Part 1 (1/2)
Relics.
by Michael Jan Friedman.
Acknowledgments.
It's funny how these things work out.
It's only recently that I've begun attending Star Trek conventions. So while some of my fellow writers are like that with some of the stars we've come to know and love, I've only had occasion to speak with one or two of them.
At Toronto Trek VI, however, I had the pleasure of meeting Jimmy Doohan. (I'd normally be inclined toward the more respectful ”James,” but ”Jimmy” seems to fit him a whole lot better.) The con chairpersons had thrown a little party to kick off the weekend-long event. When I arrived, I scanned the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mr. Doohan. No sign as yet, though.
Then there was a commotion at the door, and in bustles Jimmy with a pouchful of flexible refrigerator magnets-looking for all the world like Santa Claus in the off season. The magnets had a cartoon image of our beloved Montgomery Scott-laying back in an easy chair, feet up, a big smile on his face-while the intercom system blasts ”Beam me up, Scotty! There's no intelligent life down here!”
In my experience, few media personalities live up to their billing. Jimmy Doohan, on the other hand, was everything I'd heard he was-a man of inexhaustible charm and wit, an actor's actor and one h.e.l.l of a nice guy. And in an age when performers like to distance themselves from their roles, Jimmy embraced his Scotty persona like an old friend.
Shortly after I got home, I got a call from another man who lives up to his billing Dave Stern, Pocket Books' Star Trek editor. ”How'd you like to do a novelization?” he asked. And since I'd been lobbying to do one for some time, I said, ”Sure. What's it about and when's it due?”
What it was about was Scotty's appearance in a Next Generation episode ... as you know by now, having seen the cover of this book. Great, I thought. It's kismet. I meet Jimmy Doohan and then I write a book about his best-known role. I'd been doing research that whole weekend in Toronto without knowing it.
As for when it was due ... I had a whole month. Four and a half weeks. Thirty-one long, leisurely days. Seven hundred and forty-four hours, only some of which I would have to devote to sleep. To write a book. Gee, I wondered, what was I going to do with all that time on my hands?
My first impulse was to say it's impossible. Absolutely impossible. I mean, I can only write so fast.
There wasn't enough time, plain and simple-and I couldn't change the laws of physics, now could I?
Then I realized this book was about Scotty. Of course it was going to have an impossible deadline. And somehow, some way, it was going to get published on time-even if I had to work my poor wee fingers down to the first knuckle.
Along the way, I found myself grateful to a few people. First and foremost to Ron Moore, for his thoughtful and moving script. Next to Mike Okuda, for advice and generosity past, present and future. And finally to Carla Mason, without whose insight and cooperation this project could never have materialized from the ethter.
I hope you have half as much fun with this story as I did.
Prologue.
MONTIE SCOTT was flying free. The wind, cold and bracing, stretched the skin of his face over his young cheekbones, making him grin like a hyena. His hang glider bucked once and then again under the influence of an especially strong gust, reminding him of how weary his arms were.
But he was far from even thinking about a landing. Tired as they were, Scott's arms had plenty of life left in them. And he wasn't about to give up a single, blessed second of the breathtaking view hundreds of meters beneath him.
Great b.u.t.tresses of gray rock. Long, green sweeps of hillside. Deep, dark cuts in the earth, breathing a scent of mystery that he could fairly smell all the way up here in the clouds.
Away off in the north, there was a steel-gray line of storm clouds bearing down on him. But they wouldn't force him out of the sky either. Experience had taught him that weather from that quarter took a while to arrive.
Freedom. It was better than anything, better than a hundred-year-old scotch, better even than the mournful song of the pipes in the dusky highlands. When one came right down to it, it was freedom that made a man feel alive ...
”Captain Scott?”
Suddenly, the craggy, green vistas below him seemed to melt away. Scott blinked once, twice, and saw the long, narrow face of Matt Franklin looming in front of him, his straw-yellow hair plastered tight to his skull in the fas.h.i.+on of the day.
”Huh?” said Scott. It took him a moment more to get his bearings-to realize that he was in a s.h.i.+p's library, and that there was an active monitor in front of him. And that he'd dozed off.
Unfortunately, he was doing more and more of that these days. And it annoyed the h.e.l.l out of him.
Ensign Franklin smiled. ”Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to disturb your nap.”
”I was nae takin' a nap,” Scott protested. And then ”What brings ye down here, anyway? Is somethin' wrong?”
Franklin shook his head rea.s.suringly. ”Nothing serious, sir. It's just that there's a little problem with the warp drive, and we're going to have to drop down to impulse in a few minutes. The captain thought all the pa.s.sengers should know-so you won't be alarmed when you feel the deceleration.”
Scott looked at Franklin askance. ”A little problem? Are ye certain o' that?”
The ensign nodded, his smile broadening. ”Nothing to worry about, sir. Just a slight overload in one of the plasma transfer conduits.”
The older man started to get up. ”Well, I suppose I could take a look at it...”
Franklin laid a gentle hand on Scott's shoulder. ”No need, sir. Really. I know you used to be an engineer yourself, but Lieutenant Sachs has it under control.”
Scott's enthusiasm subsided as he noted the firmness in the ensign's eyes. ”All right, then,” he sighed. ”As long as he feels he can handle it.”
In an obvious attempt to change the subject, Franklin pointed to the monitor. ”Anything interesting, sir?”
Scott shrugged. ”Just an' old text-very old, in fact. I came across it when I was at the Academy.”
The ensign bent closer to the screen to read the t.i.tle of the thing. ”The Laws of Physics,” he said out loud.
The older man nodded. ”Aye. The Laws o' Physics. Came out shortly after Einstein published his Theory of Relativity. A remarkable book-if only as a historical artifact. No mention of gravitons, subs.p.a.ce or antimatter.” He shook his head. ”We've come a long way since the twentieth century, laddie.”
Franklin chuckled. ”No question about that. Anyway, I'll let you get back to it, sir.”
Scott grunted. Truth to tell, he wasn't all that eager to return to the screen. h.e.l.l, he'd read the b.l.o.o.d.y thing about a dozen times already. He practically knew it by heart.
His daydream, on the other hand, had been exciting as all get-out. He'd forgotten how exhilarating it could be to soar over the s.h.a.ggy hills of his homeland.
”Ensign,” he said abruptly, freezing Franklin just shy of the door. The younger man turned around.
”Aye, sir?”
”Have ye ever been hang glidin', Mister Franklin?”
The younger man shook his head-a little sadly, Scott thought. ”No, sir, I haven't.” And then ”Have you?”
Scott sat back in his chair. ”Since ye ask, yes. Not lately, mind ye. I'm talking forty years ago or more, before I even got accepted at the Academy.”
He gestured at a chair not more than a meter away. For a moment, Franklin hesitated, and Scott scowled inwardly.
Ye're a crazy coot, Montgomery Scott. This lad's got things to do on this s.h.i.+p-important things. An' no time to listen to an old man spin his yarns.