The Autobiography of James T. Kirk (38 page)

McCoy asked me what I was going to do. I was 43, there was plenty I could still do. I was going to start by taking over my uncle’s farm. He scoffed at the prospect.

“You’re not going to be happy on a farm.”

“What are you talking about? I grew up on a farm, remember?”

“No you didn’t,” he said. “You grew up in outer space. I was there.” I laughed, but it was a little joyless.

I moved to the farm and life quickly got quiet. My parents visited a lot, with Sam’s youngest sons, who were now rambunctious nine-year-olds. Peter had gone off to the academy, now the fourth generation in our family to make it. I spent a lot of time working in the fields like I did as a boy, then rode horses for recreation. I supposed I’d earned a vacation, and I took it.

But I was a little lost. I’d been in Starfleet since I was 17; I had not experienced adult life without the organization determining how I was going to spend every day.

I got restless on the farm pretty quickly and decided to travel. I acquired a shuttlecraft and took an extended tour of the Solar System, visiting sites I had never seen. But several months later I found myself in an environment suit exploring an impact crater on Jupiter’s moon Ganymede, and all I could think was how bored I was. This wasn’t exploration; it was tourism and couldn’t match the excitement of discovering new worlds. So I went home.

I thought a lot about Carol and David, and made a small effort to track them down. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find them; Carol was involved with some kind of confidential project, and my contacts couldn’t (or wouldn’t) tell me where she was.

I eventually found a rhythm. I did farm work, some teaching at the academy, and a little consulting to the ship builders on Utopia Planitia. Before I knew it, four years had passed. I knew I would need to find some kind of replacement for the discipline of the service, or I would slip into old age very quickly. One day while on a horseback ride, I inadvertently found it.

I saw another rider up on a hill. It was a woman. I rode up to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m a little lost. I hope I’m not trespassing.” She was striking, tall and thin, with long brown hair and dark brown eyes to go with an olive complexion. She was also a fair amount younger than me.

“We like to share,” I said. “I’m Jim Kirk.”

“Antonia Slavotori,” she said. She asked me to show her the way out of there. I asked if she’d mind joining me for lunch first. She smiled.

“I’ve already eaten,” she said. “If you could just give me directions.” She was shutting me down. I told her I would happily lead her out. I rode with her for a while.

She wasn’t from Idaho; she was only visiting, buying a horse from one of my neighbors, who’d let her take it out for a ride. She lived somewhere in California, but withheld details of exactly where. As we rode together, I realized she had no idea who I was; that was unusual, as my exploits had gained me some notoriety. I somehow found this compelling, and I stayed with her far longer than I had to. When we reached the farm where she’d picked up the horse, I asked if I could see her again. Again, she smiled.

“Probably not,” she said, and then rode off.

However, I was not deterred. She’d given me her name, and finding out more about her gave me a goal, albeit a short-term and lighthearted one. I took her as kind of a mission, and I decided to try to see her again. If she rejected me again, I would move on.

Her name was somewhat unusual, and the fact that she mentioned California made her easy to track down. I thought showing up at her home would be somewhat unnerving, but I saw that a designer with her name had a studio in somewhere called Lone Pine. About two weeks after I met her, I took a trip.

I beamed into the sleepy little town at the base of Mt. Whitney, beautiful, as even in April snow covered the nearby peaks. I found Antonia’s studio attached to an ancient building called the Old Lone Pine Hotel. It was spartan and clean, with modern furniture that had a rustic touch. She sat at a drafting computer in the back, and when I walked in she looked up. It took her a minute to place me, and then she was incredulous.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was interested in buying some furniture.” She laughed. I asked her to show me her work. It wasn’t really my area of expertise, but her designs intrigued me, and I was fascinated hearing her talk about her techniques and influences. After a while, I asked if she would finally join me for lunch.

“Look, Jim, I’m flattered,” she said. “But I don’t want to mislead you. I’m with someone.” I felt like an idiot; for some reason, that had never occurred to me. I realized I’d given it everything I had, and decided to leave, but this time she stopped me. She invited me to join her and her boyfriend at their house for lunch. At this point, I figured why not.

She contacted her beau to let him know she was bringing company, then drove me up to a large cabin set up on the mountain. Set against the hillside, surrounded by trees, it was a lovely, peaceful setting. Her boyfriend met us at the door, with no shirt, holding the leash of a handsome Great Dane. I think he meant to present a picture that would mark his territory and intimidate me, but it really didn’t work. I introduced myself, and once I said my name, his entire demeanor changed.

“Wait a second,” he said. “You’re Captain James Kirk!” This came as a surprise to both Antonia and me. Whatever slightly threatening persona he’d tried to affect was now history. He turned to her and sounded like a screeching teenager. “You didn’t tell me you knew him!”

“I
don’t
know him!” she said. But he wasn’t interested in talking to her anymore.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself, Captain. Lieutenant Commander J. T. Esteban.”

Esteban hurriedly ushered me in, leaving a bemused Antonia in his wake. I turned, and she and I shared a quiet laugh at the absurdity of it.

Three months later, Esteban had gotten a plum posting, so I bought his house. He also gave me the dog, whose name was Butler. Antonia, however, immediately moved out.

Four months after that, she moved back in.

She wasn’t like the women I’d become involved with over the years. The “swagger” I tended to employ with other women didn’t seem to interest her, and it took a long time before she would agree to see me romantically. She was 34 and had never gone into space; she paid no attention to Starfleet, and didn’t seem interested in it. The only thing she found appealing about other worlds was the food that got exported to Earth. There was something about the relationship that reminded me of the one I had with Edith: I wasn’t a starship captain to Antonia, I was just Jim.

We stayed in Lone Pine for almost two years together. I had lost touch with almost everyone at Starfleet, though Bones made a consistent effort to call. I thought I might marry Antonia; I didn’t know whether I was truly in love with her the way I was with Edith or Carol, but I was very comfortable. Pursuing a romantic relationship over everything else was a new experience for me, and it gave my life the purpose it was lacking.

On a day in July, while Antonia was out at her studio, I was about to walk Butler, when I was surprised to see Harry Morrow walking up the path. He was wearing civilian clothes.

“Harry,” I said. “I don’t remember the last time I saw you out of uniform.”

“I didn’t want to draw attention,” he said. “Admirals tend to attract junior officers.” He was friendly but had a grave air about him. I took him back to the house and poured us some coffee while we engaged in a little small talk. Finally, he got to the point.

“Nogura is gone,” Morrow said. “Resigned.” I felt an unabashed pleasure at this news; Nogura had fouled my memories of serving in Starfleet. I asked what happened.

“Before the Organians forced peace on us,” Morrow said, “Nogura was making contingency plans for an invasion of Klingon space.” When I discovered the truth about the genetically engineered creatures on Dimorous, I thought it involved a possible invasion tactic. But I had also assumed that he’d gotten rid of all the evidence. Morrow confirmed that he had, but he made the mistake of trying to do it again. He’d moved a lot of Starfleet resources to the border with the Klingons, with the expressed purpose of pursuing his containment strategy, forcing them to spend and build to defend the border. But then Nogura started drawing up plans for an incursion.

“I took it over his head to the Federation Council,” Morrow said. “They forced him to resign. I’m the new Starfleet commander.”

“Congratulations,” I said, but I wasn’t sure it was good news for Morrow. Nogura had a lot of allies in the Admiralty: Cartwright, Smillie. I wondered how they felt about this. And I still didn’t know what he was doing here.

“I didn’t like what he did to you, Jim,” Morrow said. “You’re one of the best officers in the fleet, if not the best. We need you back.”

The sad thing is, the minute I saw him on the path, this is what I was hoping he’d say.

“Did you really think making me eggs was going to ‘soften the blow’?” She was sitting in bed in an undershirt, her hair up, the breakfast tray in front of her. I’d made Ktarian eggs, her favorite, and brought it up to her. Then I told her I was going back to Starfleet.

“I guess that was kind of stupid,” I said.

“I’m kind of relieved,” she said. “I thought you were going to propose.”

“You didn’t want to marry me?” I was stunned.

“You’re insulted I’d turn down a proposal you had no intention of making?”

“Well … yeah.” We laughed. She often reminded me how “screwed up” I was where women were concerned, and this seemed more confirmation. I told her I was sorry to lose her.

“I’m not sure you ever had me,” she said. “You’re always a bit in outer space.” She kissed me, then offered to share her eggs.

Antonia moved into her studio; I left the house and got an apartment near Starfleet Headquarters. Morrow reinstated me as an admiral; I got a new uniform and began assembling my staff. Angela Martine, now a commander, became my chief of staff. Garrovick and Reilly also joined me; though they weren’t friends necessarily, I felt at ease having old crew around who understood me.

Most of the people I thought of as friends were on the
Enterprise
, but it was off on a mission, so I threw myself into my work. The politics of the Admiralty were still just as uncomfortable to me, and I found myself going home to an empty apartment at night. The hollow feeling started to return. I began to examine my decision. Had it been too rash? Morrow had asked me to come back, and I’d thrown a happy life away with a beautiful woman for what?

One morning in my office, Martine gave me a tape. It was a project that needed a starship assigned to it for extended duty. I put the tape in the viewer. It was top secret, so I told Martine to leave. The computer scanned my retina as a security precaution, and as the recording began, I literally gasped.

“Project Genesis. A proposal to the Federation,” Carol Marcus said. I hadn’t seen her in over 20 years. I couldn’t even listen to what she was saying, I was so lost in a reverie of memories. She was still so beautiful.

David. What had happened to David? I wanted to talk to her, to call her. She ended the proposal with “Thank you for your attention.” And a little smile. I watched it three times just to see the smile.