Chapter One

THE ENEMY SHIP cut across our port bow, forcing us to heel off to starboard, but our captain gripped the forward rail and refused to give more than a meter.

Keep her to, he said, the quiet of his voice somehow reaching us over the roar of the ship straining.

Jim, this is crazy.

Don’t swing off, no matter what your stomach says.

Space overhead was bristol blue, the crashing sea even deeper azure and marbled by green swells and white foam. The older officers called it cadet blue.

Stand by to come about. Piper, stand by the backstay. Bones, you take the foresheet. And watch your head.

"Don’t worry. My head’s not going anywhere."

Below and around us white hull and green deck tilted to a sickening forty-five degrees that buried the boom tips in brine and put us straight alongside a swift gust of wind. The bowsprit bobbed in thirteen-foot arches. We crashed against the waves, skating alongside our enemy’s beam for a moment of reasonless risk.

I freed the backstay on the port side so it wouldn’t be in the way when the big main boom swung about, then slid down the inclined deck to the starboard backstay and got ready to pull it up tight once the sail swung by. There, shivering, I awaited the order to come about. With the ship at this hideous angle, my thigh cut into the rail. I was almost lying on my side. Just over the rail, an arm’s-length away, the tree-trunk boom dug furrows into the seawater with every long dip of the schooner. Arching out and rising away from the water, the mainsail’s bright white canvas tightened with air and became stiff as cast rhodinium. This was drama of the highest order, and my heart thudded testimony to the pure insanity I’d gotten myself into. Of course, I couldn’t exactly decline the honor.

This old ship had been bending to the winds for something like a century and a quarter on this planet, revived to splendor by the very fading of her own kind. Originally built as a nostalgic replica of a nineteenth-century pilot schooner, she was a working vessel, not a yacht. That y word wasn’t allowed on board. And there wasn’t a winch to be found. Every line had to be hand drawn, no matter how heavy the load. The acres of canvas, caught to the masts by big wooden hoops and lashed with rope to the gaffs and booms, made a puzzle of stitched white overlapping rectangles and triangles overhead and together formed a great seagoing pyramid of sailcloth and rigging. Pretty. But sitting here in excitement’s grip, with abused timber groaning under me and the booms biting the tops off eight-footers, it was hard to see the prettiness. Not even in the echo of ourselves as the other ship, a bluff-bowed ancient ketch two meters longer than our schooner, carved away from our starboard stern and came about for another match.

Here he bloody well comes again, uttered Mr. Scott at wheel watch, his Scots rumble getting thicker as tension grew. He was standing at the helm rather than sitting, gripping the spokes of the wooden wheel tightly, and narrowing his gaze forward. His eyes narrowed to dark wedges. His dark hair, matted against his forehead by spray, was laced with the first hints of silver. He wasn’t watching the sails, though. He was watching the captain. And the captain was watching the enemy ship.

Amidships, Dr. McCoy squinted accusingly at the captain and held on tight to the foresheet. Wind tore at his hair and spray battered his face.

Our bow lifted high out of the water, coming into the air like some flying fish, until half her keel was clear of the sea. Almost immediately she crashed back into the chop like a descending guillotine, burying the fo’c’sle, burying thirteen feet of bowsprit and the whole bottom of the Genoa jib. I winced and drew my shoulders in.

Heeled to starboard, the other ship was a mirror image of ours, except that her mast heights were reversed, her fore-tops’l wasn’t flying, and her bow was bluff- instead of clipper-curved. When our captain first started talking about the enemy, I’d thought he was saying catch; one of many visits to his aft cabin library had set me right. She was the ketch Gavelan. We were out to get her, and she us.

My hands cramped as I gripped the backstay line.

Awaiting orders, I looked at the captain and wondered what he was waiting for. Full sail in this kind of chop was crazy enough without waiting until the last second to execute a tack.

He stood on the forward deck, his eyes hard and pinched at the corners. In a heavy brown sea jacket with the collar up he looked like a holo on a tour spool from some planet-pushing travel agency. His hair, sandy and shimmering on top, darkening at the sides, shone nicely but couldn’t upstage that glare of his. I could see him trying to put his mind into the head of the other captain before making a decision. He wanted more than anything to be inside Gavelan’s hold, secretly listening to what the other skipper was saying—more, though, he wanted to know what the other was feeling, thinking, breathing. He thought he could get there if he stared hard enough.

Come about, the captain said. Now.

Dr. McCoy let go of the foresheet a moment too soon, forcing Mr. Scott to haul hard on the wheel to keep from losing the fores’l into the waves. I held on as long as I could, but the ship wheeled and bucked, reversing herself in the water and cutting a pie wedge in the chop as she tacked. The rigging whistled overhead, the timber groaned, and the hoops grated so loudly I thought they were going to shear right through the mast.

Bam-the fore boom clunked to port. The sail luffed, then filled and tightened. An instant later—and Mr. Scott ducked just in time to avoid a ringing headache—the main. The schooner twisted back in the water with the grace of a shorebird’s glinting wing.

Haul in tight, the captain called. I mean you, Piper. Put support on that main, then bring the sheet in close.

I shook myself, skidded across the tilted deck and drew in the main until we were so close upon the wind that we threw up a sickle of spray with every dive of our prow. He was watching me. I could feel it. Oh, he was looking at the other ship, but he was watching me.

Closer, he said.

I drew down harder, sacrificing three more fingernails and one knuckle’s skin.

Plunging toward each other like two Gloucester packets of a different age, our two schooners glided through walls of spray. The tapered lines of the sails and weaving mastheads conjured images of wave troughs deep enough to hide entire ships. I leaned harder against the teak rail, plain scared. From two sides of an angle, we speared for each other.

Jim, I didn’t come out here with you to become a damned South Sea walrus! Dr. McCoy informed the captain, clinging desperately to the fore hatch and glancing wide-eyed at the oncoming schooner.

The captain didn’t respond. Even now, there was a distant tranquility on his face. This was his blood and beef—another man’s peace was this man’s boredom. When he wasn’t wrestling the imbalances of interstellar space and intersystem politics, he was here, tasting death in the same seas our mutual ancestors called their own interstellar void.

The captain of the other ship was no Rigellian slugfin either. Silver spume spilled over Gavelan’s rail as she held tight into the wind and rocketed through jumping seas toward us. We were both pointed at the same square foot of ocean, and we both wanted to own it. Overhead, rigging whined. Tension buzzed through the halyards.

I drew in a breath, held it, and closed my eyes. The captain said I should learn to hear the ship, so I could hear what was wrong when it happened. Sometimes he made me close my eyes and cover my ears too. Feeling what’s wrong, he called it. Even times like this—especially times like this—could teach.

Sails moaned. Waves smacked the keel. Gaffs and booms creaked. The wind rushed inward, filling the main tight. On collision course, our two schooners sliced through the seas toward each other. When our ship’s prow dug deep into the waves, met a trough that matched its shape, and plunged six feet deeper, the deck dropped out from under my feet. Only catching my elbow around the backstay kept me aboard. I heard Dr. McCoy yell something as my feet left the deck, wobbled on the rail for three hideous seconds, then skated off. Down I went for a ride across twenty slippery feet of green deck, on one knee, until the fisherman’s sail-bag stopped me.

All right, lass? Mr. Scott bothered to call from the wheel.

I took a moment to nod at him while I rubbed my knee. It was the wrong moment.

Get your feet under you, Piper, the captain snapped. Prepare to come about.

Again? McCoy complained. What are you? A blasted porpoise?

Lay alongside, Scotty, everybody’s devil called firmly. I’m not going to let him work our windward. Piper, bring in the jib sheet two pulls. You left it too free.

Always the cut. Always the barb. Why? Didn’t he have enough laurels to sit on? Not ten people in a million had his status. Why pick on me?

But as I glared at the captain, ire mixed with a stab of sympathy for him. Most humans could afford to cloak their flaws. A starship captain—the captain of any vessel, I was learning—constantly had his flaws thrown up in his face, with nowhere to deflect them. Not only could he see them, but he must see them displayed before all who wish to look—a galaxy ready to criticize. That would beat anyone into humility. Anyone but the strongest.

If he could be strong, if he could bear his flaws and mine too, then I could at least haul my end of the halyard.

Gripping the ship’s rail, I got to my feet and moved carefully along the high side toward the bow. Battered by salt spray, the rail had gone from a burnished ribbon to a chipped ridge. It spelled work for deck hands. Like guess who.

I loosened the jib sheet, cranked it in, feeling the pressure of the wind as we heeled deeply, and belayed it without another screwup. Just when I was breathing my sigh of relief, I made the mistake of looking at the oncoming Gavelan.

What—’ I choked. The other ship was so close I could almost count the planks in her hull. Wreathed in spray, she was crashing toward us out of a nightmare. I couldn’t breathe anymore.

The captain cupped his hand around his mouth. Now, Scotty!

Mr. Scott closed his eyes and cranked the big wheel hard, then took a dive for the backstay to free it. The main boom began to swing. The sails, towering above us like wings, luffed for only an instant.

The schooner hung in midair, shuddered as shock waves thrummed through her wooden hull, then dived like a seal. Her bowsprit carved across our enemy’s bow and forced the other ship to fall off the wind.

No one but the possessed would try such a move.

The booms swung around and slammed home. Climbing the wave, the ship shook off a wash of green seawater, filled her sails tight, and heeled in.

The captain leaned back. If he’d had a pipe, he’d have smoked it. Fall off, he said. Mr. Scott stiffly complied.

Dr. McCoy slumped down on the fore hatch. Shore leave, my eye.

I panted silently and got my footing on the deck. A few breaths later my thoughts came out in a mutter. All we need is an aft phaser …

Gavelan was upright in the choppy water, fallen off the wind. Her sails luffed uselessly, flapping and shuddering, in search of air.

Turning to me, the captain raised both straight brows and queried, Did I hear you say something, Commander?

Still out of breath, I blinked at him and tried to look steady. Not me.

His lips pressed flat. Kind of a grin, and kind of not. Good.

I watched, numb, as he walked casually down the long green deck, unaffected by the angle, and took charge of the wheel. Slowly now, he brought the ship about in a stylish tack that hardly let the sails flutter: the last turn of the blade before coming abeam with Gavelan.

Aboard the other ship, the skipper’s familiar Mid-Eastern features glowed in the sun behind a dark cropped beard. Brilliantly executed, Captain! he called. I concede the match.

Accepted, Ambassador, the captain returned. I’m looking forward to my lobster.

And you shall have it, our former enemy returned. Behind him, his crew, an unlikely collection of individuals, watched us coast by. The best available in the next port of call. And my liquor cabinet is yours to raid.

Faster than you can moor a dinghy.

The ambassador roared with laughter. Gavelan caught the wind and fell in behind us. Finally, finally, we were back on course.

I watched our captain as he steered the ship with damnable leisure. San Francisco was long behind us and I still tended to stay on the other end of the ship from where he was. A respectful distance, it might be called. A little chicken was another way to put it. He always saw the imperfection, that halyard belayed one turn less than the others, the backstay not hauled up tightly enough, the rope tied in a granny knot instead of a square knot … and there was nothing in this galaxy more soul-galling than coming up out of a hatch in time to see James Kirk correct your little error.

James Kirk. An enigma in his midthirties. And here he was, commanding seventy-two feet of timber and sailcloth with every ounce the commitment he used to head up the multidepartmental city-in-space we call a starship. The whole scope of that became scarier to me with every minute I spent in his company. He wasn’t an easy man to get to know. He guarded himself. Oh, he talked often enough, but he spoke little. Curiosity boiled up in me, enough to turn a Star Fleet command candidate into a petty snoop. Despite the integrity I was trying to imitate, I often found myself haunting the open aft hatch, hoping to—accidentally—catch a line or two of the conversation between him and McCoy and Scott during one of those quiet personal sessions. I seldom got more than a sniff of kahlua and coffee. In fact, the silence said plenty. My curiosity remained intact. So did the sting of knowing I wasn’t yet welcome in that inner sanctum. I hungered more for it with every passing wind.

And the mysteries about Captain Kirk seemed to grow deeper as I knew him longer. I looked away from him and leaned over the ship’s rail for the dozenth time to see black letters outlined in hunter-green scrolls: Edith Keeler.

Letters no one would explain. I knew Edith was a feminine name on Earth, not very popular anymore. Since sailing ships had always been named after both men and women, knowing the name’s gender narrowed my curiosity by 50 percent. The rest remained a darkness.

It was nearly three o’clock, Earth time. I seldom knew what time it was, but as I came below, through the aft cabin, I happened to glance at the old-style ship’s clock that lay half-buried in navigational charts on the captain’s desk. The clock I could read. The charts—well, I could read the clock.

The aft ladder was easier to climb with a tray of coffee mugs than the forecabin ladder, so that’s the way I went. I came up on deck just in front of the ship’s wooden wheel. Behind it, the captain was grinning at himself and steering Keeler through waves that seemed to grow calmer at his behest. What had been eight-footers had smoothed to a light chop as we stopped fighting them and continued sailing into the middle of the Caribbean.

I relayed coffee to Mr. Scott and Dr. McCoy as they relaxed amidships, then returned with one for the captain. He took it with a silent nod, settled back in the helm chair, and eyed me with those hazel-browns.

Something on your mind, Commander?

I stared into Keeler’s wake. Stark even in daylight, the sea’s chop was blue-black in the troughs, green-white at the crests, and making a lick-whap-suck on the hull that I was finally getting used to. I still was, however, not at all used to being called Commander. He probably did it deliberately.

He was waiting.

I hugged my coffee mug and turned so the wind wasn’t blowing strands of layered honey-brown hair into my eyes. Weeks under Earth’s bright sun had given it the same lights as flickered in Captain Kirk’s regulation-trimmed locks. Sir … don’t you ever get tired of it?

If the question sounded accusatory, it didn’t show on Kirk’s face. This was a different face from the one he’d used during the war game. This was a face of soft golden brush strokes. Two of the brush strokes went up. Of what?

Battle. We’re hardly out of the affair with the dreadnought, Star Fleet’s churning on its ear, the Federation’s tumbling in the wake of Rittenhouse’s attempt to subvert it, and you’re out here in the middle of nowhere, jousting antiques. You said we were going out for some quiet sailing.

He tipped one shoulder down in a motion I now recognized, adjusting himself in the helm seat much as he did in his command chair aboard Enterprise. I never make promises, Piper, you know that.

I do now.

A calculated sip of his coffee gave us a moment to think. Well, he began then, it’s good for you. If I had my way, every potential starship commander would go to sea on a sailing ship. No, it’s not an affectation. It’s simple logistics. Before you can outguess an enemy in three dimensions, you’ve got to be able to maneuver in two. Illustratively, two fingers went up in a V before me.

My whole anticipatory system—what command candidates used instead of nerves—jolted when he referred to me as a potential starship commander. I didn’t know if it was more exciting than horrifying, or the reverse. … so, I changed the subject.

"Mr. Scott did quite a job of outsteering Gavelan," I said. He never struck me as a sailor before.

He was just like you, Kirk remembered. Had never been on an ocean, and took to it like a cod once he understood what made the ship move.

I blushed. Captain James Kirk did not hand out compliments arbitrarily.

He scanned the seas, glancing briefly back at Gavelan as Ambassador Shamirian raised a glass high in an exaggerated gesture. Kirk raised his coffee mug in return, and was smiling when he turned back to me. Scotty’s really just an old halibut himself, down deep, he continued thoughtfully. Now he looked forward to where Scott and McCoy were lounging on the foredeck, probably discussing the lunacy we’d just subjected ourselves to. Kirk’s broad-browed face, with its soft curves, and his eyes, with those slightly pouched lower lids lending a mellowness to the reposing strength, always seemed to be layered with thoughts. Never one thought; always several at a time. He contemplated his old friends silently after that last comment, no longer sharing his feelings about them with me.

Sensitive, probably out of habit, to his gaze, both older officers turned our way, made a silent decision, and came toward us at a careful pace along the tilted deck. Are my ears buzzing for a reason? Dr. McCoy asked.

Why, Bones, the captain said, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost. His mouth was stretched into that victory grin again.

There are no ghosts at sea, Captain, McCoy said, planting himself on the rail opposite me. Only taxed imaginations.

That sounds like something Spock would say.

Oh, no, Jim. Spock would comment on the waste. You know, exertion and risk with no true gain. Can’t you just hear him say it, with a ’most illogical’ pinned on the end of it?

Bidden as though by drug, I indeed heard Commander Spock’s rough baritone cadence knitting those words into his own kind of commentary on races and contests.

Now, Captain, there’s a proposal I’d like to see worked on, Mr. Scott said, as he cocked one leg on the cooler and gripped the loops of rope that held the mains’l to the big boom. Mr. Spock on board this kind of starship. I wonder ha’ he’d look in a slicker.

Earth’s a water planet, Scotty, Kirk said, bemused. One of very few. Sailing ships grew with our culture. Besides … wouldn’t you hate to see Spock even greener than usual?

The three men laughed, enjoying their moment of teasing bigotry at the expense of their absent friend, forgetting that although I was human, Earth was not my home either. I had no reason to feel envious, yet I couldn’t laugh along with them.

Where are we headed, sir? I asked.

We’re supposed to rendezvous with the other flotilla participants at New Providence.

I waited for him to finish the sentence. Perhaps it was his tone, perhaps the flicker in his eye, or the fact that I’d learned to expect more from him than whatever was obvious. After a moment, I assisted. But …

McCoy’s rooster-tail brows arched up. Tell her, Jim. What are you saving it for? She’s been looking at you like a suspicious cat for a week now, even if she doesn’t know it.

I flushed again, but McCoy’s hilarious glare made me duck my head and smile in embarrassment. One thing was for sure: we weren’t going to New Providence.

That half-grin stretched one side of Kirk’s mouth.

He gazed at me from the corners of his eyes. We’re sailing toward your future, Piper.

A banana republic, Kirk explained, putting one foot up on the rail, still fingering the ship’s wheel lightly. A quaint local epithet used to describe island settlements in semitropical areas here on Earth. The Virgin Islands, … Greater and Lesser Antilles, … Jamaica, the Caymans, the West Indies in general.

Because of the banana trees?

Banana trees, banana vendors, a generally banana life-style is what you’ll find there.

He gazed at the sea between McCoy and Scott. I guess we taught Ben Shamirian a good lesson today, he said, enjoying the sight of Gavelan plowing along several ship-lengths behind Keeler.

That you did, sir, Scott said. And bonnily too. ’Course, Doc and I’ll ne’r be the same for wear … What, Scotty? Thinning out already, at your age? I’m dismayed.

And I’m ocean-sick, McCoy drawled.

Meanwhile, I was itching to find out what he meant about sailing toward my future.

When I spoke, my voice seemed not to fit in among theirs. Are you tampering with my future, sir?

He nodded, dawdling through a sip of coffee. Your first command.

He was teasing me again. Bad enough when I did know what he was talking about, much less when I didn’t. I sat down on the rail and leaned back against the lifeline. A lobster scow, right?

Kirk shook his head, saying, A space vessel. Through my astonished stare he continued, "With atmospheric and stellar capabilities."

The stare started to hurt. My eyes watered in the wind. Mr. Scott was chuckling.

Are you … I stammered. Are you kidding me?

Commander, it’s a Star Fleet-commissioned space-going passenger vessel, and it’s waiting at Man-o-War Cay for you to take command. When Kirk saw my expression—if by any reach of terminology I still appeared human at all—he buried a flicker of amusement in a blink.

McCoy leaned forward on the rail, supported by both hands on either side of his legs. Those demonstrative eyes widened at me. How hard did you think it would be to wangle a light command for the youngest person to receive the Federation Medal of Valor?

"But … but … but … but why?"

My question started in McCoy’s direction, shifted to Scott, and ultimately landed on Captain Kirk. After a moment, he said, Oh, I’ve got a little mission for you. Call it a … mail run.

Space … a space … a mission out in space?

That’s right.

I took a deep breath, and shook the seaweed out of my head.

Think you’re up to it? he asked.

No!

Captain Kirk chuckled openly. That alone tells me you are, he said. We’ll be there by tomorrow afternoon. Start getting used to the idea, Commander. As of tomorrow, you’ve got a ship of your own.

Chapter Two

Anything you might say has already been taken down in evidence against you.

—The Squire of Gothos

MY OWN COMMAND.

Gladiator. Excalibur. Odyssey. Mountaineer. Troubadour.

Since she would be acquired