with was Klingon, but just the possibility that they were motivated me; every encounter I had with that species furthered my growing personal animosity. I watched as the stubby pirate vessel launched another torpedo, just as the captain laid in the course. The torpedo was on track to hit the primary hull and the bridge. I was a few feet from the turbolift, and just before we were hit, I shouted and leaped for it.

The torpedo obliterated what was left of our deflectors and blasted a ten-meter gaping wound in the primary hull; the bridge was open to space. I was at the door of the turbolift as the air and everything not tied down was blown out of the hole. In the millisecond before I was blown out with everything else I had grabbed the edge of the closing turbolift door. The tremendous force of the atmosphere departing the confines of the ship lifted me off the deck. I held the door with both hands; the rushing air and the sudden cold of space weakened my grip. I held my breath; I knew I wouldn’t have much time.

And as suddenly as the wind started, it stopped.

I fell to the deck. The bridge was now an airless void, and I felt the unbearable cold slice through my uniform. I knew I had maybe ten seconds before I passed out. I looked up; my right hand still clutched the turbolift door. I couldn’t feel it; my extremities had already gone completely numb. What had saved me so far was the ship’s computer, locked in an unsolvable dilemma; it couldn’t seal the turbolift as long as its sensor detected a human life-form holding the door open. As long as I didn’t let go, the door wouldn’t close.

I pulled myself toward the small opening and felt unbelievable pressure on my lungs. I had an overwhelming desire to exhale, but knew that would be the end of me. The lift seemed too far away. I stumbled, then dragged myself forward. Blackness surrounded me. I couldn’t move anymore, tried to pull, and then had the sensation of rolling on the deck.

I’d made it into the lift and heard the doors close with a pneumatic whoosh; the sound told me there was air, so I exhaled and inhaled. I was on the floor, shivering, desperately trying to catch my breath. On the verge of blacking out, I rolled over, got to my knees, and reached for one of the lift’s control handles. I grabbed it, trying to fight off the dark waiting to envelop me. I pulled myself to my feet and hit the comm panel.

“Kirk … to auxiliary control,” I said.

“Yes sir,” a voice responded.

“Captain Sheridan laid in a course—”

“I see it, sir, it’s on the board—”

“Execute … immediately.” Looking for shelter, Sheridan had set a course for a nearby gas giant. The pirate ship was too old and small to stand the pressure. The
Hotspur
, a
Baton Rouge–
class ship like the
Republic
, wouldn’t be able to stand it for long either, but it would buy us some time.

I felt the deck plates shudder. The ship was moving. I turned the control handle of the turbolift, and as it moved toward auxiliary control, I took in the empty lift car and its implication: I was the only one who’d made it off the bridge. The captain and first officer were both dead. Sheridan had been a good commander. He was collaborative, encouraged my input. I learned a lot from him. I tried not to think about the fact that he was now gone.

I had only been aboard the
Hotspur
a month. It was not a desired posting because the ship was so old, but after two years of relative comfort as Captain Coto’s navigator, I was looking for something different. When Coto told me his priority was protecting the lives of his crew, he wasn’t exaggerating; he had become very risk averse. I really couldn’t blame him given the trauma he’d been through, but the upshot was he made sure the
Farragut
always played it safe. So when the
Hotspur
needed a communications officer, who would also be fourth-in-command, I jumped at it. The ship was also on “milk runs,” like the
Republic
, but in a sector of space much more dangerous.

The turbolift stopped; I got off and found my way to the auxiliary control room. It was manned by a few crewmen I didn’t know well, and one that I did: the chief engineer and third-in-command, Howard Kaplan, my old superior officer from the
Republic.
He was moved to the
Hotspur
when the
Republic
was retired from service. Though he technically outranked me, I was a bridge officer, and he had not been happy to see me come aboard. The rest of the crewmen were among the least experienced on the ship; they were reserve crewmen sent to man the auxiliary control room during a red alert. When the bridge was declared uninhabitable, any and every senior officer available was supposed to report here and take over. Kaplan and I were the only ones who showed up.

“Are you all right, sir?” asked the crewman manning the helm. She was a beautiful young woman named Uhura who’d just gotten out of the academy.

“Report,” I said, ignoring her question, because I was far from all right. I was freezing, my legs were weak, and my vision was blurry. But I wasn’t going to let them know that, especially Kaplan.

“We’re inside the gas giant, sir,” Uhura said.

“Warp drive is out and we’re not going to be able to stay here for long,” Kaplan snapped.

He wasn’t offering a solution; I looked around the room at the other faces, all of them younger than me, all of them looking for guidance. I wasn’t going to get any ideas from them either, so I had to figure something out.

The pirates were better armed than we were and had caught us by surprise. I couldn’t go back out there and engage in a conventional battle. They’d damaged our weapon targeting control—in a pounding match, they’d have a distinct advantage.

“Ensign,” I said to Uhura, “bring up what we have on our opponent.” Uhura threw a few switches, and a schematic of the pirate ship appeared on the viewscreen. I immediately looked at its mass; it was about a third of
Hotspur’s.
I did a quick calculation in my head and smiled to myself. I had a plan, and I was sure it would work.

I glanced again at Kaplan. He was technically in command, so I should run my idea by him, but there was no use to that. He’d spent his career in engineering. He had no experience commanding a ship. He looked at me, worried, angry, scared. He wasn’t in any position to judge my idea, and I was past hesitating where the safety of the ship was concerned.

“Stand by on tractor beam,” I said. I had checked and it was still operational. “We’re going to come out of the gas giant, lock on to that ship, then we’re going to drag it back into the gas giant with us …”

“We won’t have a lot of thrust—” Kaplan said.

“We won’t need it,” I said. “We’re deeper in the gravity well than they are, and we’re three times their mass. That’ll do most of the work for us. They’ll either overload their engines trying to pull away, or get crushed by the gas giant.”

Uhura and the other crewmen look relieved, pleased by the confidence I had expressed. We might get out of this. Kaplan just scowled at me, embarrassed but contrite.

“Execute my orders,” I said, then turned to Kaplan. “Start your repairs on the warp drive.”

“Aye sir,” Kaplan said, as he left.

I was 27, and I was now a captain.

And I hadn’t seen my child in two years.

*
EDITOR’S NOTE:
Though the
Republic
had warp drive, its class of vessel still used a fusion reactor as an emergency backup for propulsion and internal ship’s power.

*
EDITOR’S NOTE:
The Prime Directive is Starfleet General Order One. It prevents Starfleet officers from interfering with the societies of other worlds, whether it’s the natural development of a primitive world, or the internal politics of an advanced society.

“I’M A DOCTOR, NOT A BABYSITTER,”
McCoy said. I wanted to hit him.

I’d known Leonard McCoy for over a year, since I came aboard the
Hotspur.
We did not have a lot in common; he was older than me, and though he was at the academy for a short time when I was there, we hadn’t met. On the ship, he seemed competent though always a little put out. Things only got worse when I took command; he made it clear on more than one occasion that he thought I wasn’t ready for the job. I suppose I couldn’t blame him; at 29 I was the youngest captain in the history of Starfleet. Usually, I’d ignore his attitude as long as he followed my orders. In this case, however, I needed his help.

“I’m not asking you to babysit,” I said. “The boy is going to be on board for three weeks; we’re cramped for space. I want to make sure it’s safe.”

“It’d be safer if he didn’t come on board,” McCoy said.

“McCoy—” I said. He could see that I was annoyed.

“Look, Commander, what do you want me to say? This ship is barely safe for adults, let alone a two-year-old. Why the hell are they coming aboard anyway?”

I wasn’t going to let McCoy or anyone else know why we were transporting Carol and little David back to Earth, or their connection to me, at least not yet. When I came to see him in sickbay, I suppose I thought he might have sympathy for a mother and child being stuck on a starship, but I could see that was too much to hope for.

“First of all, he’s three years old,” I said, dodging his question. “And second of all, the health and well-being of everyone aboard is your responsibility. That goes for all our passengers. I want facilities set up for the care of a three-year-old. That’s an order.”

“Yes sir,” he said, and as I left he gave me a curious look.