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  “Are we to understand that you are refusing the honor that has been granted to you? No Vulcan has ever declined admission to this academy.”

  Completely at peace now with himself and his decision, the applicant replied coolly. “Then, as I am half-human, your record remains untarnished.”

  Sarek had held his peace as long as he was able but, confronted with his son’s astonishing demurral, could no longer remain silent.

  “Spock. You have made a commitment to honor the Vulcan way, even in the face of unreasoning prejudice.” At this the councillor who had made the pivotal comment shot a look in the diplomat’s direction. Sarek ignored him.

  “At the moment, Father, I can think of no greater way to honor our species than to attend Starfleet as its first Vulcan. Given a choice between ‘firsts,’ I have decided to opt for that one.”

  The councillor who had spoken last raised his voice without altering his tone. He did not have to. His choice of words was sufficiently accusatory.

  “Why did you come before this council today? Why did you waste our time? Are you playing at some sort of irrational game? Or was it to satisfy your emotional need to rebel?”

  Spock betrayed not a hint of what he was being accused of displaying. He was as calm and collected as if addressing a group of close friends. “I came with the intention of enrolling, as my father wished. However, your…” he hesitated long enough that no one could fail to get the point, “…‘insight’ has convinced me that my destiny lies elsewhere. You have persuaded me that for the foreseeable future at least, my life does not lie in the pursuit of pure academics. Therefore, the only emotion I wish to convey is…gratitude.” He nodded ever so slightly. “Thank you, ministers and councillors, for your consideration. Live long and prosper.”

  No emotion in those words, not even in the last few. But just a hint, perhaps, of a nonverbal suggestion best exemplified by a distinctively human digital gesture with which those on the Vulcan High Council were not familiar.

  As he turned, Spock’s eyes met those of his father. Sarek’s disappointment was evident in his expression. Yet in addition to the disappointment there was a trace of something else, of something more. As he departed, head high, Spock could not be at all sure he had interpreted it correctly. His uncertainty was understandable.

  It was not customary for Vulcans to take pride in any kind of repudiation, whether propounded by themselves or by those whom they love.

  IV

  There were bigger dives in Storm Lake, with better music and cheaper booze. Some attracted construction workers, others engineers, still others visiting suits from Washington and Moscow and Beijing. The Shipyard bar was the favorite of the majority of cadets.

  The young East African woman entering now had a back as straight as an arrow, black hair done up in a contemporary coif, legs that would not quit beneath a short skirt, and calves tucked into high black boots. The combination drew appreciative stares from every man present who saw her, from a few women, and even from a couple of visiting non-humanoids—there being a certain universality of physical aesthetics that in exceptional instances transcends species. Nodding and smiling to those she recognized, she ambled up to the old-fashioned bar and leaned gloriously toward the bartender.

  “Habari and hi. Any recommendations tonight?”

  The bartender smiled a greeting. “How about a Slusho Mix? A little powerful, though.”

  She nodded agreeably. “Sounds intriguing. I’ll give it a try.” As the bartender nodded, admiring both her smile and her capacity, a nearby voice more admiring than accusatory commented cheerfully.

  “That’s a helluva drink for a woman wearing those kinds of boots. Or is that where it all ends up?”

  The face of a young man leaned toward her. Not a cadet, she saw immediately. A welder, maybe, or a driver. Possibly even younger than her. He had nerve, if not brains. Typical ladies’ man, she decided: muscular, handsome, stupid. His grin confirmed it. She straightaway banished him from her reality.

  “And a shot of Jack,” she finished instructing the bartender, “straight up.”

  Kirk turned toward the barkeep. “Make it two—her shot’s on me.”

  “Her shot’s on her. Thanks but no thanks.”

  He made a face at her. “I don’t hear ‘no’ very often.”

  She replied politely and without smiling. “Then it’s evident the universe is out of whack and I have to take it upon myself to redress the imbalance. When I say ‘no,’ I mean it.”

  A woman who could respond with more than a nervous giggle or an outraged slap. One who could construct a coherent sentence without having to engage in a conference call with friends. He liked her already. “My name’s Jim. Jim Kirk.” A great echoing lack of response ensued. It threatened to continue until the sun winked out. “If you don’t tell me your name,” he finally prompted, “I’m gonna have to make one up. I can be pretty inventive, but I doubt it’ll be as appealing as the real one.”

  She stared at him, wishing her order would arrive. He remained where he was, the same silly grin on his face, and she wished she had opted for a less complex drink. Had she done so she would by now be on her way and free of him.

  “So—what’s your name?”

  She replied without looking at him. “Uhura.”

  “Uhura?” His lower jaw dropped precipitously. “No way. That’s exactly the name I was gonna make up for you.” His smile returned. Practiced, charming, usually irresistible—until now. “‘Uhura’ what?”

  “Just Uhura.”

  He looked dubious. “They don’t have last names in your world?”

  She sighed. “Uhura is my last name.”

  Kirk didn’t miss a beat. “They don’t have first names in your world? Wait, let me guess. Is it ‘Jim’?”

  Where is my drink? she wondered. The guy was good-looking and playful rather than overbearing, but the conversation was growing as tiresome as it was predictable. She had heard variations of it a hundred times before, in bars and shops from Dar-es-Salaam to Des Moines.

  “I could tell you my first name, but you’d forget it by the time you’re halfway through your next shot and then I’d be insulted.”

  Lowering his voice, he did his best to edge closer. “Baby, I will never forget anything you tell me. In fact, I remember the first time you rejected me. Remember that? When we first met?”

  She smiled in spite of herself. He was still intrusive, still goofy, but…charming. As long as he didn’t get physical…

  Where was her damn order?

  “Okay, so you’re a cadet,” he was saying. “Studying, preparing to go…,” he waved an indifferent hand skyward, “out there. That-away. What’s your focus?”

  “Xenolinguistics.” If she expected that to draw a mask down over his eyes, she was mistaken. Surprisingly, he didn’t blink. “Lemme guess: you don’t know what that means.”

  “Let me guess. Study of alien languages: phonology, morphology, syntax, variability in different mediums of aural conveyance, symbology…” He broke off, smiled afresh. “It means you’ve got a talented tongue.”

  She pursed her lips, regarding him in at least half a new light. “And for a moment I thought you were just a dumb hick who only has sex with farm animals.”

  He looked away demurely. “Well, not just.”

  A shape materialized on the bar floor. Massive enough to generate his own eclipse, the bearded cadet was nearly bigger than both of them put together. While his words were addressed to Uhura, his eyes were locked on the man standing next to her.

  “This guy bothering you?” he rumbled.

  “Beyond belief,” Uhura admitted. “But nothing I can’t handle.”

  Smiling benignly, Kirk leaned toward her. “I’m sure you could handle me. And that’s an invitation.”

  At least her drink had finally arrived. Picking up the Jack, she downed the shot in a single swallow. Gathering up the rest of her order, she turned and started to walk away. Kirk followed her departure
with a wink. One that was more hopeful than knowing. The big cadet caught the gesture, and didn’t much care for it.

  “Hey. You mind your manners.”

  Turning, a smiling Kirk reached out and clapped a friendly hand on the cadet’s shoulder. He had to reach up to do so. “At ease, cupcake. I didn’t touch her and I didn’t say anything weal bad. It was a wink.” He batted his eyes. “Or are you just jealous I didn’t wink at you?”

  Seeing that conversation was starting to diminish around her, Uhura looked back. Several other cadets were assembling around their big compatriot. It did not take a specialist in motivation to sense what was happening. Wondering why she should bother—hell, she didn’t even like the guy—but feeling somehow sort of responsible, she retraced a step.

  “Hey—Jim. Enough.”

  The oversized cadet was still steaming over the local’s last comment. He took a step closer. “What was that?”

  Kirk didn’t retreat. Not that he could have gone far anyway, with the bar pressing into his back. “You heard me, moonbeam.”

  Jerking his head in the direction of his assembled cohorts, the cadet continued to restrain the impulses that were rising to a boil within him. “You know how to count, farm boy? There’s five of us—and one of you.”

  The smaller man straightened, a posture that put him virtually in the big cadet’s face. “Well then, get another five and it’ll be almost even.” When the other man failed to respond, an uncaring Kirk pushed it one step further. “Y’know what I always wondered? Do they beam those uniforms right onto you guys? ’Cause they’re so form-fitting and…”

  The bigger youth swung. He was faster than Kirk expected, but not quite fast enough. Ducking the hook, Kirk charged forward. Once locked tight to his antagonist, the cadet’s friends couldn’t get in a clean swing at the local provocateur. As they wrestled, a now fully engaged Kirk kept up a steady stream of biting commentary.

  “Please tell me you haven’t taken combat training yet, ’cause that would be so embarrassing to Starfleet. That last punch was adorable.” As he finished delivering this assessment, two of the other cadets wrenched him away from their friend. Drawing back his fist, this time the big cadet connected. Rocked by the blow, Kirk’s head snapped back, then forward. Sucking on his lower lip, he spat blood, eyed the dribble speculatively.

  “Okay—definitely better.”

  Scowling, the larger man took another swing. At the last instant, Kirk ducked, almost as if he had managed to shrink his torso into his hips. The punch sailed over his head to connect with one of the cadets pinioning his arms. This allowed the younger man to break free, spin, and slam the edge of his right hand into the other cadet who was holding on to him. Poleaxed, the cadet’s eyes rolled back into his head and he went down like a sack of local onions. An instant later the other two cadets were on top of Kirk. What had begun as a straightforward bar fight now threatened to get truly ugly as more blood was spilled.

  A razor-sharp, penetrating command stopped it cold.

  “ATTENTION ON DECK!”

  Regardless of their position and irrespective of their condition, every cadet in the bar immediately snapped to attention. Not being one of them, Kirk was not obliged to do so. This was fortunate, as he was currently flat on his back on a table, out of breath, badly battered, and bleeding from at least two different orifices.

  Starched and straight, with close-cropped hair and rugged features, a single figure entered the room. Someone had thoughtfully turned off the music. It was so quiet you could have heard a barfly drop. In addition to being considerably older than the majority of those present, the newcomer also evinced considerably less patience. As he scanned the collection of faces present, those clad in the uniforms of cadets did their best to avoid his gaze. He let the uncomfortable silence linger for a moment longer, then snapped a single directive.

  “Outside, all of you. Now.”

  The younger crowd cleared the room with impressive speed, leaving behind only those who were not part of the military. Espying the body on the table, the new arrival walked over and peered down.

  “You all right, son?”

  “Ye—yeah.” Wincing in pain, Kirk rolled over on the table. This also provided him with a better look at the new arrival. “Why’d you have to barge in? I had ’em right where I wanted ’em.”

  Repressing a smile, the newcomer looked away. “Yes, I could see that.”

  Kirk grimaced anew as he slid off the table. His face was bloodied and there were bruises in places he did not want to visit. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Captain Christopher Pike.” Tilting his head slightly to one side, the Starfleet officer studied the bruised face of the much younger man. “I swear, I’m looking at you—and I’m staring right at him.”

  Kirk eyed the older man sharply. What the hell…?

  In the course of the ensuing conversation Kirk realized he had absorbed more alcohol on his injuries than found its way to his stomach. Wary but riveted, he listened in silence to the visitor’s delineation of a history he barely knew.

  “Your father didn’t believe in no-win scenarios,” Pike finally concluded.

  Kirk nodded slowly. All the telling of old stories, all the relating of past incidents, had done nothing to temper his attitude. “He sure learned his lesson.”

  The youthful sarcasm had no effect on Pike. “Depends on how you define winning. You’re here, aren’t you?”

  Kirk looked away. “Not sure I’d call that a win.”

  The captain replied coolly. “Time will tell. That instinct to leap without looking, to take a chance when logic and reason insist that all is lost—that was his nature. It’s something Starfleet’s lost. Yeah, we’re admirable. Respectable. But in my opinion we’ve become overly disciplined. The service is fossilizing.” He leaned forward across the table.

  “Lemme tell you something. Those cadets you took on? Ivy Leaguers or the overseas equivalent, all of ’em. Oxford omelettes. Sorbonne sisters. They’ll make competent officers. Run their departments with efficiency and class. But command material? People I’d trust with my life when confronted by a couple of Klingon warbirds?” He shook his head dolefully.

  Kirk considered before replying. But only briefly. “What the hell are you telling me all this for?”

  Pike sat back. There was a gulf between them considerably greater than the tabletop. “I’ve got a bear-trap memory for promising individuals, and I know your history. Your aptitude tests were off the charts. Every one of ’em.”

  Kirk grunted and felt for a possibly loose tooth. “What d’you do—memorize test results in your spare time?”

  “I make it my business to know who I might have to work with.” Pike’s stare was unblinking—and unsettling. “Who I might have to trust with my life. I don’t remember everybody’s results. Only,” he added meaningfully, “those that strike me as exceptional. Tell me, Kirk—d’you like being the only genius-level repeat offender in the Midwest?”

  The younger man’s response was defiant. “Maybe I do. Maybe I love it.” He sneered. “Everybody needs a hobby.”

  Pike shook his head sadly. He offered up neither simple platitudes nor fake smiles.

  “Let me ask you something, son. Do you feel like you belong here? In Iowa? Do you feel that just because your daddy died you can settle for an ordinary life? What do you want to do with the rest of it? With all of it, really. Spend it making the acquaintance of every jail between Chicago and St. Louis? Or perhaps you’re planning on reforming and settling down, maybe getting into macrotic farming?” Fixing his eyes on the younger man, he lowered his voice.

  “Or do you feel like you might be meant for something better. That maybe you’re supposed to do something special?”

  The older man had hit a nerve, but Kirk did his best not to show it. Whenever he was uncomfortable he covered it with bravado, and this time was no exception.

  “Come to think of it,” he shot back shamelessly, “I do want to feel special. But
she walked out on me. Thank you for your insights, Captain Pike. You know what? I’m going to take your advice. I’m gonna start a book club.”

  Once more Pike ignored the younger man’s clumsy attempt to perturb him.

  “Enlist in Starfleet.”

  Kirk just gaped at the figure seated on the other side of the table. “Enlist in—You must be way down on your recruiting quota for the month.”

  Pike refused to give up. He was less than encouraged, but Kirk was still there, still sitting across from him. There had to be a reason—besides his superficial injuries—why the younger man had not yet fled the room. He might not be eager, but it was just possible that he was curious. The captain continued to play on that possibility.

  “If you’re half the man your father was…” He stopped himself mid-sentence. Nostalgia wasn’t working. Perhaps promise would be more tempting. “Jim, Starfleet could use a guy like you. You’re headstrong but you’re smart. One without the other is useful. Both employed in tandem point toward a potentially dynamic career. You could be an officer in four years. Have your own ship in eight. Unusual, but not unheard of. I know people as well as ships. I believe you could do it.”

  He was getting to him, Pike could see it. Just when he thought he might be having a real impact, the younger man stood and clutched at his jacket. The faint flicker of interest Pike had aroused was once more replaced by attitude.

  “We’re even, right? I can go? Or do I have to sit through more of the sermon?”

  Pike nodded reluctantly. “We’re even. You’re welcome for the bailout. Enjoy your next bar fight.” Pushing his chair away from the table, he also rose.

  “Yeah, that should be some time later tonight. Varies according to the fullness of the moon.”

  They were done here, Pike saw. But he couldn’t let it go without adding one last bit of information, more hopeful than expectant.