"THE CREW OF THE" St. Brendan cautiously followed Captain Loughran over the railing and onto the derelict vessel they had discovered. The Stephanie Emilia's sails hung unfurled overhead, the wide sheets of heavy canvas motionless in the still air. Ropes lay neatly coiled on deck, and everything appeared to be in order, but the wheel was unattended and there wasn't a crewman to be seen.
"Captain Loughran's men shifted nervously. An empty ship hadn't been what they'd expected to find when they spied the Stephanie Emilia moving as though a drunk were at the helm, and their hands tightened nervously around the truncheons they carried. The captain was likewise unnerved, but, being a sailor of long history, he did not intend to show fear to his men when there was likely a reasonable explanation for the Emilia's abandonment.
"Pirates might have been at the vessel, he thought, but there were no signs of struggle. Perhaps the crew had been overturned and were confined below, locked in the hold, or been made to walk the plank. Maybe they'd mutinied and left the ship altogether. Standing out on deck wouldn't discover the truth, so Loughran raised his chin bravely and called out in a strong voice, 'Is anyone here?' The heavy air swallowed his words like muffling cloth, and there was no reply."
Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott paused to run a calculating eye over his audience. The Scotsman looked as though he were thoroughly enjoying himself. Certainly, his audience was having fun—every available chair in the Enterprise's rec room was taken. The crew had also found other perches on counters and gaming tables, or sat cross-legged on the floor.
Seated at a corner table, his chair tipped back on two legs against the wall, Doctor Leonard McCoy basked in a warm and lazy sense of complete contentment brought on by the fact that he'd beaten Jim Kirk three games out of four in Riseaway. The antigrav game was hard and strenuous, and Kirk was a worthy opponent, but McCoy had gained the upper hand this evening and put a spin on his ball that pleasantly trounced the captain right down to his boot tops. It wasn't often he got one over on Kirk, and the doctor smiled with satisfaction as his gaze drifted over the assembled crew.
Most of those present he recognized from the pictures in their med files, particularly those who had just recently come aboard, as he had only that day finished reading all the profiles. Some he knew by name from frequent encounters in the big ship's corridors, and there were the special few he felt comfortable calling his friends. Everyone was caught up in the chief engineer's tale, their eyes glued to the Scotsman, and more than one sat with mouth hung slightly open, raptly awaiting the rest of the tale. Their expressions reminded McCoy of those of little children at bedtime, and he smiled at the special memory evoked.
"Nervous sweat stuck Captain Loughran's shirt to his back like a second skin," Scotty resumed. "The heat was oppressive, and with it came the rising stink of fear from his men. He drew a long cutlass from his belt and held it at the ready. 'You men'—he pointed to several of his crew. 'Stand watch here. The rest come with me.' He crossed the deck with his unhappy followers close behind. Their footfalls sounded hollowly on the boards of the sunbleached deck, and they stepped into the darkened stairway leading below to a stygian darkness.
"Loughran waited quietly a moment, listening, every sense alert. At a gesture, one of the crew struck flint and tinder, lit an oil lamp, and passed it forward. The captain's fingers closed tightly around the thin metal handle, and he held the lamp aloft as he slowly descended the steep stairway into the hold.
"The darkness seemed to fight the advance of light, but Loughran would not be defeated. He pressed forward, his crew close behind. The flickering lamplight lit the planes of Loughran's rough face with amber, highlighting the deep creases around his eyes and the lurid scar across one cheek.
"The corridor belowdecks was empty in the circle of light thrown by the lamp. Loughran tried to swallow and found he couldn't. Silently cursing his fear, he moved forward and called out again. 'Is anyone here? Is there anyone below?' Silence. He continued down the long, dark passage and called out once more. Still he received no reply. It was eerily quiet in the hold. No creaking of the rigging reached them deep within the ship's belly. They could not hear the sigh of ocean waves caressing the outer hull, and even the ever-present rats were quiet, staring with reddish, hateful eyes as the crew passed by.
"A roughly carved sign over a broad door identified the room beyond as Captain Beppe's quarters. It was a name they all recognized, for Marco Beppe was reputed to be the fiercest pirate ever to plunder Italy's coastline. Rumor had it he'd scuttled his last ship, drowning half his crew in the process, rather than have her spoils taken. What his new vessel was doing, adrift and unmanned off the coast of Scotland, was anybody's guess.
"Loughran pounded against the door with the cutlass's heavy hilt. 'Captain Beppe? Are you there?' A sudden scream tore the silence beyond the closed door. Without thought of his own safety, Captain Loughran slammed his shoulder against the door and brought it crashing down. He rushed inside and stopped, frozen by what he saw."
The quintessential storyteller, Scotty paused here. McCoy bit back a grin and made himself resist the nearly unbearable temptation to yell Boo! and send better than a dozen crewmen flying into the air.
"A single whale-oil lamp lit the room. The chamber well befitted a pirate captain, with its heavy furniture and the walls hung with thick tapestries. Books bound in leather and a king's ransom in jewels lay strewn across the floor. An ornate wooden table occupied the center of the room, its surface covered with plates of hot food, and seated with his back to the door was a curly-headed giant of a man.
"Captain Loughran approached him. 'Captain Beppe?' When there was no reply, he reached out and gingerly touched the man's shoulder. It was as hard and cold as rock. Rounding the table to face him, Loughran's heart hammered. It was Captain Beppe or, rather, it had been, for the pirate was dead. His fingers were hooked like claws and had driven deep yellow furrows into the tabletop. His wide eyes showed white all around and stared out of his head in terror at whatever had been his last sight. His mouth gaped in a silent scream, the tendons in his neck stretched beyond endurance. They covered him with a sheet from the bed and continued on, but the rest of their exploration revealed nary another soul aboard that ship, and never a sign of whatever or whoever killed Captain Beppe."
Scotty's bright eyes gauged his audience carefully, and his voice lowered confidentially before he continued. "They buried Beppe at sea. But during the voyage home, as the St. Brendan towed the hapless Stephanie Emilia toward safe harbor in Scotland, insane laughter was often heard from her vacant deck. The laughter of the damned."
After a moment of silence, a shuddering sigh rippled through the assembled crowd. Several people rubbed their arms hard and exchanged nervous laughter. Uhura and Sulu grinned appreciatively at their friend's story.
Seated across from McCoy, Jim Kirk glanced at the doctor with a tired smile and winked. "Commander Scott, do you enjoy giving my crew the heebie-jeebies?"
The chief engineer smirked at his captain, and his cheeks dimpled until he looked like a Scottish kewpie doll. His eyes danced with delight. "T'was only a wee ghost story, sir," he replied innocently.
"Wee?" Ensign Hallie's voice raised in objection from the next table over, but her tone and look were both teasing. "I don't know about the rest of you, but here's one security guard"—she stuck a thumb against her chest—"who's sleeping with a night-light on!" Several other personnel laughed with enthusiastic agreement and applauded.
"Wonderful, Scotty," McCoy drawled. "Now I'll have to prescribe sleep inducers to half the crew and psychological counseling for night frights to the other half. I guess there's no rest for the wicked." He had thoroughly enjoyed the story. It recalled fondly remembered nights around a campfire at his uncle's place in the Adirondack Mountains of northern New York State, nights he'd spent buried deep inside his sleeping bag with a flashlight as comfort against the dark and the frightening sounds of night-prowling creatures.
Kirk joined in the friendly laughter generated by the doctor's remark. "All this time, Scotty, I thought you spent every evening holed up in your quarters with a good technical manual," the captain teased. "Now I discover you while away your time giving the crew the willies."
Commander Scott's expression was the picture of injured pride, and McCoy thought, not for the first time, that the stage had lost a great actor when Montgomery Scott took up his chosen field of engineering. "I don't want you to think I'm neglecting my duties, Captain Kirk," he said forthrightly. "I keep abreast of all the current engineering literature." Humor twinkled in the depths of his eyes. "I only scare the crew for recreational purposes."
This comment elicited more robust laughter and incited Uhura to lob a wadded napkin in the chief engineer's general direction.
"At least I'm assured you're getting your proper exercise," McCoy countered dryly. He grinned and stretched, shifted sideways, and crossed his legs. "Is that a true story, Scotty?"
"About the Stephanie Emilia? Aye, Dr. McCoy, that it is, though I'm not surprised you've not heard of her. She wasn't around a very long time, and she's more of a Scots legend than a tale for the history books." He sat back and crossed his legs, ready to begin another tale. "She was an Italian vessel of Spanish make back in the sixteen hundreds. Captain Beppe was her sole master for her short life, and in his time didn't he create quite a stir along the Italian seaboard with one ship and another!" Scott leaned forward, warming to his lecture. "I saw a painting of him once, in a museum in Edinburgh. He was the very picture of a storybook brigand, with his size and curly dark hair and beard, but there was no touch of romance in the reality of him. He's said to have had the soul of a heartless monster, and by all accounts that's true.
"Be that as it may, shortly after the St. Brendan towed the Stephanie Emilia into the Firth of Tay in Scotland, Beppe's ship caught fire and burned to the waterline. As you can well imagine, there was all sorts of speculation on the cause of the blaze. Some accounts say the townsfolk considered the ship cursed and wanted her gone, so they fired her. Some say an unknown owner burned her for insurance money. Still others told stories as to how a large, shadowy figure was seen floating across her deck shortly before the fire began." Scott shrugged philosophically. "Whatever caused it, the Stephanie Emilia was certainly an unlucky vessel her entire short life."
"Reminiscent of the Mary Celeste," Kirk commented.
Ensign Markson turned in his seat beside Hallie, round features alight with interest. "The what, sir?"
McCoy caught the tiny sigh that escaped his friend, and smiled slightly with sympathetic understanding. Maybe Starfleet cadets these days only dreamed of starships and planets to steer them by. Kirk was proud of his vessel and prouder still to be her master, but McCoy knew that deep in Kirk's heart there would always be the desire for salt-scented air and the sting of spray, tall ships, billowing sail, and the creak of tight rigging. McCoy had lost count of how often during their long friendship Kirk had admitted to a yearning for the bittersweet tang of the open sea and the roll and surge of breakers beneath his feet as the ship leapt from the crest of one wave to another.
Kirk turned to Markson. "The Mary Celeste, Ensign. She was a seagoing vessel on Earth, built in 1868 and captained by Benjamin Spooner Briggs. She left Staten Island on November 7, 1872. Aboard were Captain Briggs, his wife and two-year-old daughter, and several crewmen. Just short of one month later, on December 4, the ship was sighted by the Dei Gratia. Captain David Reed Morehouse reported finding the Mary Celeste under short sail and moving erratically. Upon receiving no reply to their hailing, he and his men went aboard to investigate, just as Captain Loughran did with the Stephanie Emilia. Not a single passenger was found."
"What happened to them, Captain?" Hallie asked, leaning around Markson, her eyes wide.
Kirk shrugged his broad shoulders in a manner that caught the attention of several of the women present. McCoy snorted and rolled his eyes. "No one knows for certain, Ensign, though there was certainly a lot of speculation at the time."
"Wait a minute," McCoy interrupted. He leaned forward, and his chair legs hit the floor. "Wasn't the Mary Celeste that ship where they found the captain's pipe still burning, food warm on the table, and the ship's cat sound asleep? That sounds a lot like Scotty's story."
"And it's a good story," Kirk agreed with a smile. "But that's exactly what it is, a story. The worst sort of yellow journalism to come out of that era. The final consensus in the investigation that followed the Mary Celeste's return to port was that the load of alcohol the ship carried in her hold gave off enough fumes to cause an explosion. There were indications that at least one of the hold doors exploded outward off its hinges, and several feet of water was taken on in various areas of the ship. The general belief is that Captain Briggs, his family, and the crew feared a greater explosion would occur and sink the vessel, so they took to one of the lifeboats and abandoned the Mary Celeste to her fate. She put out in November off New England, remember. That isn't exactly the best of times in which to trust any boat to the vagaries of weather. No evidence of the missing lifeboat was ever found, and it is generally assumed that it capsized and all hands perished at sea."
"That's so sad," Uhura commented, and several people concurred.
Kirk glanced back at his communications officer and nodded in agreement. "It is sad, Commander, but it was the risk everyone took when putting out to sea at that time in history. Things weren't as safe as they are now, and those who chanced it knew they might not make it back. Whatever was their goal, they evidently thought it worth the risk. In many respects, it's the same risk you make in taking an active part in life, rather than just letting it happen to you." The corner of his mouth twitched upward in a half-smile. "Or in becoming a Starfleet officer."
"That's it!" Hallie vowed. "I knew I should have read that fine print more carefully."
"You and me both, Ensign," McCoy called out in agreement. He grinned at Kirk over the others' laughter. "See there, Commander Scott? There's a perfectly logical explanation for what happened to the Mary Celeste, so I'll bet the same is true of the Stephanie Emilia."
"Dr. McCoy!" The chief engineer's tone spoke of grave wounds inflicted. His dark, silver-shot brows beetled together in an admonishing frown of utter disappointment. "There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy. I'll grant you that it's anybody's guess what happened aboard the Stephanie Emilia to cause Captain Beppe's horrible death, but it's common knowledge among the Scots that every derelict vessel carries its haunt. It's practically a cosmic law. I can't believe you'd think I'd waste the crew's time telling them something that wasn't true!"
McCoy tipped his head with mock solemnity and raised his empty hand as though it held a glass. "My apologies, Commander Scott, if I inadvertently cast aspersions on the storytelling abilities of your regal, ancestral bloodline or your fine true tale." He feigned draining the drink, making the toast final.
Scott returned the salute and favored the doctor with a friendly wink.
"What about the drone we're going to retrieve, sir?" Ensign Markson queried of Kirk. "Lieutenant Chekov told me that it's been superfluous for a long time now and hasn't sent any data back to Earth for decades. Do you think that could be haunted, too?"
McCoy eyed the new ensign consideringly. Markson wasn't from Earth. According to his medical profile, he was born of Earth parents and raised on Vindali 5, whose natives had a very active belief in the supernatural. Even so, four years of the Academy's particular brand of pragmatism could practically knock the belief in pon far out of a Vulcan, and Markson didn't look like he was about to go into trance or anything. His psyche scores had been particularly high.
"Right, Dan." Hallie jibed and poked her friend, then wiggled her fingers in front of his face, her eyes huge and her face contorted. "And all the little creepies and gobblies are going to come out and take control of the ship when we get the drone aboard!"
Markson grinned, slapping her spidery hands away, and McCoy spoke over the wave of laughter that greeted her ghost impersonation. "If what Commander Scott says is true, Ensign Markson, then the derelict shipyard in Tau Ceti should be jam-packed with more ghosts than you can shake a stick at, but I've never heard of any being reported."
"Maybe you can get reassigned to go out there and take a look, Dan," someone called from the back.
Markson glanced in Kirk's direction and, McCoy guessed, modified what he was going to reply to a simple, "No, thanks. I'll let you have the honor."
Further conversation was precluded by an interruption from the wall speaker. "Bridge to Captain Kirk."
Kirk leaned across the table and pressed the stud on the intercom with his thumb. "Kirk here."
"Captain, you wanted to be notified when we reached the drone. We are now within range."
"Understood. I'll be right there. Have Mr. Spock join me on the bridge. Kirk out." He shoved back his chair and stood, tugging his uniform straight. "Ladies and gentlemen—" He smiled, hands out apologetically. "It's been fun, but duty calls. Would you like to join me, Doctor?"
"Certainly, Captain." McCoy didn't even consider not accepting. His ex-wife had once observed that he liked sticking his nose into other people's business. He had retorted that he merely liked to be informed.
Kirk paused in the doorway with McCoy behind him and looked back at the gathering. "Commander Scott, let's see if you can find a more soothing sort of bedtime story for the crew, all right?"
Scott obediently looked abashed and nodded soberly. "Aye, sir. You have my word on it."
"I'll hold you to that, Mr. Scott," Kirk replied. "Come on, Bones."
McCoy followed him out of the room, the door closing on Scott's voice saying, "Now, then, children. Once upon a time …" Exchanging smiles, the two friends walked down the corridor to the nearest turbolift. Once inside, Kirk commanded, "Bridge," and the doctor felt a faint vibration as the lift began to move.
McCoy glanced at Kirk out of the corner of his eye, and one eyebrow rose marginally. The doctor quelled the desire to slap a hand across his forehead. He hadn't even been aware that his eyebrow arched until Uhura laughingly pointed it out to him one day. It was just what he needed—a personal quirk to remind him of Spock! "You look tired."
Kirk's eyes slid toward him. "I ought to, staying up half the night playing Riseaway with you, you old horse thief! What have you been doing, practicing on the sly?"
The doctor buffed his nails on the front of his uniform. "Some of us are just born with an innate talent."
Kirk snorted. "Oh, I won't deny that, but I don't think it's Riseaway you have an innate talent for. You're not a good influence, Doctor," he said sternly. "I was supposed to be getting some sleep, not floating around in zero-gee getting my socks knocked off by a con man. Are you sure there aren't any riverboat gamblers in your bloodline?"
"I make no promises as to that, Captain. But don't go blaming me for your poor judgment," McCoy teased.
"How's that?" Kirk raised his eyebrows.
"I didn't twist your arm to come out and play. You could always have said no."
"And miss Scotty's story afterward?" Kirk huffed. "Not likely."
"I didn't think so." McCoy laughed and shook his head. "You know, he's probably better for the psychological well-being of the crew than anything else I know."
"How do you figure that?" Kirk asked curiously.
McCoy folded his arms and leaned against the wall. "Mankind has been telling ghost stories to itself practically since we crawled out of the primordial ooze and gathered around the first campfire to let the mud flake off. Scaring the bejesus out of ourselves serves a real purpose, not the least of which is drawing us together as a community against the unknown. It hasn't hurt us and, in a lot of ways, it's helped us. It's part of the culture that's made us what we are. The ones who were brave enough to test the tales are the ones who got us onto the high seas and into space." McCoy eyed him. "I'll bet your grandfather told you ghost stories."
"Now that you mention it"—Kirk smiled—"he did."
"Thought so," McCoy retorted.
The turbolift doors opened and they exited onto the bridge. Spock was already there and at his station. He looked up as they entered, and nodded fractionally. "Captain. Doctor."
"Spock." Kirk nodded distractedly to the rest of the night-watch bridge crew. His eyes sought the viewscreen even before he lowered himself into his seat at the conn, with McCoy taking his customary place behind him. Kirk pointed to a small irregularity, unfamiliar against the pattern of well-known constellations. "Is that the drone?"
"Yes, sir," answered the ensign at helm.
"Magnify."
The image on the screen immediately grew in size and was unmistakably the gawky, antiquated piece of scientific equipment. It looked like a mechanical eggplant. An antenna lay skewed against one side, and from another side protruded a stump where most of another antenna had been sheared away in some ancient accident. The drone looked dead and lifeless and totally outmoded.
"Well, that's it," Kirk said. "It's hard to believe that something that archaic helped get us where we are today."
"See any ghosts, Mr. Spock?" McCoy queried brightly, glancing over his shoulder at the first officer.
Spock's eyebrow rose. "Doctor?" he questioned.
Kirk waved a hand without turning around. "Ignore him, Spock. He's only trying to cause trouble."
"I see." Spock inclined his head politely. "There is something to be said for the steadfastness of certain archaic structures."
McCoy felt confused. "Is he talking about the drone or have I just been insulted?" he asked.
Kirk suppressed a smile. "You've got me. Ensign Devin, commence drone retrieval procedure. Lock on tractor beam. I want that thing safely stowed in cargo bay twelve."
"Aye, sir."
Kirk watched confidently as the drone was slowly drawn closer by the tractor beam.
"Ugly sucker, isn't it?" McCoy commented. "Nothing like our Enterprise."
"Not much, Bones, no. But in some respects, that outdated mechanism is our ship's ancestor."
"I guess it's true what they say. You can't pick your relatives."
Point of view switched as other hull cameras came into play, following the drone as it passed out of their direct line of sight and down around the ship. In a few moments Ensign Devin turned, clearly proud of his job. "Drone safely on board, Captain. Pressure is stabilized and crew are securing it in bay twelve."
"Well done, Ensign. Lay in a course for—"
"Captain." Spock's voice interrupted him. "I am picking up a reading on a large object just entering sensor range, bearing mark 0703.54."
"Identification?"
"Unknown."
The line of Kirk's shoulders tensed beneath the ruddy burgundy of his uniform jacket. "We're damned close to the Romulan Neutral Zone," he murmured. "Go to yellow alert and let's have a look at it."
The annoying klaxon began its familiar cry. The strident shrilling set McCoy's teeth on edge, and he stepped closer to the conn, resting one hand on the back of the chair.
Kirk glanced fleetingly at his friend, then the captain's eyes narrowed speculatively as the image came onto the screen. At this distance, it didn't look like much. "Magnify."
The bridge crew stared silently at the unexpected image now on the screen. Even Spock seemed to be momentarily struck dumb, trying to comprehend what it was they were looking at.
McCoy had no such handicap. He leaned over Kirk, his arm brushing the captain's shoulder, and thrust one finger at the viewscreen. "What the hell is that?"