Of course, even if they did somehow miraculously locate Kirk’s mind in the past, they would still have to put it back into his body where it belonged, but McCoy was inclined to cross that bridge when they came to it. Another mind-mind, perhaps, or that alien machine Janice Lester had discovered. There had to be a way to put Jim back together.
We just have to find him first.
“Easier said than done, Doctor,” Spock observed. “While I appreciate your sense of urgency, the situation here in the Klondike system must take priority. We cannot abandon the Skagway colony to go searching the past for our lost captain.”
McCoy refused to accept that. “But what about Jim? He could be trapped in the past, waiting for us to rescue him!”
“If he is in the past, Doctor, then there is no hurry. Whatever might have become of the captain occurred centuries ago. Our present duty remains before us. Perhaps later, if and when the crisis here is resolved, we can follow up on my hypothesis.”
McCoy seethed in frustration. He knew from personal experience what it was like to be marooned in the past with little hope of rescue. How could Spock be so cool and analytical about the situation? “This is Jim we’re talking about!”
“I am fully aware of that, Doctor.” Spock’s voice held a hint of regret, although one probably had to know him well to hear it. “But I also know that the captain would want us to carry out our duties in his absence and not sacrifice the Skagway colony on the basis of a… supposition.”
“I know.” The hell of it was, Spock was absolutely right. McCoy’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He felt as though his hopes had been raised, only to be crushed beneath the combined weight of logic and duty. “That’s what Jim would want, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“Nor do I,” Spock admitted.
Sighing, McCoy nodded at the private exam room beyond. “In the meantime, what am I supposed to do with our misplaced friend there? It looks like he’s not going anywhere.”
“For the time being,” Spock advised, “it is probably best that we share the particulars of the captain’s condition with only select members of the crew. I suggest we keep Colonel Christopher confined to quarantine and limit any contact with him. As far as the rest of the crew and any civilians are concerned, the captain is simply recovering from his injuries — under doctor’s orders.”
McCoy didn’t have a better idea. “And what exactly do I tell my patient?”
“As little as possible,” Spock stated gravely. “If we do hope someday to return him to his own place in history, we must limit his exposure to the future — as we did with his father.”
McCoy nodded. “And just how long do you think we can keep him in the dark?”
“Long enough, Doctor. I hope, long enough.”
Fourteen
2020
Kirk examined his new face in a mirror. Only a couple of days had passed since he had found himself in Shaun Christopher’s body, and he was still getting used to it. He wondered if he ever would.
Oddly familiar blue eyes stared back at him. Shaun resembled his father, whom Kirk had met just a few years ago, although, paradoxically, Shaun was noticeably older than Captain John Christopher. Gray hair infiltrated his temples, and decades of experience had added both creases and character to his features. Kirk calculated that Shaun was probably in his early fifties, although it was hard to tell. People in the past tended to age faster than the humans of his era, where the life expectancy was considerably longer. Although he was in excellent shape for a man his age, Shaun’s body was still older than Kirk would have preferred. He felt as if he had aged thirty years overnight.
Not quite as bad as that time on Gamma Hydra IV but disturbing nonetheless.
The crew’s personal quarters were on the upper deck of the habitat module, above the gym and the infirmary. He had been relieved to discover that NASA had been thoughtful enough to provide each of the astronauts with his or her own private compartment, probably not a bad idea on a flight of this duration. The small, rather monastic cell was only a fraction of the size of his stateroom back on the Enterprise, but that was made up for in part by making use of the walls and ceiling as well. A personal grooming area, complete with mirror, occupied one corner. A sleeping bag was tethered to a wall. A narrow corridor connected the compartments. Kirk kept his door open. He didn’t want to appear to be hiding.
Stubble dotted his cheek as he attempted to shave in zero gravity, which was trickier than he had anticipated. He carefully applied a dollop of water, procured from a wall dispenser, to his face, then squeezed a little NASA-approved shaving cream from a small tin-foil packet. In theory, the mixture would cling to his whiskers without floating away and would also stick to the razor blade. He would have to keep wiping the blade clean and roll up the hand towel to keep the shorn whiskers from getting loose. He started work on his chin but accidentally dislodged a tiny blob of shaving cream.
“Damn.” He chased after the blob with the towel. Starfleet zero-g drills had seldom focused on matters of personal grooming and hygiene.
“Having trouble?”
Zoe Querez floated into his quarters without waiting for an invitation. She executed a midair flip so that they were oriented in the same direction. Her slender fingers snagged the elusive blob, then wiped it on her shorts. She had no quarters of her own, he had learned, but was spending more and more time outside the brig. Nobody really had time to babysit her anymore.
“A little.” He handed her the towel so she could wipe off her suit. “Thanks for the assist, Ms. Querez.”
Even though he had since learned who she was, he remained dumbfounded by her presence on the ship. So far, the Lewis & Clark’s mission was playing out very differently from what he recalled from the history tapes. A stowaway? A briefly glimpsed alien probe? None of that was in the official accounts of the mission, let alone history as he knew it. Which just made his current predicament all the more challenging. How was he supposed to avoid changing the past when that past wasn’t what he thought it was?
All he could do was try to get through this mission without blowing his cover, then find some way to send a message to the future. Perhaps a letter in a safe-deposit box, to be delivered to McCoy at an appropriate date hundreds of years from now? Or a time capsule built to survive World War III? Or, better yet, an old-fashioned radio message directed to where a starbase would be two hundred fifty years from now? In theory, his SOS would arrive at just about the right time for Starfleet to receive it.
Granted, the brass increasingly frowned on unnecessary trips to the past, for fear of wreaking havoc with the timeline, but surely they would grant the Enterprise some leeway in this case. He hoped that Spock and the others would come looking for him. Then maybe they could deal with the little matter of putting his mind back into his own body!
In the meantime, he had to keep pretending to be Shaun.
“What’s with this ‘Ms. Querez’ stuff?” Zoe asked. “We’re not on a first-name basis anymore?”
Oops, Kirk thought. “Sorry. Just a little distracted.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” She hooked her foot into a wall loop to keep from drifting around the chamber. Her striking brown eyes inspected his unshaven face. “Maybe you should just let it grow out. A little stubble looks good on you.”
“Thanks,” Kirk said. “But given the length of this cruise, I need to shave sometimes or end up looking like Rip Van Winkle.” Except that Rip woke up in the future, he thought, and I’m stuck two centuries in the past.