Twelve Years Later
Starbase 10

"It's not fair. There's nothing fair about it."

"If you want fair, don't enter races."

The room was full, decorated with ship's pennants and flags, and very bright. The restaurant at one of the Federation's farthest reaching starbases.

Uneasily situated between the two people snapping at each other, Starship Chief Surgeon Leonard McCoy felt fundamentally out of place. He was the only person in the room who wasn't a ship's master, or a line officer.

He crushed his hand into a fist to keep from reaching over, restraining his captain's arm, and whispering a phrase of caution.

"Don't enter races?" What kind of thing is that to say at a time like this?

Usually the doctor didn't hesitate to tag along behind his captain into command briefings. No matter the glares he got, he was used to glaring back and knew nobody would have the gumption to tell the captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise he couldn't have his doctor, his dentist, his favorite carpenter, or his dog groomer at his side if he wanted to, security clearance or not. And Leonard McCoy was known as a man who could glare as good as he got.

But this was the first time McCoy had been among shipmasters who weren't all dressed in uniforms of the Fleet and who didn't have to abide by the same regulations he did. Or any regulations. After a twenty-year career in Starfleet, he realized how awkward it might be for him to step outside again someday. He who had always claimed to be out of place in the Fleet...

Captains, captains everywhere, but only four of them from Starfleet. Merchant captains, alien captains, privateers, yachtsmen, and any other description of ship's master he could come up with -- and looking at this crowd, he could come up with quite a few.

So McCoy was still out of place, even at this time of bright conviviality, with captains of every stripe gathered over fruit and doughnuts, winking and beaming at each other as though they had a secret. At least half of them had spoken to him, but even so, he got the feeling he was just being tolerated.

Interrupting from a table on the other side of the dining area, near the huge windows, backdropped by docked spacecraft and floating workbees, Captain Buck Ames leaned his bulky frame forward, and spoke.

"Look, fellas," he boomed, his heavy voice filled with zest and anticipation, "apparently some of you don't feel this way, but I for one am tickled pink about racing against all these vessels, including whatever Starfleet can throw at us."

He pointed boldly at the three uniformed men and one Vulcan woman. The Vulcan's eyes -- only her eyes -- grinned at him in amusement. She was elegant, yes, subdued, yes, but still she was amused. The human Starfleet captains were trying to be gallant and restrained, but the Vulcan lady was canting an almost-grin at Ames.

McCoy knew that look.

No feelings, my backside.

Somebody else made a crack about not really wanting to tickle Buck Ames pink, and the other captains smiled collectively.

Most laughed when somebody added, "Or any other color."

Captain Nancy Ransom didn't. "It's supposed to be a sport, but how can it be with them here?" she snapped in a deep southern accent. "Those Starfleet ships change the whole texture of this race. They've got heavy shielding, reinforced framing, automatic reaction control, combat-trained crews--"

McCoy frowned. Ames sat back again and shoveled himself a handful of complimentary chocolate-covered raisins. "Consider it a challenge, babe."

Ransom glared. "Build a successful corporation without government help. Then you can 'babe' me, porky."

Grumbling threaded with laughter throughout the room, and even Buck Ames chuckled, "Got a point, babe."

Everybody laughed, and Nancy sat down.

A six-foot-four man in a baseball cap with a dark beard and cheerful narrow eyes proclaimed in a Virginia accent, "Now, darlin', I'm glad they're here. I'm looking to show 'em up."

Somehow Pete Hall's "darlin'" wasn't as compromising as Buck Ames's "babe."

McCoy felt a sense of agreement ripple across the room. Captain Ken Dodge of the Hood pointed at Pete and said, "Somebody shake him. He's dreaming."

At the front of the room a broad-chested man in his forties, with black hair, bright eyes and a salt-and-pepper mustache, stood and waved both hands in the air for attention.

"Okay, Captains, let's keep this on a gentlemanly plane, all right? As most of you already know, I'm John Orland, chairman of the Race Committee. I'm here to pass out some information and answer your questions. Sure, this race is public relations, entertainment, whatever else you want to call it, mostly a way for our hosts to drag some attention out to that black tundra where they live--"

The gathering of captains, shipmasters of every description, and one uneasy doctor, chuckled again, but kept listening.

Orland smiled like a salesman and shrugged. "This is the first real exchange of culture, a kind of coming-out party for the Rey. Before twelve years ago, when Ken Dodge and the Hood answered a little blip out in the middle of nowhere, the Rey were all alone. Not that they were lonely, mind you. Population's over five billion, and every one of those is friendly. Captain Dodge can tell you -- you never saw such hospitable people, people so excited about becoming part of the Federation. Up until now only diplomats, a few natural and medical scientists, and cultural transition teams have interacted with these people, hoping to prevent the usual future shock that can happen when a new race rushes too quickly into the Federation. But these people," he laughed, "we had to hold 'em back for their own good. I swear they've organized this race just to get the Federation to hurry up letting 'em in."

Sudden warmth and an extra measure of eagerness touched each face. Orland seemed to notice that, and got a little more serious.

"But it's also a real race. Don't forget that. Like the Interstellar Olympics, the New Braemar Highland Games, the Pentathlon of Alpha Centauri, the Rigel Passage d'Arms, the Triple Crown, the Grand National, the America's Cup, the Great Tea Race between the clippers Ariel and Taeping, the Grand Prix... it's a strict and real competition. There's going to be a winner, and the first winner of the Great Starship Race will be remembered forever, ladies and gentlemen." He paused, scanned the room, and said, "The acceptance of Gullrey, and its associated colonies, into the United Federation of Planets almost doubles our perimeters."

He opened his mouth to say something else, but was blasted down by applause -- a solemn applause, not the sports-event rattle from before. The captains were absorbing the scope of what they were doing in the next couple days -- and what they had done in the past twenty-five years.

Orland took advantage of the pause to hand stacks of red leather folders to three stewards, who began distributing them to the tables.

"In these packets you'll find a list of ships participating, their flaggings and captains. You all know by now that any ship within specified gross tonnage and thrust brackets can join the race. We might get a few more coming in at the last minute, but I don't think that's going to be very many. Well have some non-Federation entries meeting us out at the starting line at Starbase 16, but we pretty much know who they are. A Tholian entry, a couple from Federation protectorates, and candidate members like Sigma Iotia, and a few others who didn't want to make the trip all the way here to Starbase 10 just to turn around and go back to 16. Also, I know some of you have a problem with gambling, but there's nothing we can do to stop it. The area between Starbase 16 and Gullrey isn't officially Federation space yet. If you have some moral objection to gambling, better get out of the race here and now."

Coffee cups clinked and shoulders shifted, but nobody got up and left. McCoy knew that in this crowd, they would if they wanted to. Orland moved his eyes from side to side, then relaxed.

"Okay, good," he sighed. "Had to ask." He squinted toward the right side of the room, where the Starfleet captains -- and McCoy -- had gathered. "The rules of communication for this race are going to be basic Maritime Standard. That'll be comfortable for the civilian vessels, but you Starfleet people will have to do some adjusting."

From McCoy's right, Kirk spoke up: "We'll adjust."

Three tables over, a robust dark-haired man of fifty with a black beard winked and said, "You're a wolf, Jimmy."

McCoy blinked at Ben Shamirian.

Just like that. We'll adjust. Snap finger and undo years of training in our people. Start talking like barge drivers.

"We'll have no problem," Ken Dodge added. Dodge was still as dark-haired and pink-faced as he had been when McCoy had first met him eight or so years ago.

"There won't be any Starfleet channel," Kirk said. "No one has to feel intimidated when talking to any of our ships."

"Don't intimidate me none, spud," Buck Ames's deep voice announced from behind.

Eyes shifting, James Kirk turned and resettled himself so he could look back there and rest one arm across the back of his seat.

"We've made it a Starfleet Academy tactical exam to devise something that does intimidate you, Buck," he said.

"That's why Starfleet's in the race," Captain Dodge said. "To intimidate Buck."

As the room's laughter cushioned him, McCoy sank back against the soft chair. He wasn't used to this kind of frivolity coming from lone wolf captains -- and all captains were lone wolves in their ways. That much he was sure of.

"And right here," John Orland continued, "is a copy of the rules."

As attention floated back to the front of the dining room, he held out a piece of paper. It was blank. He turned it around for them to look at, and held it high.

Also blank.

"As you can see, there's nothing on it," he pointed out.

"That's because there aren't any rules you don't already know. Just basic, run-of-the-mill maritime rules of the road. This race is taking place outside of Federation space, so there isn't even any law that applies across the board. I mean, you can't take potshots at each other to disable a contestant or anything, but this is like one of those strongest-survive field tests. Whoever comes out first... wins."

Someone from the other side of the room asked, "When are we going to get some details about this 'host' planet?"

A high-pitched elderly voice toward the front of the room demanded, "Do they have any laws we can apply out there?"

"A background of these people is in the command packets. They don't have any interstellar laws because they hardly have interstellar travel, never mind regulations about it." He pointed at Captain Dodge. "Hell, when Ken Dodge first contacted these people, they were shutting down their space programs and just sending signals. Lucky for them we caught them when we did. Maybe you can corner Ken on the way out, but don't bug me about it. If he's gonna be the guest of honor, he oughta pay."

All eyes brushed briefly over the man who had started it all by answering a faint blip twelve years ago.

"I'll get you for this, John," Dodge promised.

A surly-looking, overweight red-headed young man with a short beard suggested, "Sneeze on his lunch."

Through the laughter somebody else added, "Class act, Ian."

"Look," Orland said, "I'm just up here so I don't have to drink that coffee."

More laughter allowed for a pause while stewards milled around filling coffee mugs and offering trays of fresh doughnuts.

Orland looked at a list, nodded to himself, then chose a subject, and continued.

"Oh, there's no cargo transporting allowed."

A very young, dirty-looking captain in a patchwork jacket moaned, "Aw, what's that for? I'm carting textbooks."

"Can't do it. Can't take any chances of contraband or border disputes. You'll have to present your ship's bill of stores to the Consul of Foreign Ports for holding until the end of the race. Any cargo being carried will be stored in a bonded warehouse on Starbase 16, which is as far out as Federation jurisdiction goes to this new system."

"Just how far out is it?" Nancy Ransom persisted.

"Trust me," Orland said. "It's far. Now, as I said, there aren't any rules, but I'm going to impose one here and now." He widened his eyes in a manner more amusing than threatening, but no one chuckled this time. He was serious. "When there's any vessel dead ahead of you, the following vessel must either alter course or power back to adjust for ahead reach. We don't want anybody cramming into the back of the ship in front of you, got it? Anybody not understand that?"

McCoy almost raised his hand out of natural bullheadedness, but stopped himself. He tried to glance around without moving his head. Everybody else seemed to know what all that meant. He'd have to choke an explanation out of a junior engineer later.

"There are beacons and buoys placed throughout the sector to mark dangerous areas," Orland went on, "and don't forget there are plenty of those. Don't go around hawking, 'I know this space,' because you don't. Nobody does. Globe topmarks are for gravitational anomalies, diamonds are electrical clouds, triangles are sensor blind spots, and flashers mark storms. All of these are as close as possible, but we're not infallible. These suckers move around. Starfleet patrols double-checked the markers yesterday and already had to move five of them. Now, these are not coasting markers!"

The room heaved with collective laughter. McCoy grinned like a cat and pretended he had some idea what Orland meant.

"Please do not," Orland added, "attempt to follow these things from point to point! Or somebody's gonna have to throw a big chain into some goddamned twister and pull you out, okay?"

More chuckling.

A movement at McCoy's side made him flinch. Jim Kirk's hand was up.

"What's the distress frequency?"

Orland nodded and pointed at him. "Good! Thanks. Damn, I knew there was something I'd forget. The distress frequency is five thousand megacycles subspace. Just having your equipment on that channel will constitute SOS, so if you leave your lights on, even by mistake, don't be surprised if somebody knocks."

Apparently Kirk wasn't satisfied, because he pursued, "No safety ships or draggers?"

"Aren't any. The only vessels who can respond to trouble will be your fellow competitors or the spectator ships that will be dotting the routes here and there. But those are big, clunky cruise ships and I wouldn't hold my breath. If you get in trouble, just put yourself on the distress frequency, as Jim pointed out, and we'll try to determine your EP and come get you."

McCoy watched his captain intuitively. He knew what the problem was.

Race or not, competition, sport, fun and games or not, the lack of official safety nets meant that the Starfleet ships would be the lifeguards unofficially. Everyone would expect that.

Seeing the way Dodge and Kirk looked at each other and at the other two Starfleet captains, McCoy realized the raw joy of sport had just slipped an inch for these commanders, and the tempting danger just hiked up. He couldn't tell which of those two they would rather have -- but he had a suspicion.

Then Nancy Ransom stood up.

"I still protest the participation of Starfleet," she insisted. "We were told this was a general public competition. Why weren't we told these enforcers were going to get to run the race?"

Suddenly uneasy, Orland shifted back and forth and rubbed his hands on his thighs, then held them out in a pacifying manner.

"Look, Nancy," he began, "even at this moment the Starfleet ships are being handicapped for just the reasons you're concerned about. They're in spacedock or box docks, being mechanically deprived of hardware advantages and having their power reduced across the board by twenty percent. They're big ships, but they'll have to swim with their legs tied. Don't know what more we can do for you."

"I do," she said bluntly. "It's not fair for us to have to go up against spacehawks like him."

She turned and thrust a pointed finger toward Jim Kirk.

Kirk's face took on the demeanor of the hawk she accused him of being. He shoved his command packet into McCoy's hands and stood up to face her.

"I'll be a good sport and shed my bars when my ship crosses the starting line," he said, "but until then, you watch your sportsmanship. Fairness doesn't get anybody anywhere. Every running river knows that. Some rocks get washed away. Some hold their ground and eventually they turn the river. Why run a race where everything's 'fair'? You'll never know how you really did."

The room fell silent.

There was wordless applause in the eyes of not just his Starfleet comrades, but in the eyes of other captains as well, who understood what he meant.

McCoy knew from past experience there was either adoration for James Kirk or hatred, but no middle ground.

And Nancy Ransom wasn't in the middle.

"I still think the starships shouldn't try to win," she barked.

Kirk's eyebrows flared.

"What you think," he snapped, "is your problem, Captain. I've got advantages, but so do you. You've got full power. This is a test of smarts as much as it's a test of ships. And it's supposed to be sport. The losers won't get executed, the winners won't gain ultimate power, so relax and get ready for a good hard game we'll all remember for the rest of our lives." He leaned forward on the table and spoke to her as though they were alone in the room. "Or withdraw now. Because I don't enter any race not to win."

Officers' Lounge

A vital place, somehow.

Carpeted, soundproofed, trimmed with cherry molding and rough-hewn ceiling beams, decorated with paintings -- not pictures -- of ships through the ages, from Federation planets far and wide.

But in spite of the heartwarming decor, it was the big viewing wall, a great clear wall divided only by the smallest and fewest possible support threads, which was the real attraction of the place.

McCoy strode in slowly, scanned the lounge, found what he was looking for, then crossed the spongy carpet and sat down in the lounge chair near the viewing windows.

In the chair beside him, feet up on the low window ledge, Captain James Kirk didn't move, glance, sigh, or in any way acknowledge that he wasn't alone anymore. He just kept gazing out the viewport, at the busy black canopy of open space. Gazing and grinning.

This wasn't like the dining room viewing windows that looked inward at the core of the starbase, the "inside", where ships were docked for tours and interior maintenance. This was the outer rim of the starbase, where the view outside was a view of space. This view stirred a cathedral reverence and a certain library quiet in the lounge.

Kind of like the difference between looking at a swimming pool and looking at an ocean.

Jim Kirk was looking at an ocean. A young man with electricity in his eyes. One side of his mouth was pulled up in that grin.

McCoy gazed briefly at the few other people milling quietly around the lounge, some also just sitting and looking out.

Some were captains. Some were people trying to get away from captains.

"So," he bridged, "what're you doing? Waiting to see a green flash?"

Kirk didn't move a muscle. He was looking up, out, and slightly to the left.

McCoy sat down next to him, pivoted in his chair, and followed Kirk's gaze. Together, they looked.

"That's how she was the first time I saw her," Kirk said. "Hovering in a box of lit-up red girders like some kind of living thing. Not a machine at all, Bones."

McCoy nodded. From below, the ship had a stirring effect upon the men who served her, who relied upon her, and who time after time had insisted she press on through the hell of space. A kind of courage seemed to glow from her white plates, with strips of shadow lying across her underside cast from the box dock's hexagonal struts. She looked as though she was almost breathing.

"How did it go in there after I left?" Kirk asked.

McCoy blinked at the sound of his captain's voice. "Hmm? Oh... you mean after you strode out, leaving your handprint on Nancy Ransom's face? What is it with you and her anyway?"

"She hates me."

McCoy crossed his legs and scowled. "Does anybody besides us like you?" he drawled. "How far do we have to go into space before we find somebody whose eggs you haven't cracked?"

Kirk shrugged. "She washed out of the Academy. She was in my command competition team. Blamed me for bad leadership."

"Was she right?"

The captain smiled devilishly. "Who knows? Not even the Academy can replace hard experience. I might've been 'perfect' back then, by the book, but I wasn't 'good.' A few years ago, I told Ransom that. But it didn't help. She hates my guts, and she's not going to stop. So if that's how she wants to play the game, that's how I'll play it."

He sounded casual, and a lot more indestructible than McCoy knew he was.

"Don't worry, Bones," he said, "It's just a race."

The doctor didn't buy it. "It is when you say it fast."

Without looking at him, Kirk said, "Ships have been racing for centuries. It's a tradition. That's what made me accept the invitation. Even the fishing vessels out of Gloucester or Portugal had to race. They raced to be the first back to port. It wasn't the fullest ship that got the best price -- it was the fastest."

"Want me to find you a pipe to smoke? Take your boots off. That story would sound better if you had bare feet."

Kirk chuckled. "I can see myself whittling on the corncob pipe now. Open that folder," he said, "and see if there's a manifest of ships and masters."

"It's right on top." The doctor dug into the leather packet, and handed the paper toward Kirk.

But the captain didn't move, didn't look away from his ship. He leaned back and sipped a drink. Looked like ice water.

"You still on duty?" McCoy asked.

"Until fourteen hundred. Read the list off to me."

"Oh." McCoy sat back awkwardly. "Well, all right, let's see here. It starts with Helmut Appenfeller commanding the Drachenfels, flagged for Colony Drachenfels -- I remember when that ship was launched. It's a German legend or Norwegian. Means 'Where the dragon fell.' Somebody killed a dragon, and that's where they built a town or dug a hole or something. Course, if there was a dead dragon lying there, I'd dig a hole too."

"So would I," the captain chuckled. "Read, man, read."

"I'm reading, Jim, don't be a midshipman. Buck Ames, Haunted Forest, a private yacht... Hunter, Dominion of Proxima from Proxima Beta... Sue Hardee on Thomas Jefferson, Federation Museum Ship... Lar -- Legarr... Leg-something in command of Orion Union... Nancy Ransom, Ransom Castle, from Ransom Carnvale Interstellar Mining Company... Ben Shamirian, Gavelan Star, private explorer..."

"Yes," Kirk said. "Good to have friends in the line-up."

"Yup, nothing like beating the drawers off an old friend. What else've we got here... Leo Blaine -- isn't he Starfleet retired?"

"If so, it's before my time."

"You're only thirty-six. Everything is before your time. I think he retired as a decorated captain. They offered him a starship, but he turned it down and went off on this thing he calls--"

"Cynthia Blaine. Named after his mother. Flagged for the company she started."

"Why did you ask me to read you this list if you already memorized it?"

The captain grinned. "I like the sound of your voice."

"Who's this Ian Blackington? Says 'private.' Must be a yacht."

"No yacht," Kirk said, sounding slightly offended. "Working ship. Merchantman. At least, that's the legal term for what he does."

"What's the illegal term?"

"Pirate."

McCoy cleared his throat, then found out he probably shouldn't make a comment on that, and retreated to the list. "Alexandria, Captain Pete Hall... I met him once."

"He's kind and capable," Kirk said. "Has a lot of finesse."

"Irimlo Si, from Zeon, Captain Loracon... Bluenose IV, Captain Mitchell Rowan, Earth... oh, this is interesting -- I'd like to see this one myself. The Hospital Ship Brother's Keeper under Surgeon General Christoff Gogine. I didn't know that General Gogine was a licensed captain."

"He's not." Kirk leaned forward and peered suspiciously at a work pod as it approached and attached itself to the engineering section of the starship. "He's got a flight master who does the actual maneuvering. Gogine just gets the credit. That's one thing you'll find out, Bones. Credit is negotiable... blame isn't."

McCoy looked up.

"Now, where did that come from all of a sudden?"

The captain's expression suddenly changed as he eyed his ship. "Look at that ship, Bones. Look at her. Only twelve of those in the Fleet, only twelve people in the galaxy who get to drive them... and this time I get a chance to show her off. Win or lose, the Enterprise is going to be seen by people who only hear about her. The people who paid for her."

The doctor felt as though a curtain had parted and the mystery dropped away. In spite of the swaggering that went on when more than one ship's commander was in a confined space, in spite of having been dragged off patrol for what seemed at first to be a silly public relations game, Jim Kirk was looking forward to showing off his favorite girl.

All at once McCoy understood the captain's eagerness to participate, to seeing old friends, dressing the ship in rainbow fashion, soaking up a little appreciation and drenching the crew in some well-deserved merrymaking while somebody else faced off with the unknown for a while.

Kirk was looking forward to this. The best leave -- a leave when he could enjoy the ship. No planets, no music, no women -- well, maybe women. But most of all, the ship. Out in space where the public followed for a change, where attention of the Federation was focused on the starship, with tourists flocking by the boatload to have a look, the captain could do something very rare. He could puff up and show off, and nobody would expect anything else.

A ruddy pride flushed in the captain's face, and in his eyes too.

"Hm," the doctor sighed and went on skimming the list. "That's a relief... deep space can do without us for a while. I could use a break from roughhousing with the warring Birdbathians as they clash with the Knobheads of New Wherever. Jim, look at this -- seems a lot of these are ships representing systems or planets that I know for a fact don't have any spacefaring technology of the required tonnage and thrust yet."

"They're flagged for those systems. Like Argelius," Kirk pointed out. "They want to participate, so they hire a ship, muster a crew and captain, and put their flag on it. The Tellarites aren't coming at all, in spite of their insistence upon joining the Federation."

"Snubbing us, are they?" McCoy drawled. "Well, they've got the faces for it."

"The Klingons don't want anything to do with it either. They say competition without solid reward is a waste of time."

"Gosh, I'll miss them. Look at this -- Charles Goodyear the Ninth with a ship he calls The Blimp. Better be a fat ship." The doctor let the list drop into his lap and rubbed his eyes. "You know, I'm beginning to think there's nothing somebody won't name a ship."

"No one's done the S.S. Rest in Peace," Kirk tossed back. "Guess that's yours."

"No one's done the S.S. Butter Cookie either, but I wouldn't go scanning manifests. Jim, take your eyes off that ship before you go blind!"

The captain sighed and said, "I don't get to see her much, Bones. We spend all our time trying to get from here to there and live to tell it." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "She's my ship... but I never get to see her from the outside."

"Never thought of that," McCoy admitted.

In contemplation they sat together for many seconds in silence, gazing at the starship, its shadows and its lights.

Then the captain said, "That's because you're not a sailor."