Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [3]
No one turned him down on that one. All over the bridge, heads twisted, including the four ensigns who until now had been sprawled on the deck with their heads in the trunks.
Yes, there she was. Refitted and strong as an ox, the U.S.S. Enterprise hovered off their port quarter. The original of her kind, this massive starship had recently returned from her second five-year mission under the command of James T. Kirk, the shipmaster who had piloted her to fame.
“Isn’t she a sight to behold?” Bateson murmured. “That design’s never been beat. The big main saucer, round as a cake plate, that swanlike neck … deflector dish like the eye of a god … and the nacelles, splayed out in back for all to see—ah, it’s like looking at providence formed! ‘Bright phantom of the night, mother of muse, diva of my heart’s desire, dance exotic across my path’!”
As Bateson’s vibrant operatic voice rolled across the bridge, the crew gazed in decided humility at the starship, now so close that they could see her plate bolts.
Feeling his brow crinkle, Gabriel Bush looked and looked, but could only see a large white ship with crisply defined hull plates, the chunky engineering hull, gleaming polished windows, and the rocketlike thrusters. He saw the speed, he saw the power and strength, and the size that allowed for labs and recreation unheard of on others vessels. He knew he was looking at virtually a colony in space. But he didn’t see any dancers.
“Where’s that from, sir?” he asked. “A poem?”
Bateson kept looking at the starship and shook his head. His voice took on a street-level roughness as he mocked himself. “Beats me, Gabe. Heard it somewhere. Hail them, will you?”
Bush turned a quick nod to Wizz Dayton at communications, and upon getting a return nod from there, he said, “Go ahead, Morgan.”
The captain grinned again and shimmied deeper into his command chair as if he were squaring away behind a podium.
“Morgan Bateson here. Welcome to the Typhon Expanse, Captain Spock.”
“Good afternoon, Captain Bateson. This is Jim Kirk speaking.”
The bridge crew around Bush all turned at the sound of the famous voice. After Starfleet training, everybody recognized it.
“Well, Admiral Kirk!” Bateson leaned forward. “I had no idea you were aboard the starship. A special welcome to you, sir. Wizz, give me a bridge visual. Well, aren’t we privileged today?”
“Thank you for that.” The image of the starship shifted to a view of Admiral Kirk on his handsome bridge. “I feel a little privileged myself. I haven’t seen a genuine border cutter in a good six or seven years. That’s a classic rig you’ve got there, Captain.”
Bush noticed that Kirk didn’t resemble very closely any of the photos of him, which must have been taken when he was on his first five-year mission. Now, instead of the familiar gold shirt of that earlier time, the famous captain—admiral—wore the same bristol-fashion maroon jacket and white collar as Captain Bateson. He seemed much more a settled master mariner than the wildwood scout of his youth.
Satisfied by that, feeling better that he was dealing not with a legend, but with a real Starfleet human being, Bush managed to unclench his knotted legs.
James Kirk stood up and strode toward the viewer, stepping around his helm and the two officers sitting there. “We’ve taken the Enterprise out of the academy training program temporarily. Headquarters got word of a Klingon fleet mustering a few light-years from here, and we don’t know why they’re doing it.”
“Yes, I know. I wanted to head over them, of course, but we’re still under repairs. I’m glad you’ll be there, Admiral, given your experience with Klingons.”
“Doesn’t match yours, Captain,” Kirk offered magnanimously. “Records show you’ve had more hand-to-hand experience with Klingons in the last six years than any other single commander in Starfleet. They should be leaving me here as sector guard and sending you to the disputed area.”
How nice of him to say that! The whole crew beamed with pride.