Captain's Log, Supplemental:The Romulan threat has been turned away.
One Romulan vessel was destroyed in the encounter. The other three ships, commanded by a young officer named T'bak, suffered varying degrees of damage and were convinced to withdraw—leaving the freighter Gwendolyn free to continue her passage to Antiochus Twelve.
The Enterprise was also damaged in the course of the hostilities. However, repairs have been carried out with great efficiency by Lieutenant Commander Scott, and the ship is once more spaceworthy. At the earliest opportunity, however, I would like to put in to a starbase for a more thorough overhaul of our engines. According to Mister Scott, they are now held together with saliva and a fervent prayer.
While there was an alarming number of injuries sustained by individual crewmen, none of them—happily—were fatal. All but the worst cases have been released from sickbay and are back on duty schedules.
Both the Hood and the Potemkin have gone on to their respective assignments, having acquitted themselves well during the conflict. Liuetenant Paultic, as other records will show, is in temporary command of the Hood until a replacement can be found for Captain Martinez.
We still do not know the reason for the Romulan military action. The captain of the Gwendolyn insists that he never violated Romulan space, and he seems to be an honest man. Moreover, his computer log supports his contention.
In any case, I believe the Romulans will think twice before staging another such confrontation. Call it a hunch.
KIRK PRESSED A BUTTON, allowing himself a pause in his entry. He sat back in his chair, considered that which he had not yet spoken of—specifically, the matter of the androids. Only his mention of Martinez's replacement had even touched on the subject.
Where to begin? With the report he had just received from the Endeavor—stating that a search party had failed to turn up the bodies of Martinez and the others?
Or at the beginning—with Roger Korby and his misguided altruism? And the original incident on Exo III, which he had failed to report?
He opted for the latter alternative. And recorded what he now knew he should have recorded months ago—despite the fact that it would bring down the wrath of Starfleet Command.
Then, his log entry completed, Kirk headed for a long-overdue engagement.
DeLong stopped at the entrance to the chief engineer's office, knocked gently on the half-open door panel.
Montgomery Scott looked up.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
He regarded her soberly.
"That a' do, Ensign DeLong." The formality didn't escape her notice. "Shut th' door behind ye, if ye please."
She did as he asked. The door slid closed the rest of the way.
"Sit down," he told her.
She sat, a little puzzled.
"Is something wrong, Mister Scott?"
"Ye might say that." He leaned back in his chair, shook his head. "Or did ye forget th' orders a' left when we went after those androids?"
Suddenly, she understood. Her face must have betrayed the fact.
"A' see ye remember now." He frowned. "A' canna brook disobedience, lass."
"Begging your pardon, sir," she said, "but I was only following the captain's advice."
It was plain he hadn't expected that.
"Th' captain? What's he got t' do wi' this?"
"It was what he told me—after that, um, incident in the gym." She shrugged. "He said that we've got to follow the rules sometimes—and that at other times, we've got to make up our own. It's the only way, he said, that we can survive sometimes."
The chief engineer's brows beetled together. "Captain Kirk told ye that?"
"Aye, sir. And when I learned what the circumstances were—how you and the captain had gone off shorthanded to apprehend the androids—I figured it was one of those times I had to make my own rules."
Scott pondered that for a moment. "A' see," he said. Were those the traces of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth? "An' a' can hardly argue wi' th' captain's own advice—now can a'?"
"No, sir," said DeLong. "I mean, I hope not, sir."
There was no mistaking the smile now. Scott snorted in mock disapproval.
"Get out o' here," he told her. "A've got better things t' do than argue wi' a smart-alecky lass."
DeLong smiled back, but didn't prolong the conversation. She didn't want to press her luck.
With a quick, deferential nod, she placed her hand against the door plate. As soon as the door hissed open, she left.
Outside, in the engine room, Critelli was looking impatient. When he noticed her coming toward him, he turned his palms up in a query.
"It was nothing," she said.
"Good. I'd hate to postpone our evening because you pulled extra duty."
"No," she said. "No chance of that, Mister Critelli."
As it turned out, the evening was better than she had expected. Nor did she give a single thought to James T. Kirk the entire time.
The captain swiveled on the examination table and sat up.
"Well?" he asked. "Am I going to live, Doctor?"
McCoy harumphed. "If you don't go baiting irascible chief medical officers, it's more than likely. Just continue to take it easy on that wrist—say, for another week or so. And that burn cream I gave you should be applied twice a day—no matter how busy you are." He smiled crookedly. "If you work it right, maybe you can con some young lady into applying it for you."
The captain eyed him. "Now that," he said, "is the kind of medical advice I like to hear."
Just then, Nurse Chapel emerged from the critical-care unit.
"How're they doing?" called McCoy.
She nodded. "Fine. They should all be out in another couple of days." Then, to the captain, "Nice to see you remembered your physical, sir." And without waiting for an answer, she crossed to the office area.
Kirk smiled as he watched her go. Would she understand about his having to tell the truth about Korby? After all that had happened, he was sure of it.
"You know," said the doctor, "it was the strangest feeling … having to use a phaser on Christine."
The captain chuckled. "I know. Imagine trying to use one on yourself:"
McCoy considered that, shivered involuntarily. "Yes," he said. "I suppose that would be even stranger." He grunted. "It's a miracle that Christine and Spock and the others weren't killed. That Brown must be an interesting character."
Kirk nodded. "Compassion in an android. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
"You think it'll catch on?"
"You mean on Palantine Four?" Kirk shrugged. "You never know, Bones. Now that my duplicate is gone, the androids that are left seem to look up to Brown. After all, he is their progenitor—in a sense."
"I'm glad they're getting a chance to set up their own society," said McCoy. "But I'm also glad they'll be on an official off-limits planet. And that their machine will be kept under wraps at Starfleet headquarters. Heavy wraps."
"Amen to that, Bones." Kirk reached for his uniform shirt. "Amen to that."
Just then, someone entered the enclosure. Both men turned.
"Whoops," said Clifford, coming to an abrupt halt. "Sorry, sir. I didn't realize the captain was in here."
"It's all right," said McCoy. "You're right on time. It's the captain who was late—weeks late."
Kirk stood and pulled on his shirt. "How's that forehead, mister?"
"Fine, sir," said Clifford. "Thanks to Doctor McCoy, there won't even be a scar."
But he didn't look happy about it. Or was it something else that was bothering him? Kirk asked the question out loud.
Clifford nodded, his frown deepening, "It's K'leb," he said.
"What about him?" asked McCoy.
"He was with Mister Chekov in the library, sir. They were listening to some Russian composer when K'leb took off his earphones and became despondent. He wouldn't talk to anyone, not even Pavel, until I got there. And when I asked what was wrong, he told me it was the music—it sounded like something he'd heard back on P'othpar Island." Clifford shook his head. "It made him homesick."
For a second or two, all was quiet in that section of sickbay.
"The worst part," said the crewman, "is that K'leb saved my life—and there's nothing I can do to repay him."
Another tinny silence.
"Wait a minute," said Kirk. He snapped his fingers, turned to McCoy.
"What?" asked the doctor. "What is it?"
"Damn. With everything else that's been going on, it never even occurred to me."
"What never occurred to you?" asked McCoy. "I feel like we're playing twenty questions."
"It never occurred to me," said Kirk, "that K'leb is free of his bond—already."
Clifford looked at him. "How, sir?"
"Because," said Kirk, "he saved my life."
The doctor's brow puckered. "That was the loophole in the custom," he said slowly. "But how do you suppose that …" And then, suddenly, he smiled. "Of course," he said. "Why didn't I think of that?"
Clifford looked from one to the other.
"With all due respect, sir—sirs—I still don't …"
The captain explained.
The lift doors closed.
"Bridge level," said Kirk.
For the first time in days, he was able to breathe a sigh of relief. He had been cleared of any wrongdoing in the Roger Korby matter.
In the end, Admiral Straus had excused Kirk's actions on the basis of his motives. Of course, it hadn't hurt any that Straus himself had admired Korby. Nor that—as he had admitted off the record—he had doctored a couple of log entries himself, back in the days when he ran a starship.
The turbolift doors opened with a soft whoosh. Feeling like a prisoner who had just been set free, he stepped out onto the bridge and headed for his seat.
On the main viewscreen, the first group of androids was materializing on Palantine Four. The terrain was harsh, scoured by wild, high winds and devoid of any significant plant life—but then, the androids needed neither food nor shelter to survive. And the Federation did not designate a planet off-limits unless it was pretty inhospitable.
Kirk recognized Brown, a couple of the others. Inwardly, he wished them luck—despite all they had done. If Starfleet could be forgiving, so could he.
Shortly after, a second group materialized. And a third.
He was glad they had sent down a visual receptor to make sure there were no unforeseen problems. There was something stirring about this event—the establishment of the first nonorganic planetary community. It would be interesting to see how it fared.
His reverie was cut short by a familiar sound. Swiveling in his seat, he saw Spock and McCoy emerge from the lift together.
"Are you out of your mind?" railed McCoy. "You honestly believe those things are superior to us?"
"All I said," corrected the Vulcan, "is that they have a greater capacity for logic than the humans after which they are modeled."
"You saw how an android screwed up this ship—we were dead in the water!"
"A special case, Doctor. Apparently, he had a flaw in his programming—a prejudice against his first officer, which clouded his thinking. And prevented him from following what—by all accounts—was sound advice."
"I see," said McCoy. "So if he had listened to your duplicate, we would have defeated the Romulans single-handed."
Spock shrugged. "It is not outside the realm of possibility. In fact, the—"
"Gentlemen," said Kirk, interrupting.
Both Spock and McCoy stared at him—as if they had forgotten that anyone else was there.
"Is it possible," asked the captain, "to have a little peace and quiet on my own bridge?"
The doctor seemed about to provide an answer when Uhura precluded it.
"Captain, it's Mister Clifford. He says that he and K'leb are ready for us in the briefing room."
"Thank you, Lieutenant." He glanced at Spock and McCoy. "Shall we go?"
The Vulcan was as poker-faced as ever. "I do not see why not, sir. That is why you asked us to meet you here, was it not?"
K'leb looked at all the faces around the briefing table. At K'liford, at M'Koy, at Spok. At Uh'ura. And last of all, at his ne'barat.
Do you believe me now, K'leb?
The boy nodded. I believe you, K'liford.
The test had been necessary—the face-to-face meeting, the recounting of the deed. All as set forth by custom. He had heard each speak in turn, though K'liford had had to translate the words. And—much to his relief—the story had not been a well-meaning fabrication, something meant to deceive him into thinking he'd repaid his obligation. It had been a true telling.
Of how M'Koy had heard his suspicions and passed them on to Uh'ura. Of how they had enabled her to discern the real captain from the demon. Of how she had armed Kirk with the knowledge he needed to preserve himself—and to ultimately regain his ship.
The ne'barat himself had delivered the last and most passionate speech. He had said that K'leb's actions had saved not only his life—but, in addition, the lives of all those on the Enterprise.
And in his heart, he had believed that. It was as plain to K'leb as any emotion he'd ever felt in another.
This was not the usual way for a ne'damla to save his ne'barat's life, and thus to free himself from the bond. But then, his bondage had been anything but usual.
No ne'damla had ever seen the stars so close up. No ne'damla had traveled among them in a ship such as this one.
Do you acknowledge, asked K'liford, that your debt has been satisfied?
Yes, myfriend. I acknowledge that it is so.
K'liford smiled. And a moment later, when he told the others of K'leb's conclusion, they smiled too.
All but Spock, of course. But he was happy inside—and he let K'leb feel that happiness, if only for a second.
Then the ne'barat rose, genuine warmth behind his grin, and extended his hand. This time, there was nothing threatening in it—only an empty hand, and K'liford had taught him what to do with one of those.
He clasped it.
Home, he told himself. I'm going home.