Killing Time

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

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  Copyright © 1990 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc, under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-1975-8

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Look for STAR TREK fiction from Pocket Books

  For Jim and Wendy and Diane

  Acknowledgments

  To:

  Wendy for listening to hours of writing, re-writes, and so on, not to mention constant support & belief that it could work.

  Jim for first saying, "You really should think about submitting Killing Time professionally."

  Diane for support and for carrying on with the madness. We'll find that answer!

  Gene Roddenberry for looking into the future to bring a vision to a world that needs visions desperately.

  William Shatner & Leonard Nimoy for breathing life into two legends.

  Anyone connected with STAR TREK for keeping that legend alive.

  Mimi Panitch for putting the wheels into motion and for suggestions which made it all work.

  Karen Haas for seeing everything through to its conclusion and for all the time and energy necessary to put all the pieces together.

  Mom … for having the insight to set me down in front of an antiquated manual typewriter at an early age.

  Cynthia … for perseverance above & beyond the call of duty, and for dealing calmly and warmly with a slightly edgy writer. It's appreciated more than you can know!

  Chapter One

  FOR THE THIRD consecutive night, Captain James T. Kirk awoke with a gasp of surprise and something akin to fear clinging to the side of his throat. He blinked once, then struggled to sit up, leaning against the head of the bed as his eyes scanned the dark room. Reality returned and his gaze settled on the chronometer. It was shortly after 3 A.M., Ship Standard Time, but he was wide awake and knew he would have little hope of getting back to sleep before the alarm demanded his attention at six.

  Releasing the breath he'd been holding, he replayed the recurring dream in his mind, wondering why it should have disturbed him so deeply … and so often.

  After discovering no logical explanation for its cause or its unprecedented effect on him, he tried passing it off to the fact that the Enterprise had been on routine patrol of the Romulan Neutral Zone for nearly two months—an inexcusably boring mission. But with Romulan Fleet activity increased for no apparent reason, he accepted the fact that he was bound to be a little edgy.

  After another deep breath and a shake of his tousled hair, he slowly lowered himself back into the warm nest of covers, and closed his eyes; but as expected, he was only pretending to sleep when the First Shift duty alarm sounded less than three hours later.

  Stifling a yawn, Kirk entered the Deck 5 turbolift to discover the ship's first officer studying him with a lifted eyebrow.

  "Morning, Spock," Kirk said with a sheepish grin, wishing he'd taken the time for a cup of coffee before presenting himself publicly.

  The Vulcan's head inclined in greeting. "Captain," he said formally. The doors closed and the lift began its familiar horizontal motion, but the Vulcan continued to study his friend. "Is everything all right, Captain?" he inquired presently.

  "Just fine, Mister Spock," Kirk replied. "Why do you ask?" He wondered if his eyes were a trifle more red than they'd appeared in the mirror.

  The eyebrow climbed higher beneath the long black bangs. "You seem … unusually distracted," Spock observed after a questioning moment of silence.

  So much for dismissing the matter, Kirk thought. Spock's scrutiny was never escaped easily. "Would you believe me if I told you that the invincible Captain Kirk has insomnia?" he asked with a smile.

  "Indeed," Spock murmured. Kirk was normally a very private individual; but now the hazel eyes seemed alight with a combination of embarrassment and mischief. The Vulcan decided not to mention that he himself had been having disturbing dreams for at least a week. "I trust you have not sought relief from Doctor McCoy?"

  Kirk shook his head. "For a few hours of lost sleep?" But the twinkle left his eyes as a frown found its way to his face. "I don't know why it should bother me at all," he said, feeling some need to explain himself. "But … never mind, Spock," he added as the nocturnal images returned to haunt him. "It was … just a dream." Trying to change the subject, the smile returned to his face. "Another human shortcoming, eh, Spock?"

  Something in Kirk's too-casual tone caused the Vulcan to look at him more closely. "Would you care to discuss the matter in more detail, Captain?" he asked, momentarily wondering why he didn't dismiss the subject as Kirk was attempting to do. Yet he realized that the captain's normal reservations concerning his personal life did not extend to him, just as he understood that the reverse was also true.

  Kirk glanced up from where he'd been studying his boots, and felt the familiar telepathic door swing open between himself and the Vulcan. It was something which had formed between them over the years, something which had saved their lives countless times and made them brothers. He did want to discuss it, but only with Spock.

  McCoy would, as the Vulcan was fond of pointing out, dispense a handful of pills and an hour of friendly advice; and though Kirk valued the doctor's friendship, he wasn't in the mood for a full battery of psychological tests to determine the cause of a simple recurring dream. He chanced a quick look at the Vulcan as a plan of action took shape in his mind.

  "I haven't had breakfast yet," he began, finding an excuse he needed. "But … I'm sure you have, Mister Spock. After all," he continued with a broadening grin, "Vulcans never ever miss breakfast, right? You have to keep those thought-wheels well oiled and in perfect working order." He studied his first officer's lean frame. "And you never gain an ounce either!" he added with a look of mock-disgust, remembering McCoy's warnings to cut back on the meat and potatoes and settle for a salad once in awhile.

  The Vulcan brow lowered as Spock observed his captain's nonchalant approach. "I have not eaten this morning," he stated in straightforward contrast to Kirk's roundabout endeavors, "and I would be pleased to join you. And we need not inform Doctor McCoy as to the menu."

  "I'll
have Scotty take over until we get up to the bridge," Kirk said, not finding it in himself to argue. After all, he rationalized, the Enterprise was doing nothing more than traveling back and forth at the border of the Neutral Zone—a mindless action which hardly required the captain and first officer's presence.

  Lieutenant Jeremy Richardson sank slowly into the navigator's chair, studying the familiar star pattern which had all but plastered itself to his inner eye during the two weeks Chekov had been on leave. He glanced at Sulu, inclining his head toward the viewscreen.

  "How much longer do you think we're going to be stuck with this assignment?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. "Did Kirk get on some admiral's nerves, or just manage to draw the short straw for this mission?"

  Sulu grinned amiably, relaxing in the helmsman's chair. "Hell, Richardson," he said, elbowing the other lieutenant in the ribs, "if you'd sleep at night instead of trying to find the air-conditioning duct that leads to Yeoman Barrett's quarters, you might not find it so hard to get out of bed in the morning!"

  Richardson shrugged as he mechanically checked the sensors, finding absolutely nothing out of the ordinary for what felt like the hundredth day in a row. He returned Sulu's smile and shook neatly trimmed brown hair back from handsomely tanned features. "Perseverance," he said knowingly, and winked. "Sooner or later, Barrett's bound to recognize my finer qualities and invite me out to dinner … a few drinks afterward … and then, who knows?"

  Across the bridge, Uhura turned in her seat. "Isn't it supposed to be the other way around, Jerry?" she wondered. "Aren't you the one who is always praising the 'good old days'—when all a man had to do was flex his muscles to have women falling at his feet?" Her voice was a deep, teasing purr as she looked him up and down, pretending disinterest. "And aren't you the one who always said it was the man's place to ask the poor, frail female of the species to dance?"

  Jerry shrugged at her teasing. "I did ask her," he said with exaggerated disappointment, then leaned back in the chair and fought off another encroaching yawn.

  Sulu turned to Uhura and made a quick slicing motion across his throat. "She turned him down," he deduced with an easy chuckle. "Barrett's got a lot of promise. She knows a good thing when she sees it—and apparently she hasn't seen it yet."

  Richardson swung the chair back toward the view screen and confirmed the ship's computer-designated course for the second time in less than a minute. "I'm giving her another chance," he said magnanimously. "And … if she doesn't decide within a week that I'm her knight in shining armor, there's always Lieutenant Masters or Nurse Drew … or even Yeoman S'Parva."

  Sulu rolled his eyes in a gesture of long suffering. "S'Parva isn't exactly your type, is she, Jerry? Besides," he added, "she's a quadraped."

  But Richardson only sighed romantically. "Rules were made to be broken, my friend, and anyway … I just thought we could be buddies, pals, chums." He put one hand dramatically over his heart, then leaned back in the chair. "I've never met another woman like our Yeoman S'Parva," he continued playfully, outlining an hour-glass motion with his hands. "A body like a goddess … and a face like an Irish setter!"

  Sulu chuckled quietly. "Man's best friend?"

  Jerry nodded, then ducked just in time to avoid being hit with the writing stylus which Uhura hurled at his head.

  "Do you two have any idea what S'Parva would say if she heard that?" she asked, struggling to contain the laugh which had risen in her throat. "She'd probably throw you both up against the nearest bulkhead and teach you a lesson in respect. And if you were very lucky, Jerry, you might escape with nothing more than a few broken bones and puncture wounds on your throat!"

  Richardson's eyes closed in enhanced appreciation of the image. "Mmmm," he purred. "Sounds good to me." He winked at the communications officer. "Everybody needs a hobby, Uhura. Captain's orders."

  Uhura turned back to her own station with a shake of her head. "I know you're not a bigot or a xenophobiac under that wolf's mask," she said, "so maybe I won't say anything to S'Parva if you stop prowling the corridors at night like some lovesick tomcat."

  Jerry turned, gave a conspiratorial wink to Sulu, then rose to his feet in a graceful movement and slinked over to stand by Uhura's communications panel. He looked down into expectant brown eyes. "Meow?" he purred innocently, rubbing his cheek on the top of her chair.

  Looking straight into the handsome face, the lieutenant depressed a button on the lighted panel.

  "McCoy here," came the filtered response.

  "Doctor McCoy," Uhura began, her eyes never leaving Richardson's face, "we seem to be having a problem with … vermin … on board the Enterprise. There's one very large tomcat up here who's just begging to be neutered. I thought you might want to send someone from the zoology department up here to put a net on him."

  Jerry's jaw went slack as he stared down into the wide brown eyes which were as mischievous as his own. With a silent "Meow?" on his lips and a negative shake of his head, he turned and tiptoed back to his own post.

  "What was that, Uhura?" McCoy's voice demanded after a long silence. "Are you sure the whole bridge hasn't got a bad case of cabin fever?" But the lightness of his tone belied any attempt at gruffness.

  Uhura smiled knowingly in Richardson's direction. "Never mind, Doctor," she replied. "I think we have the problem in hand for the moment. But we'll call again if we need you."

  "Right," McCoy agreed. The communication clicked off, then abruptly reactivated. "And don't fall asleep up there!"

  Uhura smiled. "That may be the toughest order of the day, Leonard," she murmured, then switched off the intercom and glanced over to where Richardson had settled down quietly and was stifling another yawn. "Sweet dreams, Romeo," she teased.

  Jerry shivered almost involuntarily. Dreams …

  Kirk poked at the eggs on his plate with the tip of his fork, but it was blatantly obvious to Spock that the captain had little interest in the food.

  "I don't know who I was, but … I wasn't who I was supposed to be." He laid the fork aside and took a healthy gulp of the reconstituted orange juice. "And that's not exactly right either," he continued, not quite looking at the Vulcan. "It was as if I was still James Kirk—the same James Kirk I've always been—but I wasn't in the right … place." He shook his head in frustration. "I can't explain it, Spock."

  Spock eyed his friend carefully. "Dreams of alienation are not unusual," he pointed out. "In situations such as exist onboard starships, they are, in fact, extremely common." Taking a sip of the hot herb tea, he pushed his own plate of untouched food aside. He couldn't help remembering that he, too, had been experiencing dreams of alienation and displacement for nearly a full solar week; but something restrained him from mentioning it. "In your dream, Captain," he continued cautiously, "was it as if you were … not how you would normally envision yourself to be?"

  Kirk frowned thoughtfully, then glanced up as his open palm slapped the table. "That's exactly it!" he exclaimed, then lowered his voice as he noticed a young yeoman at the next table cast a quick look in his direction. He leaned closer to the Vulcan, feeling vaguely ridiculous for the outburst, but somehow closer to the solution. "I was on the Enterprise—but it wasn't even the Enterprise—at least not like I know her," he added as an afterthought. "And … I kept seeing you." At last, he looked up. "But you were different, too, Spock," he stated emphatically. "I'm not sure, but … I think you were the captain."

  He shuddered internally, as the haunting quality of the dreams sharpened. He thought he saw a faint smile come to the young yeoman's face as she stood and quickly left the dining area, but he no longer cared. At least it might alleviate her boredom. "And I didn't know who I was." He shrugged uncomfortably. "I must've been an ensign or something, because I remember trying to think of some way to approach you—to tell you that things weren't the way they're supposed to be."

  He grinned without looking up, and took another swallow of the orange juice, tasting it for the first time. It only strengthened
his resolve to put in a formal request to Admiral Nogura for fresh orange juice at the next opportunity. "And I also remember thinking that you would never believe me. After all," he added as the smile broadened, "you were the ship's captain—and a Vulcan! What chance would a lowly human ensign have of trying to inform the Vulcan commander that he (meaning me!) was supposed to be the captain?" He laughed aloud, feeling some of the tension ebb away just in the act of telling Spock about the absurdity of it all.

  The Vulcan leaned forward, and their eyes met across the table. "Jim," he murmured in a tone suddenly deep and foreboding, "I also dreamed."

  Kirk swallowed the lump of nervousness which rose in his throat, but he could only stare mutely at his first officer. Guiltily, he looked around to see if the yeoman was still eavesdropping. Bad enough that the captain's having delusions of anything but grandeur, he thought. But if Spock buckles … He let the thought drift into silence.

  The Vulcan steepled his fingers in front of him. "At first, I believed the dreams were attributable to the somewhat uneventful mission currently assigned to the Enterprise. However, I am no longer convinced that such is the case."

  Kirk looked at his friend for a long time, their eyes holding them together. "What did you dream, Spock?" he asked, forcing his tone to remain neutral. But he didn't need to hear the answer; it was clearly inscribed in the dark eyes, carved in the angular features, written in the almost tangible conviction with which the Vulcan spoke.

  One eyebrow arched, and it seemed for a moment as if the first officer might surrender to the human urge of shrugging. He did not. "I do not believe it is worth concerning yourself, Captain," he said as if attempting to dismiss his own statement. Somehow, it sounded far less logical in reality than it had in his own thoughts. "We have observed in the past that our minds have developed a telepathic rapport of sorts. Perhaps I was merely receiving fragments of your dreams, thereby—"