As with most true Trek
fans, I have a particular reverence for the original series and its characters;
however, that doesn't mean I think nothing more can be said about them.
Besides, the legends of yesterday must somehow pass their wisdom onto those of tomorrow...
and thus pave the way to a brighter future.
This incarnation of Peter Kirk appears courtesy of, and inspired
by, Trek fanfic
legend Rob Morris.
Oh… and a reader’s compliment necessitated this disclaimer: I didn’t
create the joke you’ll encounter early on in the narrative, but, rather, heard
it repeated on ER some years ago, and
believe it’s been around for decades—public domain, as it were. Peter David
also used it, I believe, in one of his New
Frontier stories… but since he’d obviously swiped it, too, well… I feel no
guilt.
Clearly they’re still using it in the 23rd century.
“Winning the Exchange”
By Joseph Manno
Luciano Mantovanni examined his schedule for the upcoming term—one
way or another his last at
…out of 317.
Upon hearing about this rather dubious distinction, fellow cadet Demora Sulu had attempted, in her
unique way, to be supportive.
“So what?” she’d said.
“Everyone in our class is pretty
damned smart. You don’t get into the
Academy otherwise.”
She’d realized her faux pas
an instant later, when he’d reminded, “I didn’t pass the entrance exams, Demora. I was
enlisted and received a field commission, remember? The orthodoxy have never been
fond of that. In many ways, I’m here on sufferance.”
Despite the setback, she’d retraced her steps admirably and tried
again.
“Somebody has to be
first, and somebody else has to be
last. There’s no shame in that.”
That time, he’d answered with a dryly amused, “How egalitarian of
you… Miss
Candidate-for-Valedictorian.”
Demora had reddened at that,
but kept up her effort.
“
Mantovanni had arched a brow and answered, “I’d guess they call
them a malpractice attorney.”
“No, smart ass,” she’d told him.
“They call them ‘Doctor.’”
His slight smile and subsequent silence had told them both he’d,
for then, conceded the point. Then, she’d made some crass but entirely welcome
comment about conducting a thorough physical on him; and since they’d been in bed at the time, one thing had led to
another (all of which he’d found far more
supportive), and he’d not thought about it again—until now.
The text currently on his comm screen, though, had just brought
his relative ineptitude back into focus:
Having already suffered through the math and science he so loathed,
Mantovanni had gone out of the way to make certain his last few months at the
Academy would be enjoyable ones, opting to save for last the courses in which
he was certain he’d easily excel; and, despite the warning he’d just received
from Dean Doomsayer, he was looking forward to a relatively easy term.
A 93 average for these courses? he thought.
In my sleep.
“Do you think you can simply sleepwalk through this
course, Mister Mantovanni?”
The student-teacher, Cadet Lieutenant Marc Stevens, had taken him
by surprise with that.
The class, thus far, had been more than easy; it had been
effortless. Mantovanni, for much of his life, had been the student of Sevek, greatest living practitioner of the esoteric Vulcan
martial art saraht kohl. Compared to that, Starfleet’s
eclectic hand-to-hand combat methods, especially at this introductory level,
weren’t exactly demanding. Still, he had quietly, dutifully learned the forms
and stances required, executed the moves with exacting precision, and patiently
endured lessons in both physical and philosophical discipline he’d mastered as
a child. He’d been more than a little bored…
…and, evidently, someone had noticed.
Mantovanni knew the proper, or at least preferred, answer in this
situation: A sudden stiffening to attention… an emphatic shake of the head… and
a frantically enthusiastic, “Sir… no,
sir!”
Yet, despite that awareness, he said nothing—which, in itself,
constituted a response.
Stevens was, in all ways, the prototypical alpha cadet—scion of a
wealthy and influential family, honors student, immensely popular with the
opposite sex (and not a few of the same sex, no doubt, had he been so
inclined)… an instinctual, hereditary leader. He expected results, and required
not only obedience, but a certain deference from his
subordinates… or, rather, his inferiors, as perhaps he saw them.
“I’m waiting,” he growled, “for an answer.”
Around them, class continued, but neither man had any illusions
about where everyone’s attention was now focused.
Mantovanni knew the situation might still be recouped, were he
simply to render some sort of conciliatory statement and/or gesture… but, for
reasons not entirely known even to him, made absolutely no effort to try.
As a matter of fact, he did just the opposite.
“I thought you were speaking rhetorically—considering how absurd the question is.”
Now the class stopped...
and, as one, turned to face the action. A few glanced around, seeking
Lieutenant Commander Thalven… but the Andorian had
evidently stepped away, leaving Stevens to run things for a few moments.
Amazing what could happen in a
few opportune moments.
Stevens possessed an excellent disdainful sneer, and employed it
now. “I don’t like your attitude, Mister
Mantovanni.”
An upraised eyebrow, though, countered it nicely. “I’ll be sure to stay up nights fretting about
that, Mister Stevens.”
In the instant before it could come to harsher words, or even
blows, Thalven announced his return with a sharp,
“The rest of you… forms practice, please.” He
commenced a purposeful stroll towards the two disputants, the merest of glances
here and there assuring that everyone was once again concerned with their own
business.
“Explain the nature of this impromptu convocation, please.”
Neither volunteered a word.
“Shall I interpret your silence as a reluctance to obey a
superior’s orders? If so….”
That spurred Stevens to respond with, “No, sir!” His eyes flicked
back to Mantovanni, before he offered, “This cadet’s mind-set needs adjusting.
I thought I’d tend to it.”
“And your preferred method was to wait until I’d given you charge
of the class, and immediately initiate a confrontation?”
Again, silence reigned… but Thalven soon
filled it.
“From this point on, you’ll limit your… mentorship… to making
certain Cadet Mantovanni is mastering what skills he must to successfully
achieve a passing grade—in this
course. Understood?”
“Sir! Yes,
sir.”
“Return to your duties.”
The Andorian cast his gaze out over the class, but Mantovanni could
nevertheless feel the weight of his regard.
“Feeling a little above it all, are we?”
Again, he chose to be unwisely candid.
“Even if I do, I never asked for preferential treatment.”
Thalven’s antennae reared, as if
in affront, and then reoriented on him.
“Didn’t you? You
requested a waiver for this course from the registrar… and when it was refused,
appealed to first the dean of students and thence Commandant Annalin himself. Are you perhaps unfamiliar with the
definition of ‘mandatory,’ Cadet?”
“Permission to speak candidly, sir?”
At the almost amused nod, Mantovanni put forth his case again,
succinctly.
“I have nothing to learn
here. My abilities as a martial artist are far in advance of what’s being taught. Forcing me to do this simply
in fulfillment of a requirement is illogical and counterproductive.”
The Andorian considered that, briefly.
“Your opinion is noted.
“Unfortunately for you, your
opinion and that of
Only now did Thalven turn to face him
again.
“Have I made the official position clear?”
Undaunted and unbowed still, the Sicilian met it.
“Flawlessly, sir.”
“Excellent.” His
entirely insincere smile faded. “As to your attitude with Stevens… he may be a
cadet lieutenant—”
“—and an elitist jackass.”
That interruption didn’t
score Mantovanni any points with the judge, either.
“As opposed,” Thalven countered, “to a
brooding, resentful semi-delinquent who should know better and have already
grown past this stage of post-teen isolationism? Your permission to speak
candidly is rescinded, Cadet,” he
added quickly, just before the younger man would have offered his opinion yet
again.
The silence held by a thread… but it held.
“As I was saying… he may be a cadet lieutenant…” he paused,
allowing another opportunity to interrupt.
This time, Mantovanni was prudent enough to forego it.
Thalven continued, “…but the
emphasis with him is still on ‘cadet.’ Even if the actual authority is
suspended until graduation, Lieutenant, you’re
still a commissioned officer.
“Act like one.”
Though the rest of class proceeded without incident, Luciano
Mantovanni now had the distinct impression that he was being graded on a curve…
…and that he’d taken it far too quickly.
***
Being caught between two worlds wasn’t a new experience for
Luciano Mantovanni. The first human raised on Vulcan, by a Vulcan, he had during much of his youth experienced the kind
of ostracism only that unique race’s people could impose—for a child,
intangible as a will o’ the wisp when he attempted to define or even identify
it... yet inescapable as the slender, unbreakable strips of an ahn woon. Anyone
who believed that logic had conquered all bigotry on that world had never found
himself on the receiving end of an insidious argument from a sadistic Vulcan
adolescent, in which he explained why humans were not only inferior, but in
many ways, little better than animals.
Most children, at one time or another, feel utterly alone; in many
ways, Luciano Mantovanni had been.
While such occurrences had not badly scarred him, they had shaped him… and his coping mechanisms, while effective, weren’t
exactly qualities that made one popular.
At the Academy, he’d once again found himself between Scylla and Charybdis—not precisely a cadet, yet no longer an officer…
and entirely welcome among neither group.
If it hadn’t been for Demora, he might
well have walked away… or, more likely, been none-too-politely asked to do just
that.
Of course, he hadn’t made it through yet, and the light at the end
of the tunnel might yet prove to be the proverbial oncoming train…
…or, more likely in this case, a torch held by the head of his
lynch mob.
Rarely did a Vulcan reach a state of noticeable unrest… yet, the
points of green adorning Cadet Suvak’s cheeks
indicated, at least to the trained observer, that his debate opponent’s
position had evoked an emotional reaction.
“Am I to understand,” Suvak inquired, a
hint of incredulity tingeing his tone, “that it is your position the Romulans
are culturally superior to the Vulcans?”
Their instructor formed his fingers into steeples—the classic pose
of intellectual superiority. Mantovanni, from his more emotionally detached
position, realized the gesture was a precisely calculated one… and it seemed,
amazingly enough, that the man’s calculations were correct.
After a measured pause, their teacher replied, “While Vulcans are, admittedly, highly influential in certain of
the Federation’s affairs, their effectual reach, in many ways, extends little
beyond Vulcan itself. Contrast it with that of the Romulans, who have built an
empire spanning thousands of cubic light years. The
Suvak appeared almost nonplused.
“Respectfully, sir… your reasoning is unsound.”
The target of that comment seemed amused.
“Really, Cadet? If so, you
have not demonstrated it during this discussion. The proof is in the pudding.
What criteria are we to use other than results? Indeed, by some measures….”
Kirk conducted a lively class, Mantovanni had to admit.
The only thing that would have made things better—nigh perfect—was
having it be the right Kirk.
Before them, though, stood Lieutenant Peter Constantius Kirk, nephew of the
Starfleet legend. He’d been teaching History of the Federation at the Academy
for over a decade now… and calling it a “survey course” had lured many an
unwary cadet into his classroom. They’d all left it a semester later; most of
them had even passed, as opposed to simply passing through… or, in at least one
notable case, passing out.
Kirk was continuing to hammer home his point.
“…the Pax Romulana,
to coin a phrase, holds greater sway than the Pax Surak.”
“Yeah… and Mussolini made the trains run on time.”
For a long moment Luciano Mantovanni wondered why, suddenly,
everyone in the class—including its instructor—had turned to stare at him.
Did I actually say that aloud?
“I take it, Cadet, you believe your upbringing and pedigree grants
a unique perspective on Vulcan… and, seemingly, Italian history? Please, enlighten us further.”
A few giggles followed.
I guess I did.
Suvak, from his expression, hadn’t
appreciated the interruption—especially considering its source.
“I do not,” he said,
with a healthy dose of the offhand disdain most Vulcans
master before age ten, “require your
assistance to support a position that is obviously
the correct one. If I may be permitted to continue…?” This last seemed
addressed to both Kirk and
Mantovanni.
The former, interestingly enough, said nothing.
The latter, predictably enough, didn’t echo that example.
“Suvak, you’re not mining insights.
You’re just digging yourself a hole.”
The resultant arched brow had little effect on Mantovanni. He
merely reflected it back on its source.
Not to be outdone, though, the Vulcan replied, “That, of course,
assumes you possess the intellectual ability to recognize insights when they are presented to you. Considering your
class rank and grade point average, that point is a debatable one.”
Oh, that’s it.
With a vicious lupine grin, Mantovanni began, “If you–”
“Gentlemen.” With a single word, Kirk regained the floor. “Since clearly you both have…” and he cleared his throat
before continuing with,
“‘insights’… as yet
unexpressed, both I and the class would appreciate you expounding on this
subject.
“To that end…”
Oh, God.
“…you two will collaborate
equally on a paper refuting my obviously ‘unsound’ reasoning: Fifteen thousand
words, which you’ll deliver to me two weeks from today. If, during your verbal
presentation on said material to the class, I get a sense one person did more
than his share, you’ll both fail.
“And I don’t believe either of you can afford that.”
No pins dropped. No cricket chirped. Still, the silence was
notable.
And then, wearing a cheerfulness that made Mantovanni want to
throw him through the transparent aluminum window-wall overlooking the South
Gardens, Lieutenant Peter Kirk, having just made a pair of his students’ next
fortnight an impossible one, said, “Now…
let us move on to the immediate consequences of the Earth-Romulan
War, shall we?” Without further ado, he launched back into his lecture.
Mantovanni and Suvak locked gazes.
Neither looked prepared to yield.
Actually… I’m more worried about
the Earth-Vulcan War, now.
I think it’s about to begin.
***
Static poured into the bridge, beat against Demora
Sulu’s head and set her teeth on edge. Perhaps the
overall effect wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t known precisely what this particular sound foretold: In this
case, ignorance really would have
been bliss. Demora, after all, had heard it
before—just yesterday, in fact. Now, the subsequent anxiety and frustration
that had resulted, and which she hadn’t quite reconciled, returned to resonate.
This time, however, she didn’t worry for herself, but rather the
man who currently held command—not to mention her heart. And, knowing him the
way she did, Demora also knew that there was ample reason for concern.
Another blast of interference left the crew wincing.
“Clean that up,” Mantovanni
snapped, in a “don’t disappoint me”
tone she’d heard from few in her life— a tone that both galled and galvanized.
A captain’s tone, she
thought. How the hell does he do that when the rest of us sound like kids
wiggling around in a seat too big for us?
“I am trying, sir,” came
the response from comm, where the Tiburonian Javesh Krill sat and endured the blare of noise. With ears
like that, this must have been his idea of torture. Avoiding additional
discomfort, though, proved an excellent motivator, because “mess” abruptly
became “message.”
“…is the Kobayashi Maru… out of Altair
Six… –ck a gravitic mine… radiation l–… –gines disabled…”
While not exactly comprehensive, the gist was clear.
From the science station, Suvak
declared, “I am able to detect the vessel on long-range sensors, Captain.
Navigational subsystems place her at 321 mark 37,
distance 27,000,000 kilometers.”
Since the Vulcan had blithely stepped on her toes, their navigator, Michelle Madison, stomped right back.
“Science officer’s computations confirmed, sir.”
Demora suppressed a smile. Nice goin’,
Michelle.
Mantovanni gave no indication he’d noticed the sniping, but she
knew better, and silently wagered he’d somehow deal with it later—as if he
actually were their commander.
“Those coordinates are well
within the Neutral Zone, sir.”
Demora couldn’t say much more
than she just had without violating Academy honor codes, but she hoped that
he’d somehow take something useful from her inflection.
And it seemed he had.
“Don’t worry, Helm,” he said. “We’re not going in.
“Hold your course.”
Considering the whispers, that decision wasn’t to everyone’s
liking… but only one person actually spoke to it—loudly.
And exactly no one was surprised that Marc Stevens had something
to say.
“That ship is full of civilians… sir. We have a responsibility to safeguard them.”
“We also have a responsibility to maintain treaties the Federation
signed in good faith, Weps,” replied Mantovanni.
“Besides, it smells like a trap.”
Thank God, Demora thought.
“You can’t know that. May I remind the captain–”
Suvak interrupted the exchange with, “My
sensor telemetry on the Kobayashi Maru has ceased.” He studied his readouts further, and
seconds later added, “And I am now detecting three vessels crossing the Neutral
Zone border into Federation space.”
Son of a–
“
In silent response, the Vulcan touched at his console controls…
…and the image of three K’tinga-class battle cruisers filled the main view
screen.
Mantovanni frowned. “Informative, but… probably
a little too specific.”
“Some people,” Demora muttered, “are never happy.”
As one would expect, Suvak ignored the
chatter and continued supplying data. “They are on an intercept course and
closing at warp seven. At our current speed, we shall be within their weapons’
range in 43 seconds.”
“Subspace frequencies jammed, sir,” announced Javesh
Krill. “I can’t raise Starfleet.”
Mantovanni nodded; he seemed, in Demora’s
eyes, to be taking his own sweet time with critical decisions.
“Come about to 57 mark 32,” he finally
said. “Warp eight on my command.”
“Another three vessels de-cloaking directly ahead,” Suvak warned.
“Belay that last. Warp two evasive… ninety degrees down
angle… accelerate to warp eight after turn complete.”
Demora hastened to comply, and
the septet of Klingon ships slipped in behind, adjusting their velocity until
they were gaining yet again.
“Well… six against one,”
their captain observed. “No doubt that’s the Klingon definition of a fair
fight.”
This time, Marc Stevens managed to keep most of the dislike out of
his voice. “They’re deploying in a hemispherical attack posture—looking to
prevent our escape.”
Instead of answering, Mantovanni punched a series of commands into
his armchair controls.
“I now detect a third
trio of Klingon vessels de–“
Suvak never finished.
Even as Stevens cursed, “What
the Hell–?” the ship’s forward phasers lashed out, scoring hits on each of
the three cruisers even before they became fully visible. The full spread of
photon torpedoes which followed close behind left all of them spinning off
their perfectly conceived attack vector, trailing plasma and debris behind.
Amidst the chaos of cheers and chatter that followed, Demora Sulu heard Luciano Mantovanni
issue an order that made no sense to anyone but her.
“Bring us about,” he snarled.
“Now we’re going in.”
***
Within her first week at
She, however, knew the reality all too well—a reality that consisted
almost entirely of back-breaking labor repeated with mind-numbing regularity.
There really was nothing wrong with the simple life, per se—if you had simple desires, that is—but tilling earth just
wouldn’t do for the girl with the stars in her eyes: After hearing about
starships when little more than a toddler, no other career had seemed
desirable… and after actually seeing
one in Demeter Colony’s spaceport a few years later, none had even been
possible.
Eight-year-old Rachel had vowed, in that moment, then that she’d
give up anything, do anything, to
gain a place among the heavens; and to an idealistic young Federation citizen,
that meant only one thing—a spot at
Then, she had studied some more.
It had all seemed worth it, though, when the Graduating Class of
2297 (as they preferred to think of themselves) had been posted… and she’d made
the list.
Academy correspondence throughout the spring and summer of 2293
had contained the phrase “incoming freshmen,” and she’d grown to love it. There
was another word, though, she could have done without… and God knows, she’d begun to wonder after only a few days whether, in
some obscure, mean-spirited dialect, “
That word, of course, was “plebe.”
Almost all cadets fell into one of three archetypes.
First, and most common, were the rank-and-file. They’d arrive at
the Academy fresh-faced and eager, remember their time here as some of the most
challenging but rewarding years in their lives, and move on to their Starfleet
careers.
Next, you had the privileged, the aristocracy—what an irreverent
Presbyterian would probably have called “the Elect.” This category, in theory,
no longer existed at what purported to be an entirely merit-based organization…
but, in the real world, theory and praxis never does precisely jive. It
consisted of cadets who came from money or power—the kind of old money and
deeply-rooted power that both demanded and guaranteed a place in the graduating
class, followed by a favorable posting and rapid promotion. So long as one of
this ilk didn’t do anything criminal—well, at least
not egregiously and publicly criminal—their future in Starfleet was assured.
Finally came Rachel’s type—those who, if
they’d been a little faster, or a little homelier, or a little luckier, would
have escaped notice and plowed through their four years untroubled… or, some
might say, unmolested.
Rachel, however, was bright, pretty… and, having never traveled
further from home than Demeter Colony’s moon, Persephone, just a little
vulnerable.
And that was just the way Marc Stevens liked them.
In some ways, it would have been better for Rachel if she’d been
less perceptive and simply fallen head over heels… or, at least, once or twice
put her heels over her head. But, instead, when Marc had noticed her in Basic
Martial Arts and decided that she’d make a nice appetizer to begin his
senior-year reign, well… Rachel had proven an uncooperative snack. He invited
her out; she declined. He sent her flowers; she accepted them with a smile for
the delivery person… and, after closing her dorm room door, promptly threw them
away. She didn’t know why she didn’t like Marc Stevens. He was, after all, a
handsome, popular, influential senior.
She just knew that she didn’t.
Some men accept a polite refusal and immediately hone in on their
next target… or victim, if you prefer. Others try a different tack, and
actually attempt to befriend their potential lover.
Marc did neither. He was the kind of man who believed in Manifest
Destiny—well, his own, at any rate—and Rachel Carson was a frontier he’d
determined to cross…
…and conquer.
***
Few outside a certain loop knew it, but… the Kobayashi Maru scenario had, for years,
been a spectator sport.
There were those observers one would expect, of course: Teachers replayed
and analyzed the entire exercise, critiquing each often shell-shocked student’s
performance therein, exhaustively—pinpointing each misstep, whether technical,
tactical or philosophical… marking precisely where they’d gone wrong… how
they’d been defeated…
…and why they were now “dead.”
All that, however, was after
the fact… and the instructors, despite being the only individuals technically permitted to do so, weren’t
the only ones watching.
Certain interested (and, on occasion, uninterested but considerate)
parties always managed to let it be known when a group of particularly
promising cadets were about to face their Waterloo; and the knowledge
inevitably drew an audience to the Academy’s Faculty Lounge—where a simulcast
ran for as long as the cadets did. Usually, the entertainment provided proved
brief, but amusing.
On occasion, though, word would spread throughout campus, passing
through secret but long-established channels, of a group taking a direction no
one had before—giving the scenario a proverbial run for its money. Some of
Starfleet’s greatest captains had exercised their extraordinary minds and
spirits while failing brilliantly, even in some cases spectacularly… but
always, ultimately, failing.
The simulator itself had become progressively more realistic over
the years. Once, the mockup had been… quaint. Now, differentiating between it
and the actual bridge of a Constitution-class
starship was nearly impossible. In conclusion, whether you thought it turtle or
mock turtle didn’t much matter.
Either way, you ended up eating crow.
“When we grew up and went to school
There were certain teachers who would
Hurt the children any way they could
”By pouring their derision on everything we did
Exposing every weakness
However carefully hidden by the kids…”
- Roger Waters
Senior Cadet Mantovanni’s Kobayashi
Maru performance analysis began on a promising
note.
Unfortunately, what it
promised didn’t exactly bode well.
A pair of instructors awaited the dejected cadets as they filed,
practically slunk, into the briefing room. Both possessed lengthy experience at
the command level; they had, while evaluating Demora’s
stint in the center seat yesterday, played the traditional “good cop, bad cop”
roles… but had done it with such surpassing adroitness she’d never noticed
until well after the evaluation had ended.
Now came Mantovanni’s turn.
Without even bothering to replay the recording of their
performance, one demanded, “What the Hell
were you thinking, Mister? The Kobayashi Maru
had 57 officers and crew aboard, yet you abandoned them without even a token effort to assist.”
“I was ‘thinking,’ Captain Styles, that the Kobayashi Maru was a deception—that the Klingons had manufactured a compelling sensor ghost in
order to lure my ship into their territory.”
Demora gauged reactions to
that around the table, and across the board. With two exceptions, the other
participating cadets remained carefully expressionless. She couldn’t really
blame them; their turns would eventually, inevitably come… and considering how
well their “captain’s” review had thus far proceeded, drawing premature
attention to oneself seemed masochistic at best… and at worst, downright
stupid.
The Vulcan Suvak had arched a skeptical
brow at the revelation Mantovanni thought the Kobayashi Maru chimerical. That reaction
made perfect sense, though: if true, such would mean that his own analyses and
conclusions had been incorrect… and most of his people didn’t take at all well to such a perspective.
Marc Stevens didn’t even bother to disguise his glee at what had
immediately become a vivisection.
One thing was certain: The two instructors wielding the knives
certainly didn’t seem reluctant to keep cutting.
Demora had lost the thread of
conversation—or, rather, condemnation—and fumbled to recover.
“–at argument holds very
little water, if any at all,” Commander Rodgers was saying. “While hunches are a command prerogative, Mister
Mantovanni, such is hardly applicable inside a simulator. You can’t have an
instinct about a situation that isn’t real world.”
Hell, she thought, this time it’s
“bad cop, worse cop.”
There was, at that point, a relative lull in the barbeque: The
instructors let Mantovanni baste for a time, and moved on to review the other
cadets’ performance.
Demora watched him
surreptitiously, to no avail: His expression was so guarded even she, who knew
him better than perhaps anyone else on Earth, had no idea what he was thinking.
The timbre of Mantovanni’s voice had remained even throughout the initial
review, but its volume was decreasing with each exchange… and that wasn’t a good thing. She knew Styles
thought he’d cowed this presumptuous cadet into accepting his fault and
failure… but she understood her lover well enough to predict that round two of
the debriefing was likely to be far more… eventful…
than round one had been.
It began without warning.
“Do you understand your missteps and errors in both tactical and
ethical judgment, now, Cadet Mantovanni?” asked Rodgers.
Oh, no.
“Permission to speak
freely, sir?”
“Denied,” Styles
snapped.
For the second time in as many weeks, Mantovanni’s determination
to have his say nearly shattered the chains of protocol. Again, though, he held
his tongue.
If not his temper, Demora thought.
Still, he made his feelings known.
“Then I have nothing further to say on the subject.”
That, however, was not the
sought-after answer.
Styles reiterated, “I believe you were asked if you understood your errors, Cadet.”
“No,” answered Mantovanni. “I don’t believe I do.
“I don’t understand why avoiding an obvious trap is an error. I
don’t understand why fighting a brace of Klingon cruisers to a virtual
standstill for 37 minutes is an error… and I certainly don’t begin to understand
the point of this entire exercise—other than to frustrate students, and
subsequently berate them for their honest and sincere efforts.”
He addressed the other cadets. “The Inquisition here can say
whatever it likes. You acquitted yourselves well, and I’m proud of you.”
His unmitigated insolence had earned him a few seconds of shocked
grace, but it receded in the face of outrage.
Styles looked close to apoplexy. For a minute Demora
thought he might actually smack the desk with his ubiquitous riding crop, but
they were spared that, at least.
“That’s enough, Cadet!” he declared. “You may consider
yourself fortunate that your insubordinate tone and statements have earned you
nothing more than a permanent reprimand in your file. It could have been much
worse… and still can if you say another
word.”
Please, God, Demora offered fervently, strike him dumb for a moment if you have
to… but keep his mouth shut.
Due to either her faith in the Deity, Mantovanni’s sense of
self-preservation, or some amalgam of both, her prayer was answered—for all the
good it did.
“As for the rest of you…
“…the results of this scenario will be appended directly to
your final grade point average with the weight of a full semester course…” He
spoke over the subsequent disbelieving groans and gasps. “…as they have been since the test was instituted. No one is
picking on you, Cadets. Consider it a pop exam, if it helps—a little taste of
the unpredictable that is part and parcel of life in Starfleet.” Styles then
refocused his attention on the afternoon’s “star” pupil.
“Needless to say, Mister Mantovanni, you’ll be receiving an ‘F’ on this one.”
He had clearly enjoyed announcing that last.
The rest of the briefing no doubt occurred… but Luciano Mantovanni
would have been hard pressed to repeat a word of it.
It
counts how much? he thought.
How
much?!
Mantovanni calculated feverishly, almost frantically, weighing his
failure here, and the fact that it would be factored
into his grades, against what he knew to be his personal minimum requirements
for graduation.
Then, he did it a second time… and, finally a third—with the same
result.
I… I can’t pass. No matter what I do from now through
finals…
…I can’t pass.
This time, Demora, to her complete astonishment,
saw his face change.
It wasn’t glaring, but between one moment and the next, Mantovanni
had come to some realization… and whatever it was had shaken him—nearly shattered him.
And when minutes later they were dismissed, he practically fled
the room, moving so quickly that by the time she’d reached the hallway…
…he was lost to sight.
For a few moments, Mantovanni debated simply packing his few
personal effects and catching the first available transport to Vulcan… but
then, as his heart slowed and his mind cleared, he decided against that.
He had two more classes that afternoon. He headed for the next one
with new purpose.
They may have flunked me…
He grinned… and it was not a pleasant sight to behold.
…but that means I have nothing more to lose.
***
Demora Sulu
spent the afternoon on her lover’s trail… or, rather, in his wake. Twice that
afternoon, she rushed from a lecture hall, gauging what she thought would be
Cicero’s most likely route after his own classes and hoping to thereby
intercept him; and twice that afternoon, she missed him… or, maybe, he eluded her.
After her first failure, Demora thought
that perhaps he’d stayed late in Basic
Martial Arts, and headed there, only to find a knot of students still
standing in the studio’s midst, jabbering as only knots of students can. A
quick glance confirmed that all present were plebes… and Demora
wasn’t, at the moment, feeling very
charitable. One of the five spotted her approach, hissed a warning to the
others… and the quintet was at rigid attention even before she reached them.
“As you were,” she
ordered, and they relaxed—minutely.
“I’m looking for Senior Cadet Luciano Mantovanni. Do any of you
have an idea where he headed from here?”
“No, ma’am,” they
chorused, a bit too eagerly.
Demora waited and watched.
Each of them looked to be on the verge of adding something; yet, ultimately,
all chose to remain silent.
I don’t think so. She dredged
her memory… and then scared the crap out of them.
“You… Cadet Morris.”
The lad cringed, dismayed that she somehow knew his name, but stepped forward with a fair
approximation of gameness.
“Ma’am! Yes,
Ma’am!”
“You look like the
verbose sort, Mister Morris. What are you all bursting, but lacking the nerve,
to say?”
In later years, Captain Demora Sulu would hear it rumored that she was the daughter of
both Admiral Hikaru Sulu… and a mysterious beauty from a
little-known race of telepaths—little reckoning that the legend of her uncanny
perceptiveness had started at this very moment.
For now, though, she was simply happy to get Morris talking.
“Well, ma’am… you just
missed him.”
“So did Stevens,” muttered
another, much to the dismayed amusement of the others. They looked like they’d just
laughed aloud at a funeral… and realized that, considering the company, it
could well have been scholastic
suicide.
Demora swept them with her
glare, and the giggling ceased.
“Well? I’m waiting, Cadet.”
Morris, despite his unease, told a pretty good tale.
“We were supposed to spar today, Ma’am—traditional three-point
bouts for current class rank. Cadet Stevens–”
“Please dispense with ‘Cadet’ after every name, Morris. We all
know their status here.”
“Uh… sorry, Ma’am. Um… Ca– uh, Stevens asked for a volunteer to demonstrate the
rules and protocols of such a match, since most of us had never done it.”
“And still haven’t,” came a voice from behind him.
Ignoring the comment—and from his expression, desperately hoping Demora would, too—Morris continued.
“Mantovanni raised his hand… and, let me tell you, Stevens looked
like God had showered him with manna in the desert.”
“‘By all means,’ he
said.
“Well, they entered the ring, bowed…
“…and Stevens was across the space between them almost before it
started. He’s fast.”
The same commentator helpfully added, “Yeah… Academy Martial Arts
Champion two years running. It’s why he’s student-teaching this semester.”
A third cadet shushed him.
Morris resumed his account.
“From what I could see… I don’t think Stevens was exactly looking
to score points, even in the
beginning, Ma’am.”
A murmer of agreement supported his
opinion.
“That first kick he threw was the kind that deposits someone in
the next county… or the next solar system.”
Oh, my God.
“But it missed.
“Mantovanni slipped it, and slid away—with Stevens in hot pursuit.
He started throwing punches, kicks and even a few leg sweeps. His form was
perfect… well, I mean it looked perfect to me.
“Yet… he kept missing.”
Demora blinked.
“What?”
“Mantovanni was never quite
where Stevens was aiming, Ma’am. Mantovanni slipped some blows… deflected
others… evaded a few more entirely… but Stevens wasn’t actually landing any.
“I’m not sure, Ma’am, but I don’t think these kinds of matches
have rounds, per se. The two combatants just have it out until one or the other
scores a point, then start again until somebody
reaches three.”
“You’re right, Morris,” Demora supplied
absently. “What happened next?”
“Well...” he said,
and hesitated.
“Well?” she prodded.
“More of the same, Ma’am.
“It wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t even like Mantovanni was… I don’t
know… counting coup… because, other than blocks, Stevens never touched him… and he never touched Stevens.
“It felt more like he was… expressing contempt, somehow—like he
wouldn’t even give Stevens the satisfaction of getting knocked down… or out.
“And it just went on… and on… and
on. After about ten minutes, Stevens was a little winded. After a
half-hour, he was sucking air like there wasn’t any in the room.”
“The ol’ rope-a-dope,” said a young
female cadet who until then had been silent. At the five blank stares, she
sighed explosively. “Don’t you people know
anything? Ali-Foreman? The
Rumble in the Jungle? The Perfect Punch?” Her voice acquired a nasal twang, and
she intoned, “‘One
of the greatest exhibitions of strategic pugilism it has ever been my pleasure
to wit–”
Upon remembering her audience, she stopped.
“Uh… sorry.”
“Where was your instructor,”
Demora asked, “while all this was happening?”
“That’s just it!” Morris exclaimed. “He was here… and he never did a
thing to stop it!”
Their boxing expert chimed in again.
“Exactly what was he
supposed to stop? Nothing happened.”
“Stevens got humiliated,
that’s what happened,” Morris
countered. “I felt sick to my stomach just watching it.”
“And why didn’t he
stop?” asked Demora.
“Huh?”
“Why didn’t Stevens
stop?” she reiterated. “From what you said… all he had to do was step back, and
it would have been over.”
A long moment of silence followed.
“Oh, man… she’s right.”
Morris finished his account.
“Well, eventually, he just… ran down, like a mechanical toy that
hadn’t been wound. Mantovanni waited until it was clear Stevens wouldn’t and
couldn’t throw another punch… and then left.”
Demora frowned. “Left the
ring?”
“No… left the room.
“Commander Thalven spoke very quietly to
Stevens, and they left together, about 15 minutes ago—just after Mantovanni.
Stevens could barely walk, he was so tired… and he looked…” Morris trailed off,
and never finished.
It wasn’t necessary.
Demora made it to her next
class with seconds to spare, but didn’t hear much of what was said there. Her
thoughts were elsewhere.
Without a blow… without even a word… Mantovanni, as always, had made his point.
She wondered how many more he had to make…
…and to whom.
***
The current guest in Peter Kirk’s office wore a poker face—one
which implied only that, when playing said game, he usually won—and listened.
“The discussion turned to command decisions in critical
situations—something I told him was better addressed in Lieutenant Isringhausen’s class—but he had a point to make… or an axe
to grind.”
“And I take it he said something you didn’t like.”
“A few somethings,” Peter replied.
“Why didn’t
Peter Kirk asserted, “The situation was more
complex—psychologically and
tactically speaking—than you realize, Cadet.
“And that’s Captain Kirk
to you.”
Mantovanni snorted.
“Oh, now, there’s an
unbiased perspective: Captain Kirk’s
nephew defends Captain Kirk’s
actions. Well, I suppose I can’t fault your loyalty.”
Peter restrained his first reaction, barely. This young man had a
way of provoking people that had even upset the Vulcan Suvak
some days before. He’d known that… and yet, still, Mantovanni had gotten one in
under his sensors.
He steadied himself internally, and then answered.
“It’s my job to provide
an impartial viewpoint, Cadet—even on subjects that are near and dear to me.
The Academy trusts me to do that. Perhaps you should, too.”
The target of his mild chastisement actually laughed aloud,
cramming undiluted disdain into the sound, before giving an opinion on that.
"Oh, Mother of God...
do you really
think you'd be an instructor here if you weren't the Golden Boy's nephew? Please... right about now you'd be
getting rejected for tenure at
“Oh, my goodness.”
Peter smiled.
“Yeah. That was pretty much the reaction in class, too.”
His visitor exhaled slightly. “What did you say?”
“Let me recall… oh, yes.
If memory serves, I said, ‘Get out.’”
“Should I assume ‘you snotty little bastard’ was implied?”
That helped, for a moment. Peter chuckled, and conceded, “It was a first-rate insult.”
The other man nodded. “Seems like he’s damned good at hitting
people where they live…” He cocked a knowing eye. “…even if they shouldn’t be living there.”
“Point taken,” Peter allowed. Then, he added, “Afterwards, he was waiting for me here…
“…and it wasn’t to apologize.”
***
Demora announced both her
presence, and the imminent argument, by first barging through and then slamming
behind her Mantovanni’s dorm-room door—hard enough to shake the old-fashioned
glass in its windowsill, rattle the pieces on his 3-D chessboard… and roll his
eyes.
Blessed Madonna, here we go.
Her tone started off accusatory… and got worse from there.
“I heard what you did in Peter’s class, and in his office,” she
seethed. “I heard what you said. Jesus, half the campus heard you both!
“How dare you repeat those stories about Captain Kirk I told you!”
With an infuriating cool, he replied, “You never asked me not to.”
“That’s a God-damned technicality! I revealed all that in
confidence, and you know it!”
Mantovanni arched a brow, and countered, “No doubt the same
‘confidence’ with which your father told you?”
Her furious blush let him know that, as usual, he’d struck
unerringly.
“You know… you don’t just
burn your bridges behind you, do you,
He stood to face her.
“What precisely would
you like me to say at this point—that I’m sorry
The Sainted One took some hits? Well, I’m not, so that’s not going to happen. That glorious marble effigy of James
Kirk most people have built up in their minds could stand to have some pigeon shit dropped on it. I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true… or that
shouldn’t have been said a long time ago.”
A flare of regret washed over him as, for an instant, Demora Sulu looked on the verge
of tears.
“I trusted you,” she
whispered.
For that betrayal,
Mantovanni knew he should apologize; but then he remembered that Demora, at least, could simply talk to the right
people—including a Kirk or two—and her life would soon afterwards again be
smiley faces, good grades and a bright future.
He, on the other hand, would be gone either way.
So, instead, he murmured, “‘A
little taste of the unpredictable that is part and parcel of life in
Starfleet.’”
And instead of reacting with repentance or even anger when she
slapped him, Mantovanni smiled slightly… and presented the other cheek.
Demora gently shut the door
behind her… and the resultant “click” seemed almost to jar him awake. Suddenly
torn, he debated giving chase for almost a minute… sighed in relief when a
gentle knock told him she’d returned… opened it…
…and found himself face-to-face with James T. Kirk.
***
Like most Starfleet installations (and despite its proximity to Fleet
Headquarters), the Academy had its own transit station, housing both
transporter and shuttle platforms. These were, as one might imagine, neat,
well-lit, clean, efficient, and usually bustling with activity—everything you
might expect from such a facility.
One thing, though, had survived the centuries that separated this version of such a place from its
earlier analogs: That indescribable feeling of being there in the middle of the
night—waiting. “The bus station blues,” someone had once called it—a unique
hopelessness that sometimes set in even if you anticipated a happy consequence
to your vigil… and always set in if
you didn’t.
It had already claimed Rachel Carson… and she hadn’t put up much
of a fight.
She sat on a bench facing the Departures
board, slumped against her bulging duffel bag. Someone would have undoubtedly
noticed how still she’d been—if anyone else had actually been present, that is: At Starfleet Academy,
a time like 0245 hours with classes scheduled at 0800 that morning didn’t see
many people leaving. The only other individual in the vicinity, a nameless and
disgruntled ensign manning the transporter, had, when she’d entered, curtly
nodded… and then, promptly, nodded off.
Rachel tried hard not to think and, when that failed…
…tried harder not to cry.
WORK ON THIS STORY HAS BEEN SUSPENDED, AND WILL
PROBABLY RESUME IN SUMMER/FALL 2006