Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [94]
Pring—the console began working. The faint whine made Kirk—both—stiffen in reaction. Lights began sparkling, and the panel of energy did its work. Both Kirks dematerialized.
Picard was glad. Whatever happened, this terrible personal ordeal would be over. Then, in a moment of silly realization, he remembered that Kirk hadn’t died here and now.
How absurd to have forgotten!
The transporter room fell quiet, but for the soft thrum of contained power. How long would it take? Picard didn’t know about these old-style devices. They were more touchy than transporting in his time, he knew that much.
Behind the console, Spock seemed almost to fidget. McCoy did, without trying to hide the fact. He glanced at Spock, but restrained himself from urging. Apparently the process needed a certain amount of time. Were they guessing?
Then one light, only one, came on near Spock’s left hand. He instantly enabled the transporter process, and the sparkling lights appeared again where two Kirks had been standing before.
Softly, peacefully, as though to apologize for having been broken, the transporter beams were almost musical as Captain James Kirk materialized and stood upon the platform—alone.
No one spoke. Picard held his breath. How much damage had been done? Would the captain need therapy? Treatment? Counseling? Would Spock take command for a time?
Kirk blinked, wobbled a step, looked at Spock, at McCoy.
Finally, McCoy could stand it no longer. He leaned forward and gasped, “Jim?”
The word was almost like a slap in the quiet room, but Jim Kirk drew a tight breath and stepped down from the transporter. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and ordered, “Get those men up here fast!”
Relieved and not hesitant to show it, Spock nodded forcefully. “Right away, Captain.”
Kirk stepped out of the way, and McCoy went to the console and started ordering a medical unit to come up to the transporter room.
Stepping to Kirk’s side, Picard said, “Congratulations. I’m glad it’s over for you.”
“Over?” Kirk clenched his fists. “I still have to live with that part of me … knowing what I’m like without him. He took away everything that made me strong. Everything that let me make quick decisions. Everything that made me protect myself, my ship, my principles—”
“Your intellectual half came to understand the value of the brute,” Picard said. “The brute never learned the same. He thought he was better that way. The intelligent part of you was the part that learned something.”
“That’s what intellect does,” Kirk said, watching the transporter platform as three of his crumpled, half-frozen landing party materialized. “It makes the future wider than just today.”
“Yes,” Picard agreed. “Captain, I owe you an apology. I was laboring under a legend. I never saw you as having doubts to overcome.”
“What kind of man doesn’t?”
“I don’t know.” Finding himself smiling, Picard said, “But suddenly I feel rather better about myself too. And I understand now that you never lost your edge because your talents and your heart’s desire were the same. You wanted to be the commander of a ship. I had the talent to command, but my heart’s desire had too many other attractions. That’s why I’ve avoided the admirality. The same as you. And why Riker avoids senior command. That rule about captains being too important to go on away missions—yes, yes, that’s it. We who make the decisions want to share the risks. I do want command more than anything else. Until today I never really knew why.”
“Now you do.”
Picard squared his shoulders, feeling better than he had in years, and smiled. “Captain Kirk … thank you most sincerely. May I shake your hand? I never did that, and I believe I should.”
Kirk’s hand was warm, his handshake tight and confident. A good grip, and the feeling sustained Picard in his new decisions.
Then a knock came on the outer wall. “Captain! Captain Picard? How does this door open?”
“Captain Reynolds, one moment. I’m coming. Computer, end program.”
He watched with satisfaction and some regret as James Kirk nodded in companionable farewell,