Star Trek The Original Series The Folded - By Jeff Mariotte Page 0,2

summer pasture to their winter range. Kirk found himself on horseback, working alongside a dozen men, putting in long days in the saddle and nights around a campfire, listening to lies and stories, laughing, eating everything put before him and longing for more. He slept bundled in a bedroll beneath stars that looked, to his then-untrained eye, just like the ones he saw now through the viewscreen, and he woke on chilly mornings to the smells of coffee and bacon and livestock. He knew, even at that age, that he was tasting a vanishing way of life, connected by invisible threads to the generations who had come before.

His horse, a big, black stallion named Champ, might have seemed fearsome had he not been so gentle. Boy and mount developed a fierce bond during their two weeks together, a happenstance he had not expected but found that he enjoyed. The whole adventure had instilled in him a love of the outdoors, particularly in the North American West, that had stayed with him ever since. It had also deepened his connection with Uncle Frank, and helped him heal from the tragedy on Tarsus IV.

His last day with Uncle Frank, during which they were both recovering from the days on horseback, reliving parts of the cattle drive, and generally enjoying one another’s company, had been the sixth day of August. Kirk remembered the date, because the next day had been Uncle Frank’s birthday. He also remembered it because a year later, to the day, Uncle Frank had been struck by a massive heart attack while splitting firewood in his side yard. He had, most likely, died instantly.

Small comfort, that.

Most years since then, unless circumstances had not allowed, Kirk thought about his uncle Frank on that date; remembered especially those magical days and nights of the cattle drive, riding through fragrant mountain meadows and clear, icy streams, hearing the thunder of hooves and the calls of night birds and the raucous laughter of men who worked hard and loved life. He recalled the way Uncle Frank had smelled, of sweat and horse and wood smoke, the way his laugh boomed so loud it seemed to echo from the canyon walls, the way he called Kirk “Jimmy-boy,” with the emphasis on the Jim.

Service on a starship had much in common with that experience, he thought. The ship’s crew comprised both men and women, not just men, but they were as dedicated to their task as those long-ago cowboys had been. Their camaraderie, tested by blood and fire, was strong. They worked toward goals that mattered.

Kirk turned away from the viewscreen and swept his gaze across the bridge, taking in Sulu and Uhura and Chekov and Spock, seated as usual with his back to the others, the only one not watching to see if their captain had lost his mind. “Sorry,” Kirk said. “I’m back.”

“Back from where, Captain?” The turbolift door whooshed closed behind the newcomer. He was Levi Michael Gonzales, a Federation diplomat. He was a lean man, tall and stoop-shouldered, with a craggy face and a nose that jutted from it like the prow of a sailing ship. His hair was long, hanging to his mid-back, and mostly silver. To Kirk, the odor that always wafted around him smelled slightly rancid, like a pork chop left too long in the sun.

“A figure of speech, Mister Gonzales,” Kirk said. “I was lost in thought for a moment, that’s all.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Gonzales said, as if Kirk were somehow not in that exalted rank with the diplomat and might appreciate the assurance of his betters.

“Is there something I can help you with, Mister Gonzales?”

“Minister Chan’ya would like to know what our progress toward Ixtolde is.”

You can tell Minister Chan’ya to just subtract six hours from the last time she asked, Kirk thought. But Gonzales was a Federation official and Chan’ya an Ixtoldan government representative, and neither category of people, in his experience, was famous for their sense of humor. “I believe we’re still on course,” Kirk said. “Mister Chekov?”

The young ensign consulted his screen for only an instant. “Eight days, four hours, and thirteen minutes until we reach Ixtoldan orbit,” Chekov said. His Russian accent and clipped manner of speaking somehow lent his pronouncement extra weight.

“There you go,” Kirk said. “Is there anything else?”

Gonzales let out the briefest of sighs. “I understand that she can seem like a handful, Captain,” he said softly. “But she is important in the Ixtoldan hierarchy, and Federation