Star Trek Into Darkness Page 0,16

open to such a tribunal, a terrible realization slowly began to dawn.

Pike confirmed it. “They’ve taken the Enterprise away from you. And they’re sending you back to the Academy.”

When he could finally speak again, Kirk tried to defend himself, even though deep inside he was beginning to realize that the decision, along now with everything else, was beyond his control. “Admiral, listen . . .”

“No.” Pike was having none of it—frustrated, hurt, and angry, he seemed no longer inclined to listen to anything his disgraced protégé might have to say. “No, I’m not going to listen. Why should I listen? You don’t listen to anyone but yourself. No, I can’t listen!” Realizing his efforts were futile, Kirk went silent.

“You don’t comply with the rules,” Pike continued more calmly. “You don’t take responsibility for anything. And you. Don’t. Respect. The chair. You know why?”

His next words fell on the already stunned Kirk like a hammer.

“Because you’re not ready for it.”

IV

It wasn’t much of a room. More of an isolated loft. The imperfect accommodations did not matter to its sole occupant. With issues of much vaster import on his mind, he rarely paid attention to his surroundings. Any comfort he needed was found within himself. It had been intended that way from the beginning, though to look at him, no one could tell it was so. Off to one side, an antique music player was emitting the soothing sounds of a time gone by.

At the moment, he was engaged in drawing his own blood. Made to function painlessly, the extractor caused him no discomfort. It did not matter. He would have reacted with equal aplomb had it been necessary to hack off a finger and catch the resultant crimson flow in an ordinary glass. Such stoicism was his blessing. Such stoicism was his curse.

When a sufficient quantity of red liquid had been drawn, he disengaged the extractor. As it left his flesh, the device automatically sealed the entry it had made, leaving the man’s arm smooth and unmarred. From the extractor, he transferred the blood to a small glass vial. The man held it up to the light. There was nothing remarkable about its appearance . . . only its chemical composition.

Carefully, he slipped the vial inside a small rectangular box of polished wood. Into the opening beside the vial, he added a single ring of dull silvery metal. Though indicative of a division of Starfleet, the jewelry was not flashy or eye-catching. If anything, it was a bit on the bulky side, like the kind of rings that were commonly awarded for winning sports competitions. The owner of the vial and the ring smiled at his silent comparison. That there was no one present to see him smile did not trouble him at all. He knew the father of the sick little girl anxiously awaited the forthcoming gift. Expressions of mild amusement were for the benefit of the donor alone.

The bathroom was unchanged, but not its owner. The man staring into the mirror was scared. Tom Harewood had been terrified for a long time now, but for someone else. This was different. Not that it mattered. The end justifies the means, he kept telling himself over and over. Silly old trope. Nothing but a foolish juvenile meme. No less valid for all that, though.

The package had been delivered by private courier. He had half expected it never to arrive. In addition to a vial of blood, the dark-toned box contained a single ring. Harewood carefully switched it with the apparently identical silvery Starfleet Academy class ring he was already wearing. He was a bit surprised that the newly arrived metal loop fit perfectly. Given what he had managed to learn about the individual who had provided both vial and ring, he knew he should have expected nothing less.

A glance into the bedroom revealed the empty bed: its covers turned back, the spread rumpled. His wife was not there. She was at the hospital, keeping futile watch, waiting for a miracle without the slightest awareness that it was on its way. She would be expecting him, her daily relief in the ongoing tragedy that their lives had become, but not this early. He would surprise her.

Beyond the bedroom, a softly spoken word from the apartment’s owner caused a closet door to slide open. Inside were neat rows of casual clothing, shoes designed for various outings, and shirts reflecting their owner’s extensive travels. The far end was occupied by more formal wear. Each