rob a bank when your getaway car has a flat tire.”
For an instant, Kirk’s thoughts seemed to wing elsewhere. “Last getaway car I was in I flattened the whole car, not just the tires, and I’m still here.” He looked back at McCoy. “Engineering will have us patched up and ready to disappear by the time we get back.” He raised his voice so the bridge sensors would detect and transmit his words clearly. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Chekov?”
Down in Engineering the first warning sounds had begun to clamor for attention. Readouts were decidedly not cooperating, techs were starting to argue vociferously with one another, and there were too many red lights where a little green would have been far more encouraging. Through it all, Chekov managed the tersest possible response.
“Uh . . . yes, Keptin. I’ll do my best.”
Taking his chief engineer’s hurried response for an acknowledgment rather than a question, Kirk looked once more to the helm station. “Mr. Sulu, you have the conn. Once we’re en route to the surface, I want you to transmit a targeted comm burst at Harrison’s general location. Keep it tight and narrow: It’ll be on Starfleet frequency only; so between that, the fact that it’s going into an expansive deserted area, and a little luck, the Klingons won’t intercept it. They’re not likely to be scanning for Starfleet messages right in their own backyard.”
Sulu nodded his understanding. “Content of message, Captain?”
Kirk considered. “Tell him that we have a bunch of new, real big photon torpedoes pointed at his head and if he doesn’t play nice, you’re not afraid to use them.” At the look of uncertainty that slipped over the helmsman’s face, Kirk queried further. “Is that a problem?”
“No, sir,” Sulu responded solemnly. “It’s just that I’ve never sat in that chair before.” He nodded toward the command position.
Kirk replied reassuringly. “You’re gonna do great. Who knows—with good fortune you’ll probably have a command of your own someday.”
Following Kirk off the bridge, the ship’s chief physician was considerably less sanguine. “You’re sitting Mr. Sulu at a high-stakes poker game, having him take your seat and telling him to bluff with cards he can’t use without running the risk of blowing up his fellow players.” The doors to the lift opened, and the two men entered. “He’s a good man and a fine officer,” McCoy continued, “but he’s not a captain.”
“For the next two hours, he is. And stop talking in metaphors. That’s an order.”
“It’s a southern North America thing.” The doctor’s explanation did not concede compliance.
Kirk made a face as the lift started down. “I’m not sure if that’s a metaphor or not, but whatever it is, don’t do it anymore. We’re a long way from any of the Americas.”
“Too damn bad about that,” McCoy muttered.
On the bridge, Sulu changed seats, dropping into the captain’s chair as a hastily called subordinate took his usual place at the helmsman’s station. Though as a bridge officer, Sulu was perfectly familiar with the chair’s instrumentation and functions, his posture was still tentative. It did not help that all eyes were on him.
Conscious that he was expected to do something besides simply occupy the chair physically, he addressed the comm. Identifying him via his physical profile, internal vitals, and voice, the chair’s sensors responded obediently.
“Acting Captain Hikaru Sulu to Weapons Bay. Load and prepare for firing the torpedoes taken aboard just prior to Earth orbit departure. Coordinate targeting of new weapons via automatic geophysical positioning. Preliminary target should be the center of previously described deserted urban area within the Ketha Province on Qo’noS. Higher resolution of final target area yet to come. Landing team including the captain will be proceeding surfaceward, and I want those torpedoes locked in by the time he leaves the ship.”
Clad in dark gray civilian attire and carrying a couple of bundles of clothing, the landing party of Kirk, Spock, and Uhura strode toward the hurriedly refurbished, compact K’Normian trading craft where it waited in Bay 12. As Kirk had requested, a pair of regular crew awaited them. They had been selected for their security training that, from a potential combat standpoint, put them a level up on their fellow crewmembers. Kirk recognized the bearded member of the pair immediately and smiled. There had been an earlier altercation on Earth, in a bar-cum-nightclub, prior to his promotion. Not a long time ago, but the details remained sharp in his mind. “Cupcake,” he had called the man, with predictably insalubrious consequences.
Well, time