Storm Lake, Iowa | Wednesday FT
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 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. It definitely drew Jim's gaze. He didn't even know why he was here but he was. The booze was cheap and it got you drunk fast. That was all Jim needed, it seemed.
Nodding and smiling to those she recognized, she ambled up to the old-fashioned bar and leaned gloriously toward the bartender. Jim was already smiling. Not at her, no, because he didn't want to be obvious but the bar stool nearby was the recipient of a big, shit eating grin.
“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, Jim decided that was a perfectly fine opening for him to slide on into the conversation. Smooth as silk.
“That’s a helluva drink for a woman wearing those kinds of boots. Or is that where it all ends up?”
Charming smile on his face, Jim leaned towards, projecting an air of admiration and curiosity. He wanted her to think he was interested, to think she was the only woman in the bar tonight.
“And a shot of Jack,” she finished instructing the bartender, “straight up.”
Jim 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. She reminded Jim of someone else, someone far away and full of mild stubbornness. It made him smile wider.
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. He was pretty frigging stubborn when he wanted something. Or someone.
“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.”
Jim didn’t miss a beat. “They don’t have first names in your world? Wait, let me guess. Is it ‘Jim’?”
“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 didn't answer, glaring for a second before turning her attention to her drink. Jim snickered quietly.
“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. “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 and Jim knew he'd surprised her. That was always fun to do. “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 Jim. Not the first time he'd been sized up by a guy the size of an oak tree.
“This guy bothering you?” he rumbled.
“Beyond belief,” Uhura admitted. “But nothing I can’t handle.”
Smiling benignly, Jim leaned toward her. “I’m sure you could handle me. And that’s an invitation.”
Gathering up the rest of her order, she turned and started to walk away. Jim 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 Jim 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?”
“Hey-Jim. Enough.” It was Uhura's voice and, while he wanted to turn back and talk more with her, it was impossible to do so when faced with a challenge like the massive mountain of a man in front of him.
The oversized cadet was still steaming over Jim's last comment. He took a step closer.
“What was that?”
Jim 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.”
Jim 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 Jim 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 oak tree of a cade swung. He was faster than Jim expected, but not quite fast enough. Ducking the hook, Jim 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 Jim 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, Jim’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, Jim 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 Jim. 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, Jim 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, Jim 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.”
Jim grimaced anew as he slid off the table. His face was bloodied and there were bruises in places he did not want to visit. He set his aching eyes on his savior and immediately scowled. He remembered that face. Remembered it too danmn well. “I remember you.”
“Captain Christopher Pike.” Jim didn't need the reminder but it was oh so kind of Pike to do so anyway. 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.”
Jim eyed the older man sharply. What the hell…?
In the course of the ensuing conversation Jim 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.
Jim 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?”
Jim 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.”
Pike 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?”
Jim considered before replying. But only briefly. He'd heard something like this before. Years before when this guy had shown up on the island and tried to work his Starfleet magic. “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.”
Jim 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."
Jim waited for him to contnue.
Only,” he added meaningfully, “those that strike me as exceptional. Tell me, Jim-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 Jim, Pike 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 Jim 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.”
Jim 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 Jim 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.”
“We’re even, right? I can go? Or do I have to sit through more of the sermon?” Jim didn't want to sit through this shit again. He didn't want to hear pretty promises, didn't want to remember his dead father, and he didn't want to listen to this guy anymore.
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.. But, apparently, Pike couldn’t let it go without adding one last bit of information, more hopeful than expectant.
“We’re at the Riverside shipyard inspecting construction of a new vessel. Shuttle for new recruits leaves tomorrow oh-six hundred.” He hesitated, then locked eyes one last time with the younger man standing across from him. “Your father was the captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved eight hundred lives, including your mother’s and yours. I dare you to do better.” Pivoting sharply, he headed for the door.
“Oooh,” Jim muttered mockingly, “you dare me. What’s that-the playground version of Starfleet? Gonna take your uniforms and your bonus and go home if I don’t play?” But Pike was already through the door and out of earshot.
Which left a conflicted Jim stewing in his own thoughts, and in more confusion than he would have thought possible.
*-*-*
Flat, featureless, and largely empty save for the isolated Starfleet installation, there was no denying that central Iowa was boring during the day. Exceeding all posted speed limits did not alleviate the boredom: excessive velocity only made the interminable vistas whip past faster.
Iowa scenery cubed was still Iowa scenery dominated by endless fields of cornstalks and the occasional sleek grain tower. He had grown up with it, Jim mused as he leaned forward on the spokeless electric cycle. That did not make it any less repetitious.
Like the fight last night. Different antagonists, different venue, similar outcome. As he sped southward, an uncomfortable vision presented itself: him, lying on the floor of another unnamed bar, in an unknown town, at some unspecified date in the future. Dazed, beat-up, and doing boozy complex calculations in his head for the amusement of laughing patrons in order to cadge a few credits to buy a bottle. It was not a pretty picture. With no one else present to bear the brunt of his trademark sarcasm, it did not seem quite so amusing as it had in the past.
Then there was the other past-the one that damned Captain Pike had dredged up. Anecdotes about the father he had never known. Tales of heroism. Stories of accomplishment. Parables of achievement. As the bike cruised along the otherwise empty road he glanced skyward. Blue was beautiful but empty, whereas the night sky was full of stars. Go outside after the moon had set and you could not escape them. His jaw clenched. What else couldn’t he escape? Until Pike had dredged it back up, Jim had managed to escape his past.
Did he also want to escape his future?
The fence was not particularly high, but it was strongly charged. The invisible energy beams that hummed through the traditional metal latticework and rose higher than his head could not be interdicted without setting off multiple alarms. Vertically aimed beams meant that a would-be intruder could not simply soar over it. Jim made no attempt to do so. Instead, he pulled up just outside the perimeter. Within, wrapped in a web of metal and composite scaffolding, a starship was under construction.
Its presence was no secret. Starfleet had chosen central Iowa as the site of this particular construction yard not only because of its proximity to Mississippi shipping and the industrial-commercial hubs of the Midwest but because if something blew, few people outside the yard itself would be at risk. There was ample room to work, plenty of territory for subsidiary firms and support industries to set up shop, and the ground was flat and tectonically stable.
His bike idling almost silently, Jim gazed at the great ship. While the superstructure was largely finished, it was still a long way from being complete, and internal fitting out had barely begun.
The service yard was filled with crates, containers, and boxes, some of them enormous, each stenciled or otherwise branded with the name of the new vessel for which their contents were destined.
U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
As he observed the flurry of activity, he sought the right words to describe the ship. She was the newest model and represented the latest Starfleet designs. Not that he paid regular attention to such things, oh no. He had been far more interested in which female performers happened to be dancing or singing at the regional bars. Physical beauty had always been important to him. That and natural charm, stance, and grace.
With a start he realized that he was unconsciously applying the same parameters to the ship under construction.
What the hell do you think you’re doing? he asked himself. You sleep on a starship, not with it.
Why are you wasting your time here? What makes you think they’d accept an overage delinquent like yourself? Because one slumming Starfleet captain said so? You haven’t even contemplated filling out the necessary forms, let alone making formal application. Get away, get going, get gone.
Spinning the bike, he accelerated away from the fence and the inaccessible metal temptress within. But which way to go? Which way to flee? He was nauseous with indecision.
Just go, his inner self screamed. No particular direction. That-away.
[NFB but open for typical things after he's home to nurse his wounds for one night. Hey, it's canon! Warning for: post length and taken from Alan Dean Foster's novelization of Star Trek. Time'll be speeding up from here on out, folks, and Jim will be incommunicado during parts of his canon.]
The young 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. It definitely drew Jim's gaze. He didn't even know why he was here but he was. The booze was cheap and it got you drunk fast. That was all Jim needed, it seemed.
Nodding and smiling to those she recognized, she ambled up to the old-fashioned bar and leaned gloriously toward the bartender. Jim was already smiling. Not at her, no, because he didn't want to be obvious but the bar stool nearby was the recipient of a big, shit eating grin.
“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, Jim decided that was a perfectly fine opening for him to slide on into the conversation. Smooth as silk.
“That’s a helluva drink for a woman wearing those kinds of boots. Or is that where it all ends up?”
Charming smile on his face, Jim leaned towards, projecting an air of admiration and curiosity. He wanted her to think he was interested, to think she was the only woman in the bar tonight.
“And a shot of Jack,” she finished instructing the bartender, “straight up.”
Jim 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. She reminded Jim of someone else, someone far away and full of mild stubbornness. It made him smile wider.
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. He was pretty frigging stubborn when he wanted something. Or someone.
“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.”
Jim didn’t miss a beat. “They don’t have first names in your world? Wait, let me guess. Is it ‘Jim’?”
“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 didn't answer, glaring for a second before turning her attention to her drink. Jim snickered quietly.
“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. “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 and Jim knew he'd surprised her. That was always fun to do. “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 Jim. Not the first time he'd been sized up by a guy the size of an oak tree.
“This guy bothering you?” he rumbled.
“Beyond belief,” Uhura admitted. “But nothing I can’t handle.”
Smiling benignly, Jim leaned toward her. “I’m sure you could handle me. And that’s an invitation.”
Gathering up the rest of her order, she turned and started to walk away. Jim 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 Jim 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?”
“Hey-Jim. Enough.” It was Uhura's voice and, while he wanted to turn back and talk more with her, it was impossible to do so when faced with a challenge like the massive mountain of a man in front of him.
The oversized cadet was still steaming over Jim's last comment. He took a step closer.
“What was that?”
Jim 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.”
Jim 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 Jim 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 oak tree of a cade swung. He was faster than Jim expected, but not quite fast enough. Ducking the hook, Jim 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 Jim 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, Jim’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, Jim 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 Jim. 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, Jim 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, Jim 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.”
Jim grimaced anew as he slid off the table. His face was bloodied and there were bruises in places he did not want to visit. He set his aching eyes on his savior and immediately scowled. He remembered that face. Remembered it too danmn well. “I remember you.”
“Captain Christopher Pike.” Jim didn't need the reminder but it was oh so kind of Pike to do so anyway. 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.”
Jim eyed the older man sharply. What the hell…?
In the course of the ensuing conversation Jim 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.
Jim 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?”
Jim 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.”
Pike 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?”
Jim considered before replying. But only briefly. He'd heard something like this before. Years before when this guy had shown up on the island and tried to work his Starfleet magic. “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.”
Jim 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."
Jim waited for him to contnue.
Only,” he added meaningfully, “those that strike me as exceptional. Tell me, Jim-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 Jim, Pike 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 Jim 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.”
Jim 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 Jim 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.”
“We’re even, right? I can go? Or do I have to sit through more of the sermon?” Jim didn't want to sit through this shit again. He didn't want to hear pretty promises, didn't want to remember his dead father, and he didn't want to listen to this guy anymore.
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.. But, apparently, Pike couldn’t let it go without adding one last bit of information, more hopeful than expectant.
“We’re at the Riverside shipyard inspecting construction of a new vessel. Shuttle for new recruits leaves tomorrow oh-six hundred.” He hesitated, then locked eyes one last time with the younger man standing across from him. “Your father was the captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved eight hundred lives, including your mother’s and yours. I dare you to do better.” Pivoting sharply, he headed for the door.
“Oooh,” Jim muttered mockingly, “you dare me. What’s that-the playground version of Starfleet? Gonna take your uniforms and your bonus and go home if I don’t play?” But Pike was already through the door and out of earshot.
Which left a conflicted Jim stewing in his own thoughts, and in more confusion than he would have thought possible.
*-*-*
Flat, featureless, and largely empty save for the isolated Starfleet installation, there was no denying that central Iowa was boring during the day. Exceeding all posted speed limits did not alleviate the boredom: excessive velocity only made the interminable vistas whip past faster.
Iowa scenery cubed was still Iowa scenery dominated by endless fields of cornstalks and the occasional sleek grain tower. He had grown up with it, Jim mused as he leaned forward on the spokeless electric cycle. That did not make it any less repetitious.
Like the fight last night. Different antagonists, different venue, similar outcome. As he sped southward, an uncomfortable vision presented itself: him, lying on the floor of another unnamed bar, in an unknown town, at some unspecified date in the future. Dazed, beat-up, and doing boozy complex calculations in his head for the amusement of laughing patrons in order to cadge a few credits to buy a bottle. It was not a pretty picture. With no one else present to bear the brunt of his trademark sarcasm, it did not seem quite so amusing as it had in the past.
Then there was the other past-the one that damned Captain Pike had dredged up. Anecdotes about the father he had never known. Tales of heroism. Stories of accomplishment. Parables of achievement. As the bike cruised along the otherwise empty road he glanced skyward. Blue was beautiful but empty, whereas the night sky was full of stars. Go outside after the moon had set and you could not escape them. His jaw clenched. What else couldn’t he escape? Until Pike had dredged it back up, Jim had managed to escape his past.
Did he also want to escape his future?
The fence was not particularly high, but it was strongly charged. The invisible energy beams that hummed through the traditional metal latticework and rose higher than his head could not be interdicted without setting off multiple alarms. Vertically aimed beams meant that a would-be intruder could not simply soar over it. Jim made no attempt to do so. Instead, he pulled up just outside the perimeter. Within, wrapped in a web of metal and composite scaffolding, a starship was under construction.
Its presence was no secret. Starfleet had chosen central Iowa as the site of this particular construction yard not only because of its proximity to Mississippi shipping and the industrial-commercial hubs of the Midwest but because if something blew, few people outside the yard itself would be at risk. There was ample room to work, plenty of territory for subsidiary firms and support industries to set up shop, and the ground was flat and tectonically stable.
His bike idling almost silently, Jim gazed at the great ship. While the superstructure was largely finished, it was still a long way from being complete, and internal fitting out had barely begun.
The service yard was filled with crates, containers, and boxes, some of them enormous, each stenciled or otherwise branded with the name of the new vessel for which their contents were destined.
U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
As he observed the flurry of activity, he sought the right words to describe the ship. She was the newest model and represented the latest Starfleet designs. Not that he paid regular attention to such things, oh no. He had been far more interested in which female performers happened to be dancing or singing at the regional bars. Physical beauty had always been important to him. That and natural charm, stance, and grace.
With a start he realized that he was unconsciously applying the same parameters to the ship under construction.
What the hell do you think you’re doing? he asked himself. You sleep on a starship, not with it.
Why are you wasting your time here? What makes you think they’d accept an overage delinquent like yourself? Because one slumming Starfleet captain said so? You haven’t even contemplated filling out the necessary forms, let alone making formal application. Get away, get going, get gone.
Spinning the bike, he accelerated away from the fence and the inaccessible metal temptress within. But which way to go? Which way to flee? He was nauseous with indecision.
Just go, his inner self screamed. No particular direction. That-away.
[NFB but open for typical things after he's home to nurse his wounds for one night. Hey, it's canon! Warning for: post length and taken from Alan Dean Foster's novelization of Star Trek. Time'll be speeding up from here on out, folks, and Jim will be incommunicado during parts of his canon.]