Gemini

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

To Laurie S. Sutton, who can have any posting she wants on my starship

Thanks to Gene Roddenberry, for boldly going, and taking us along.

“He's not really dead, as long as we remember him.”
—Dr. Leonard McCoy,
Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan

Captain's log, Stardate 3375.3

While en route to the planet Nador, as per our orders, I have decided to try something of an experiment, with, I am confident, the full support of my senior staff.

 

“I'
M TELLING YOU
, J
IM
,” said Dr. Leonard H. McCoy, “this is
not
a good idea!”

“Diagnosis noted, Doctor,” replied Captain James T. Kirk, in that tone that indicated Kirk hadn't heard him at all.

Kirk exited the turbolift and strode onto deck six, stopping after a few steps to turn and look behind him. “Coming, Bones?”

“I might as well,” said McCoy, with a sigh of resignation. “I have a feeling someone's going to need medical attention.”

Kirk turned right at the door labeled
MESS HALL
and entered as the door hissed open before him. Despite his apparent bravado, McCoy suspected Kirk had deliberately chosen this time of day—rather late for lunch—hoping the hall would be almost deserted. Of all the tables in the room, only one was occupied, and that by only four crew members. Kirk entered, seemingly paying them no more attention then he had McCoy's advice.

“Chicken sandwich and coffee,” he said to the food slot. Lights flashed, sounds warbled, and a moment later the dispenser panel opened. Kirk took his meal, cocking an eyebrow to McCoy, a look the doctor knew was part curiosity, part challenge.

“Cobb salad, extra dressing, with iced tea,” said McCoy, finally. He considered ordering a mint julep, extra strong, but thought better of it; he might need his wits about him.

Across the room the four crew members tried not to look at though they were eyeing Kirk and McCoy, and had been from the moment the two officers entered. But now, with Kirk approaching them, to avoid contact would have been rude, not to mention insubordinate. The four pushed back their chairs and began to rise as Kirk neared. McCoy remembered them from their physicals upon being assigned to the
Enterprise,
new crew members picked up at Starbase 7.

“Please,” said Kirk, with his most charming smile, “at ease. May we join you?”

The four crew members exchanged furtive, nervous glances. It seemed to McCoy they were asking each other,
What have we done?

“Of course, sir,” said Lieutenant Sherwood, a trim strawberry blonde, keeping her voice as even as circumstances permitted.

The four sank back into their chairs uneasily as, to their dread, Kirk took the head chair at the table. A moment later Dr. McCoy sat down at the other end, cutting off that avenue of escape, as well.

McCoy nodded and smiled sympathetically, an attempt to put the young crew at ease that did anything but.

“Should be an interesting mission, don't you think?” asked Kirk, picking up his cup of coffee.

“Sir!” said Trask, an ensign assigned to engineering, springing to his feet with such energy that Kirk nearly wound up wearing his coffee. “The
U.S.S. Enterprise
is headed for planet Nador to review the Nadorians' vote to decide whether or not to become a member of the Federation,
sir!”

“Sit down, Mr. Trask,” said Kirk, gently. “I was just asking—”

“Sir,” said Ensign Fox. His soup spoon sounded a discordant note as it struck his tray when he dropped it. He remained seated, but stared straight ahead, hands at his side. McCoy noted this with interest; he had never seen a crewman
sitting
at attention before. “We are also ordered to provide transit to Federation Commissioner Roget and his wife, sir.”

“Yes, of course,” said Kirk, trying to keep the desperation from his voice. “But I was just asking how you thought the mission might—”

“Sir,” said Sinclair, a young lieutenant with a manner of currying favor that McCoy didn't cotton to, “if the captain wishes, I can prepare a dossier with the salient points of planet Nador, sir. For example, Nador has been judged a B-minus on the Richter cultural scale—”

“That won't be necessary, Sinclair,” replied Kirk, patiently. “I was just asking if—”

McCoy saw the bafflement in Kirk's eyes as he surveyed the four crew members, all sitting stiffly, teeth clenched, brows furrowing, then unfurrowing when they realized they were showing too much stress. He wouldn't have taken any bets as to which of the five had the highest blood pressure at that moment. This had been fun, in a certain mildly sadistic kind of way, but he began wishing for a diversion that would break the tension he could cut with an exoscalpel.

Across the room the hailing whistle came from the intercom, and a cool, measured voice said,
“Bridge to captain.”
McCoy had rarely seen Kirk move as quickly.

“Kirk here. Have we entered Nadorian space yet?”

“Still some minutes out, Captain,”
replied Mr. Spock,
“but we have encountered a ship broadcasting no identification beam and which refuses to answer our hail. She bears no known markings and is of unknown design.”

McCoy was at Kirk's side now, thumbing a drop of dressing from the corner of his mouth. “Hostile actions?” asked Kirk.

“Not as yet. She is attempting to elude us, however. Our shields were raised automatically.”

“Intercept course,” said Kirk. It could be nothing, but with the relations between Nador and the Federation at such a crucial state, nothing could be left to chance. “Yellow alert. I'll be right up.”

To McCoy, the sighs of relief from the four seated at the table sounded like those of a plow horse at the end of a long, hard day.

“Bridge,” said Kirk moments later to the turbolift grid, and the car hummed smoothly upward, the alert panels strobing yellow. He cleared his throat twice, then turned to McCoy. “Not exactly the response I'd hoped for.”

“What
did
you hope for, Jim?” asked McCoy. “You've got a crew that would walk through fire for you—and has, on occasion. What were you trying to prove, hobnobbing with green recruits like those? They're not as familiar with you as the rest of the crew. You nearly gave them all strokes.”

“I'm not sure,” said Kirk, avoiding McCoy's gaze. “I was just trying to be a little more … outgoing with the crew. If Captain Garrovick had wanted to dine with us when we served on the
Farragut
—”

“You'd have been as tense as those kids were,” interrupted McCoy. “They're your crew, Jim, they can't be your friends, too.” He looked at Kirk and grinned. “That's why you have me.”

“Prescription noted,” said Kirk, dryly, as the lift slowed. “You coming?”

McCoy shook his head. “I'd better make sure sick-bay's ready, just in case.”

Kirk nodded as the lift slid to a stop and the doors parted. Before they closed, McCoy saw Spock rising from the captain's chair before Kirk's presence could even be announced, and he wondered, not for the first time, or for the hundredth, how Spock knew Kirk was there. He wondered if the Vulcan's olfactory sense was as keen as his damn hearing. The noise of the crew preparing for yellow alert would have drowned out the hiss of the lift door, and the carpeting on the bridge would have silenced any footsteps.

McCoy shook his head as the door closed. Damned if he knew, and he sure as hell wasn't going to give Spock the satisfaction of asking. “Sickbay,” he said, hoping, not for the first time, or for the hundredth, that his services wouldn't be needed.

* * *

“Status,” said Kirk, lowering himself into the center seat.

“No change since the last report, Captain,” replied Mr. Spock. “We encountered the unidentified ship as we neared Nadorian space. They attempted evasive action and we gave pursuit. The ship is out there—we can catch occasional glimpses of it on sensors—but it eludes full detection.”

Kirk nodded, leaning forward slightly, and scanned the viewscreen, as though his own eyes could detect something the ship's sensor spread could not. Around him the crew performed their duties, with a precision that would have done credit to a ballet company. Spock moved to his science station, Chekov in turn moved to his chair at the helm, while the relief navigator moved to an unoccupied perimeter station and began processing data. In any other circumstances, it would have been rather absurd, like an adult game of tag.

“Normal lighting,” he said at last, and the alert panels dimmed. “Do we know who they are?” he asked.

“Not with any certainty,” replied Spock. “Possibly smugglers, or other traffickers in contraband.”

“Open a channel to the ship,” said Kirk. “All standard frequencies.”

“Go ahead, Captain,” Uhura said from behind him.

“This is Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation Starship
Enterprise,”
he said, crisply. “No unidentified vessels are permitted in this space. You are ordered to stand down and identify yourself.” Kirk jerked his right hand sharply, thumb out, and Uhura cut the transmission. On the viewscreen sprawled only endless blackness, dusted with silver. “Spock, why can't we see them?”

“I can offer speculation only, Captain,” began Spock. “It may be that their shields or hull are configured so as to refract our sensors. It may be that the ship is somehow able to phase in and out of space, eluding sensors.”

“Maybe they have some kind of a cloaking device,” said Sulu, from his post next to Chekov's, “like the Romulans.”

“Possible, Mr. Sulu,” said Kirk, gnawing on a knuckle while he thought. “The Romulans are the only fleet we know of to have a cloaking device. But they're on the other side of the galaxy, and not known for sharing their technology.”