Relics - Michael Jan Friedman [41]
Without his old friends manning the consoles and stations, without Spock and McCoy exchanging barbs and the captain laughing up his sleeve at them, the Enterprise was like a ghost ship. The Flying Dutchman, Scott thought.
No. The Flying Scotsman, he amended. Doomed to wander the universe in perpetuity, no longer wanted, no longer needed.
Like Scott himself. He heaved a sigh.
Damn. He hadn’t come here to hold a wake for himself. He’d come to remind himself of a time when he was wanted and needed.
Scott poured himself a stiff drink, trying to shake his feelings of melancholy. Lifting his glass, he saluted the people who weren’t there.
“Here’s to ye, lads,” he intoned, as if at a wake. He drank down the libation.
And then he realized … this holodeck could recreate a lot more than places and things, if he’d understood correctly. It could recreate people as well.
“Computer,” he said, “I need some company here. Some familiar faces.”
“Please specify,” came the response.
He ch uckled and straightened in his seat. “Captain James T. Kirk. First Officer Spock. Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy.”
It felt good just to say their names. It seemed to give them a reality even before the holodeck worked its magic.
“Lieutenant Sulu at the helm, Ensign Chekov at navigation. And at communications, the loveliest lass who ever wore a uniform-Lieutenant Uhura.”
“Mission-tape information on all these individuals is on file. Please select a time frame.”
Ah, of course. A time frame. People weren’t like the bridge of a starship. They changed slightly from year to year, from month to month, even from day to day. He thought for a moment.
It had to be at least a third of the way into the original five-year mission-or Chekov wouldn’t have been there yet. And he wanted Chekov there. Of all those who’d sat at the navigation station-DeSalle, Bailey, Stiles and on and on-Chekov was the one with whom Scott had been the closest.
“Let’s see,” he said, scratching his jaw.
How about just after that tribbles business? He smiled despite himself, recalling those furry little creatures and all the trouble they’d caused. Not that he’d minded the trouble all that much. It had given him a chance to mix it up with the Klingons, to let off a little steam …
Those were the days, all right. Those were the bloody days.
Too bad that sort of thing couldn’t happen anymore. Now that the Klingons and the Federation were allies, there would be no more brawling between them. No more knockdown-dragouts with the horny-headed barbarians, no more defending the honor of the Enterprise and the fleet.
Too bad, Scott mused. Another valuable cultural phenomenon lost to the ravages of time.
He felt the tug of the silence around him. It seemed to cry out for relief. For voices.
“I know, I know,” he said. “Ye’re waiting.”
The computer had no reply, but its impatience was almost palpable. All right then. A time frame. Hmmm…
Then it hit him. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
“Stardate 4534.7,” he told the computer. “And as far as my friends are concerned, I’m to look now as I did then. Understood?”
“Processing,” the machine replied.
A second later, Scott had company. It hadn’t exactly appeared-at least, not in the way he’d expected. It was just there, as if it had been sitting or standing on the bridge all along.
He muttered an oath. They were there. They were really there. All his friends, in the places where he’d always thought of them. All except Dr. McCoy, and he’d no doubt be along presently.
“How much longer, Mr. Sulu?” asked the figure in the center seat.
“We’re right on time, Captain,” replied the helmsman. “We’ll be in docking range of Starbase Nine in two hours, twenty-five minutes and thirty seconds.”
“Excellent, Lieutenant. We can all use the rest, after that business back on Triskelion. And nobody makes steak au poivre like Commander Tattinger.”
The navigator turned to peer back at the captain. “Steak au poivre