FOREWORD

Every Wandering Thought

So finally, after penning the outlines for the McCoy and Spock novels of the Crucible trilogy, I arrive at the Kirk tale. And this one event, this crucible, that I had envisioned impacting all three of the main Star Trek characters, had affected the good captain in a very clear and obvious way. I readily see the story that surely must flow from the events in one of Trek’s most popular episodes, and I know just how it will tie in with the overall themes of the other two books.

I know at once that I can’t write such a novel.

Here’s the thing. For good or ill, I like to defy reader expectations. I strive in my writing not only to deliver a satisfying story, but also to surprise. When it works, that can be a very good thing. But there’s a risk involved there too, in that a reader who has strong expectations going into a novel might be disinclined to enjoy it if those expectations aren’t met. I know this, of course, and yet I nevertheless like the challenge of attempting to deliver something new and unanticipated to readers that they will still end up appreciating.

In this case, after writing the McCoy and Spock novels of the Crucible trilogy-Provenance of Shadows and The Fire and the Rose, respectively-I realized that I had myself established reader expectations for the third volume. I couldn’t have that. If I take readers from Point A and then to Point B, you can rest assured that I’m going to do my best to avoid following that up with a tale that brings them to Point C. Too obvious. Way too obvious.

So I began again. I examined Jim Kirk’s life, knowing which of his characteristics and experiences I wanted to illuminate, and I searched for a different lens through which to do it. I found it in a place I hadn’t expected, and I ended up putting together a tight little tale that actually surprised even me-partly for its relative brevity (I tend to write long, as many of you might have noticed), partly for its linear nature (well, mostly linear), and partly because of its content. I hope that means that I’ll end up surprising readers too. I guess you’ll find out.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O, no, it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wand’ring barque,

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error, and upon me prov’d,

I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.

- William Shakespeare,

Sonnet CXVI

Kirk: Spock…I believe…I’m in love with Edith Keeler.

Spock: Jim, Edith Keeler must die.

- “The City on the Edge of Forever”

OVERTURE

Chasms

He had all the time in the world. All the time in the universe, really.

The twisting, writhing ribbon of energy that had torn apart two Whorfin-class transports and taken three hundred sixty-eight lives, that had trapped the new Excelsior-class Enterprise and then sent a jagged tendril blasting through the starship’s hull as it escaped, had deposited Captain James T. Kirk in a place where time-where reality itself-held no meaning. He could go anywhere, do anything. He could relive his past, revise it, even envision a future for himself that had never been….

Edith, he thought, as he so often did, but this time, he watched as she gazed skyward, at the constellation of Orion to which he had just pointed. After a few seconds, she turned to him. Standing together on a sidewalk in New York City, in the year 1930, they moved closer to each other. Their lips met for the first time, the touch of her flesh warm and soft and loving.

Kirk stopped, slamming his eyes shut, knowing that he could not do this. Although the memories had always stayed with him-had always haunted him-he had never allowed himself to remember for very long. Even more than a quarter of a century later-or more than three hundred years later, depending on the method of reckoning-the loss remained too great for him to bear.

And so he started again, sending himself back to the moment of his entry into this impossible, timeless place. He could go anywhere, do anything. He could relive his past, even revise it….

Gary, he thought as he peered at his old friend standing in the makeshift brig at the lithium cracking station on Delta Vega. Kirk would make certain to get the ship and crew away quickly, stranding the mutated helmsman here with enough provisions to survive until Starfleet and the Federation Council could determine how best to deal with him. Kirk didn’t want to do it, but he had no choice given the circumstances, and at least Gary would live.

And he started again….

Sam, he thought as he looked from the sedated form of Aurelan and across the room to the motionless body lying on the floor of the office. Kirk recognized his brother, even dressed in the orange lab coveralls and with his face turned away. Surely the Enterprise had arrived at Deneva in time, though, and Bones would be able to treat Sam, to restore him to full health.

And started again…

David, he thought as he walked toward Carol and away from the towheaded young man. In the tunnels deep beneath the surface of the Regula planetoid, Kirk realized that he had all these years later come face-to-face with his grown son. Now, at last, he could have a relationship with David, and the disconnection of the years past would give way to a long future of kinship.

And again…

Spock, he thought as he watched his closest friend slide down the transparent bulkhead, his body decimated by the radiation within the containment chamber. Kirk followed him down on the other side of the partition separating them. Spock had saved the Enterprise and its crew of trainees from being destroyed by the Genesis Wave, and now the medical staff would find a way to save Spock.

And again, and again, and again…

…until he stood out in the crisp daylight air of the Canadian Rockies, amid the majestic snow-covered mountains, in front of his isolated and rustic vacation home. With a swing of the axe in his hands, he chopped wood for the fireplace, alive in the simplicity of the effort, in the physicality of the exertion. The day ahead, which had once been filled with ugly complications, would now be filled with joys only-he would see to that. But all of that would come later. For now, he let it all go and reveled in the fresh air and the silence surrounding him.

And then, unexpectedly, a man stood there staring at him. He wore a uniform Kirk didn’t recognize, although the skewed chevron of the Starfleet emblem stood out clearly on the left side of his chest. It didn’t matter. Kirk wouldn’t let it matter.

“Beautiful day,” he told the stranger, then swung the axe once more, splitting another piece of wood.

“Yes, it certainly is,” the man said, walking slowly over. He cut a striking figure, with his bald pate and ramrod-straight posture. Kirk did not ignore the man, but he did continue chopping wood, even getting the stranger to set a log section in place for him. “Captain,” the man said, suggesting that he might know Kirk’s identity, although it might simply have been a function of recognizing Kirk’s own uniform, though he’d removed his crimson jacket. “I’m wondering, do you realize- “

“Hold on a minute,” Kirk said, not wanting to have a conversation that caused him to realize anything. “Do you smell something burning?” He really did detect the hint of smoke coming from the house, but he utilized it as an effective distraction. Leaving the axe buried in the stump on which he’d been hewing wood, he descended the curved stone staircase to the open front door, then hurried through the living room to the kitchen at the back of the house. There, in the middle of the long island, he saw smoke rising from a frying pan sitting atop the heating surface. “Looks like somebody was trying to cook some eggs,” he called back to the stranger, not wanting to be rude. As he rounded the island and carried the pan across to the sink, he said, “Come on in.” He turned on the faucet and washed the burning eggs down the drain, adding, “It’s all right. It’s my house.”