Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (7 page)

Chekov was not amused; he groaned and came to a full halt. “Very funny. I suppose
you
have no blisters.’’

“Blisters?” Sulu cast a concerned glance at Pavel’s obviously new boots. “Didn’t you remember to synthesize a half-size larger and then wear—”

A shrill beep from the communicator on his right hip made him stop in midsentence. Both he and Chekov stared at it in amazement.

“I don’t believe this.” Sulu pulled the communicator from his belt and flipped it open. “Even Scotty couldn’t have put the ship together this fast.” He raised the device and spoke into the grid. “Commander Sulu here.”

It felt odd using the old rank, now that he’d finally gotten used to being addressed as “captain”—almost as odd as it felt to refer to James Kirk as “captain” again instead of “admiral.” Not an altogether comfortable feeling, and yet, Sulu reminded himself, he had not actually been demoted, as Kirk had. At his request, he had been temporarily reduced to the rank of commander so that he could serve aboard the new
Enterprise.

The alternative had been to take a ship of his own, a prospect he’d found tempting. And yet, Sulu reasoned, the
Enterprise
was as much his ship as Kirk’s. The admiral—that is, the captain—might give the orders, but it was Sulu who safely guided her through the stars.

Then there was the question of loyalty. After all he had endured with the captain and the others, there was no question that he would ask to serve with Kirk again—and gladly take the reduction in rank in order to do so.

Kirk had been furious when he’d heard. He gave Sulu hell for not looking after his own career. And then he’d thanked him.

“Commander Sulu, this is
Enterprise,”
Uhura’s voice said. The tense formality in her tone indicated that she was about to say something she knew Sulu did not want to hear. “Bad news, gentlemen. Shore leave’s been canceled.”

Sulu frowned, disappointed.
“Slava Bogu,
“Chekov breathed thankfully. “Rescued at last.”

Uhura continued. “Return to the prearranged coordinates for pickup.”

Sulu and Chekov exchanged amused glances.

“Don’t tell her we’re lost,” Pavel whispered. “She’ll never let us live it down—a helmsman and a navigator who can’t find their way out of the forest!”

A pause. Uhura asked, “Is there a problem, gentlemen?”

Sulu grinned and hoped it didn’t show in his voice. “Er . . . as a matter of fact, there is. We’ve been caught in a blizzard.”

Chekov rolled his eyes; Sulu spread his arms in a gesture that said,
Well, then, you try to think of something better.

To his credit, Chekov played along with it. “We can’t see a thing!” he shouted at the communicator. “Request you direct us to the coordinates.” He pursed his lips and affected the sound of a furiously howling wind. It was, Sulu thought, rather convincing.

Another pause. “Sulu ...” Uhura’s tone was one of thinly veiled amusement. “I’m so sorry to hear about your weather. Funny, but my visual says you’re enjoying sunny skies and seventy degrees.”

“Your console’s probably malfunctioning,” Sulu suggested helpfully, “just like everything else on the bridge.”

“Sorry. Fixed it myself.”

Not to be discouraged, Chekov cried, “Sulu! Look! The sun’s come out! It’s a miracle!”

Uhura gave up and laughed aloud. “So the navigator and the helmsman don’t want to admit they’re lost, huh? Don’t worry, fellas. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Sulu’s smile became sheepish. “Uhura, we owe you one.”

“I’ll chalk it up with the other ones. Transporters are still out, as you’ve probably guessed. I’ll be sending down the shuttlecraft to pick you up.” She hesitated a beat. “I sure hope they can find you in all that snow.”

Sulu was too shocked to respond humorously. “They’re sending the ship on a mission before the transporters are fixed?”

“You heard right. And the transporters are the least of our worries, according to Mr. Scott. Figure that one out if you can.
Enterprise
out.”

Chekov sank wearily onto a nearby boulder and shook his head as he struggled to pull off a hiking boot. “On a mission before the ship’s repaired. The captain won’t be pleased.”

“That’s for sure,” Sulu agreed. He sat next to Pavel and was suddenly aware of the extent of his exhaustion. “I could have gone to Yosemite with the captain; I’ve never been there before.”

“And miss walking around lost for hours with me?”
Chekov asked, indignant. “Besides, if you’ve seen one national park, you’ve seen them all.”

Sulu glanced absently over his shoulder at the wilderness they were leaving behind. In the distance, a great mountain thrust into the sky, five faces carved into the stone. All of those honored here were political figures who had died centuries before Sulu was born, including the most recent addition to the momument, Sarah Susan Eckert, the first black Northam president.

Sulu did not answer Chekov’s question. He was thinking again about how shoddily the new ship had been constructed. Until now he had not permitted himself to think about all of the problems or to compare the new ship with the old
Enterprise.
Mr. Scott would fix the ship, would make her an even finer vessel than the old
Enterprise
had been . . . or so Sulu had convinced himself. But to take her out in her current condition …

He began to wonder if his loyalty had led him to make a very big mistake.

“Come and get it!” McCoy yelled as he banged a metal spoon against a frying pan. Dinner simmered in a covered dutch oven perched atop white-hot coals raked neatly to one side of a blazing campfire.

Seated less than a meter away, Jim Kirk put his hands over his ears. “Knock it off, Bones. We’re right here and we’re starving.” He did not say it kindly. After this morning’s climb and near-disastrous fall, Jim was tired and sore—but too proud to ask the doctor for something to ease his aching muscles. And
painfully hungry. Dinner smelted wonderful, but McCoy had insisted on cooking it the old-fashioned way, and Jim and Spock had sat waiting for the last three hours.

At least the act of fixing dinner seemed to have improved the doctor’s foul mood. That, and the considerable amount of bourbon he’d consumed; at this point, McCoy was beginning to be a little unsteady on his feet. Still, Jim suspected he had not heard the last of the El Capitan incident.

McCoy gave a lopsided grin and crouched beside the covered pot, evidently relishing his audience’s undivided attention. “My friends, you are in for an unequaled culinary treat! Ta-daa!” And with a flourish, he whisked the top off the pot to reveal a steaming mass inside.

Spock stared at it with faint suspicion. “Bipodal seeds, Doctor?”

“Beans,
Spock,” McCoy corrected him with pride. “But these are no ordinary beans. These are from an old southern recipe handed down to me by my father, which he got from
his
father, and so on. And if you dare turn your Vulcan nose up at them, you’re not just insulting me, you’re insulting countless generations of McCoys.”

Spock weighed the potential consequences gravely. “I see. In that case, Doctor, I have little choice but to sample your. . .
beans.”

McCoy ladled his concoction into bowls and passed them out.

Jim was starving and tore into his. Happily, the beans tasted as good as they smelted. He glanced up as
he was chewing to see McCoy watching them both expectantly.

“How are they?” the doctor asked.

“They’re great, Bones,” Jim mumbled through a mouthful of beans. There was a faintly familiar flavor component that Jim couldn’t quite identify. He took another huge mouthful and tried to figure it out.

“Of course they are,” McCoy smiled, pleased. He served himself and was about to take a bite when he paused to watch Spock.

Jim looked over at the Vulcan. Spock raised a forkful to his nose, smelled it, then very gingerly tasted
one
bean.

“Well?” McCoy demanded. It was impossible to tell from Spock’s expression what his reaction was.

Spock swallowed deliberately. “Surprisingly good,” he admitted. “However, it contains a flavoring with which I am unfamiliar.”

McCoy smiled diabolically. “That’s the secret ingredient.”

Spock lifted a brow at that, but seemed to decide against pressing the issue. He began to eat with enthusiasm. McCoy continued to watch with the same self-satisfied little grin. All of a sudden, Jim fit the puzzle together: that distinctive flavor, the drunken flush on McCoy’s cheeks, the obvious amusement with which he watched Spock …

He snickered and looked over at McCoy. “Got any more of that secret ingredient, Bones?” Come to think of it, he could ease his aching muscles without having to admit to the doctor that he was sore from his recent adventures.

McCoy’s expression lit up. “You bet your buns.” He reached into a backpack near the campfire, pulled out a half-empty bottle of bourbon, and passed it over to Kirk. Jim filled his cup and handed the bottle back.

Spock stopped in mid-chew. He looked down at his plate, then over at McCoy and the bottle. Jim had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.

“Am I to understand,” the Vulcan inquired solemnly, “that your secret ingredient is . . . alcohol?”

“Bourbon, Spock,” McCoy replied, and giggled suddenly.
“Kentucky
bourbon. Care for a snort?” He proffered the bottle to Spock.

“Snort?” Spock frowned. “I was unaware that etha-nol was consumed in that manner.”

“Figure of speech, Spock. He means a drink.” Kirk could no longer keep from grinning. He looked over at McCoy and jerked his head in the Vulcan’s direction. “Bourbon and beans. A pretty explosive combination. Do you think Spock can handle it?”

“I don’t
think
I put that much booze in there,” McCoy said gleefully. “’Course, I don’t really remember. And as far as the beans go, they couldn’t possibly affect his Vulcan metabolism.”

“Do these particular legumes have some sort of physical effect—other than intoxication?” Spock asked, missing the point entirely. McCoy winked impishly at Jim.

“You don’t want to know,” Kirk told him.

Spock persisted. “Perhaps I, too, will be affected. As you are so fond of pointing out, Doctor, I
am
half human.”

McCoy’s smile faded somewhat. “I know. It certainly doesn’t show.”

“Thank you,” Spock replied.

The doctor shook his head. “This guy never changes. I insult him and he takes it as a compliment.” He reached down and refilled his cup from the bottle, then screwed the cap back on it and set it aside. When Jim looked questioningly at the amount of liquor in the cup, McCoy’s mood darkened suddenly; obviously McCoy had enjoyed a lot more bourbon than Kirk and Spock had realized. He scowled at Jim. “You know, the two of you could drive a man to drink.”

Kirk’s eyebrows flew up. “Me? What did
I
do?”

McCoy spoke with such startling vehemence that even Spock glanced up from his dinner. “You really piss me off, Jim. You’re acting like nothing at all happened today, nothing at all.” He jabbed a fork savagely in Jim’s direction. “Human life is far too precious to risk on crazy stunts like the ones you’ve been pulling lately. Maybe it hasn’t crossed that macho mind of yours, but when you fell off that mountain today, you should have been killed. If Spock hadn’t been there—”

“It crossed my mind,” Jim answered shortly, cutting him off. He didn’t want to talk about the fall. For some reason, that subject made him angry and defensive—which meant that McCoy had struck a nerve.

“And?” McCoy persisted.

Kirk took a sip of bourbon and forced the hostility back, forced himself to answer honestly. “It was very strange. There was a flash of fear the instant I realized I was going to fall, but then”—he let out his breath and stared down at his plate of beans—“I wasn’
afraid at all. It was funny, but even as I was falling, I knew I wouldn’t die.”

McCoy gestured with his cup at Spock. “I thought
he
was the only one who’s immortal. That’s a very dangerous notion to entertain, Jim, particularly when white-water kayaking or climbing mountains.”

Kirk gently shook his head. “It’s not that I think I’m immortal, Bones—I haven’t fallen prey to megalomania in my old age. It’s hard to explain . . .” He paused, trying to sort out the reason; even as he said it, it was a revelation to him. “I knew I wouldn’t die because the two of you were with me.”

McCoy set down his fork and cup and stared. His pale blue eyes were very wide. “Excuse me?”

Even Spock stopped eating long enough to gaze at Kirk with intense curiosity. “Captain, I do not understand.”

Jim stared into the bright orange heat of the camp-fire. The statement surprised him as well. . . and yet he knew with heavy certainty that it was true. His friends no doubt thought he’d gone off the deep end.
And maybe they’d be right.
“I’ve always . . . I’ve always known I’ll die alone.” The words brought with them a chill of fear far more terrifying than this morning’s free-fall.

“Oh, now we’re psychic, are we?” McCoy snapped cynically, but there was a hint of good humor beneath the sarcasm; no doubt he, too, was disturbed by what Jim had said, and was trying to lighten the tone of the conversation. “In that case, I’ll just call Valhalla and reserve you a room.”

Jim managed to smile faintly at him.

Spock was frowning. “Captain . ..”

“Jim.”

“Jim. I fail to understand how you can claim to know such a thing. . . unless you are precognitive, and true precognitives are extremely rare.”

“I don’t know, Spock.” He sighed, unable to understand it himself. There was no logic to it, certainly, and yet he was as utterly convinced of it as he was of Spock and McCoy’s friendship. “I just
do,
that’s all.”

The doctor’s expression became melancholic—the bourbon, Jim wondered, or the topic of conversation?—as he gazed into the fire. His tone was thoughtful. “You know, it’s a mystery what draws the three of us together.”

Spock appeared puzzled by the turn the discussion had taken. “Are you suggesting, Doctor, that we came along to Yosemite because we sensed the captain—Jim—might be in danger? Again, you are assuming precognitive—”