The Future Begins Read online

  The screen changed, and Ross’s visage disappeared. The list of received messages returned, reminding Scotty of the calls the admiral had made in the weeks past. It had all started on a Tarnday about two months ago. Scotty had just finished his work on the El Dorado computer system when the computer announced that Starfleet Headquarters was asking him to call Ross back at his convenience.

  Scotty had assumed it had been to see how he was enjoying Risa after he recommended him for the job of fixing the weather system.

  As it turned out, there was an ulterior motive: Ross wanted him back in the Fleet.

  That was never going to happen. But kindhearted man that he was, Scotty offered to help Ross out by finding fresh blood for the S.C.E., the one Starfleet institution that he still trusted implicitly. Ever since his first close contact with it—then a ragtag group of dirty engineers on a decommissioned starship—he’d felt sympathetic to its cause: solving technology-related problems, wherever they might occur.

  Now, however, he was content with his work at the El Dorado. His job consisted of standing at the entrance of the Engineering Room and waiting for prospective patrons. If they decided to enter the establishment, he was to approach them, shake hands and do some small-talk. Pretty straightforward, really—and just what he wanted to do at this stage in his life. Certainly there was better work available for an ex-Starfleet officer, especially one of Scotty’s status, but he wasn’t doing it for the money; that had been understood both by Scotty and Quincy at the beginning of their employer-employee relationship.

  No, what he did it for was the chance to meet people. Despite his being more comfortable with machines around him, Scotty still enjoyed the company of others, and he relished the chance of seeing new faces every day. It was too bad that he rarely had time for longer conversations. Usually, he just approached the newcomers and spoke the magic words—“On behalf of the management of the El Dorado Hotel and Vacation Resort, I welcome you to the Engineering Room,” or a variation of that. Only sometimes did he manage to actually involve somebody in a talk that lasted longer than a simple handshake.

  Deep down, Montgomery Scott knew he didn’t need to resort to fiddling with machines and engines in order to live a fulfilled life. No, he could just as well do that by interacting with his friends and acquaintances. However, he preferred to keep this part of him a secret. It took a very special person to get past that wall that he’d built for himself, early in his childhood.

  His sister, bless her, had been that kind of person, but Clara was long dead. She’d eventually moved to Neu-Stuttgart after the death of Hamish, her first husband, having married a Dr. Hoffmann. Perhaps one day he’d find the time and spirit to travel to Neu-Stuttgart and visit her grave.

  Mira Romaine had been another, and she, too, was no longer among the living. Her fate had been one of the first he’d checked up on, after his long-overdue rescue from the pattern buffer.

  Belunis had also belonged to this select group of people, who all happened to be female. She had been Scotty’s first friend on Risa, and soon became much more than that. He’d worked closely with her when the situation with the weather control satellites had arisen, and the day after he’d finished the repairs of the control grid, he’d asked her out, in that special way of his. She hadn’t said no.

  Then followed five wonderful weeks of love, happiness and…yes, of pleasure. While many people who’d reached his age—in actual years he was long past his prime, even though a bit of transporter trickery was involved—preferred to live a quieter life in certain respects, Montgomery Scott had never been one to shy away from anything that gave him pleasure. It didn’t matter if it was food, drink, music, the love of a wonderful woman; when he opened his heart to something, it was opened wide.

  Eating the last bits of Dundee cake, he switched off the computer terminal. Then he walked back to the replicator to recycle both plate and fork. A quick glance at the antique Canopian timepiece on the wall opposite his desk told him that it was still over half an hour until his shift started, but he decided to be there early. He walked over to the sofa, grabbed the maroon uniform that was lying on it, and put it on.

  The uniform was replicated, but it was in all possible ways identical to the one he’d worn for over twenty years. True, most of the time he’d just put on the white turtleneck and his favorite engineer’s jacket, but on special occasions he had slipped into his standard uniform.

  After dressing he left his bungalow, sealed the entrance by voice command, and began walking toward the imposing pyramid of the El Dorado Hotel and Vacation Resort.

  The Engineering Room itself looked just like its real equivalent on an average starship—to the uninitiated eye, at least. A much-decorated chief engineer like Scotty, however, noticed a great number of mistakes and inaccuracies ranging from the placement of the power transfer conduits to the lack of any security measures that would have been standard on any ship of the Fleet. Sure, there was the obligatory railing around the main reactor chamber, but that was about it. Besides, it appeared to only be there for show, not for safety.

  There was no need for force fields, as the swirling colors inside the vertical pressure vessel toroid—looking for all the world like a poor man’s version of the warp core he’d used on the refit of the original Enterprise—were not a result of a constant mixing of both matter and antimatter but different kinds of alcohol, fruit juices, and other ingredients. The PTCs leading away from the reactor chamber supplied a number of taps from which the bartenders drew their drinks hurriedly. The bar was bustling with people already, even though it was not even night yet.

  Technically, “night” was something that Risa in its natural state rarely experienced. The cause for this was the existence of a second sun that had an entirely different revolutionary rhythm. To avoid almost eternal daylight, the Risians had installed gigantic screens in orbit that would blot out any unwanted rays from the larger, reddish star on the “nightside” hemisphere. Of course, they didn’t want a large, starless field in their sky, so they also installed simulated stars that mimicked their real counterparts. This was but one example of the trouble the Risians went to to satisfy their visitors as well as themselves.

  Now he was standing outside the hotel, watching the steady throng of people coming down the boulevard. Many of them were obviously attracted by the music and the kaleidoscope colors that were pouring outside through the open hotel doors. Many of them were humans, or at least humanoid, but there were a few aliens that had almost nothing in common with those. Scotty saw a few Escherites, those horizontally-oriented creatures that he’d first met on the refit Enterprise, and they were still extraordinarily strange to look at, even though he had served another three decades in an ever-expanding Federation. Scott also spotted the occasional Mizarthu, and if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a Horta slowly disappearing behind a group of Gnalish.

  Presently, Montgomery Scott found himself staring at two shapes that moved along the promenade with the other tourists, and when he realized which species they belonged to, he was quickly thrown out of his nostalgic reverie, only to land on the hard floor of reality.

  Two Kropaslin were among the various aliens attracted by the sounds of laughter and joy that came out the hotel’s open doors. The couple, a male and a female, was actually taking a left turn, walking slowly and magnificently down the paved road that led to the El Dorado’s main entrance.

  Scotty was using all the power at his disposal not to utter a particularly profane Gaelic curse. There was so much time in the universe, so why did these two have to show up right now? Who they were or why they were here didn’t matter; what mattered was what they were, and that they reminded him of something that he still hated himself for.

  It had happened only about half a year ago, and the memory was still fresh. He’d tried to drown it in many a glass of Scotch, Saurian brandy, and genuine Romulan kalifal, but it hadn’t worked. No matter how much alcohol he imbibed, Nechayev’s order was still as present in
his mind as if everything had happened yesterday.

  Of course, he was intellectually aware that he was, as a member of an originally military organization, expected to follow the orders of his superiors, no matter what those orders might be. That wasn’t the problem.

  The problem was that he was also morally aware that some of those orders were just stupid—or worse, they were totally and utterly wrong. Nechayev’s order had struck him as one of the latter sort, no matter how often she told him it was for the good of the Federation. She was a much-decorated Starfleet admiral, that was true—but, as Tarbolde had once said, “even the gods have erred,” and Nechayev clearly was not a god.

  The good of the Federation. What a bloody excuse to throw away your ideals and integrity.

  Great. Now he was angry and nostalgic at the same time. Not the best of moods to be in while working. He needed a distraction, and he needed it quickly.

  There seemed to be only one way out of this dilemma. He had to engage the Kropaslin in a conversation.

  “Good evening to you both. On behalf of the management of the El Dorado Hotel and Vacation Resort, I welcome you and invite you to the Engineerin’ Room. I’m sure you’re going to have a nice evenin’.”

  Later that night, he came close to forgetting the Kropaslin and what they reminded him of as they left the ER soon after they’d entered. Apparently, it was not their kind of bar, and they endeavored to look elsewhere for adequate entertainment.

  While the bar was open until six in the morning, Scotty’s shift ended earlier. Usually he left the ER at twelve; sometimes he stayed on for another couple of hours. Occasionally, he even placed himself on a stool at the bar, watching the bartenders draw their drinks. That Guinan woman he’d met on the Enterprise—the Enterprise s, plural, to be exact—would fit right in here.

  Tonight, he got home at about one, tired and a bit dizzy from all the welcome drinks he’d organized for new guests (of course he’d had to drink some himself; it simply wouldn’t do to let the guests down them alone). When he unlocked the front door by voice command, he experienced a short memory flash, as if something in his mind had been activated by an unknown stimulus.

  Not only did he suddenly remember the two Kropaslin, but also every bit about the mission to Kropasar last year, the repercussions of said mission, his decision to wander once more, and the call for help from the Risian officials.

  It seemed there was no escaping the past, no matter how hard he tried. A Takaran spiced ale seemed to be in order, as it would enable him to accept the inevitable onslaught of regret, anger, and general helplessness.

  Belunis had not been very fond of his drinking habit at all. She was of the opinion that he was an alcoholic, but she was mistaken. If anything, he appreciated the taste of alcoholic drinks, but he did not imbibe them for the single reason that they contained alcohol.

  The most important thing was the taste. The alcohol was just a nice side effect. That blasted synthehol those greedy little cheaters had introduced a few years before his return to a physical existence just wasn’t good enough, and he’d told a great number of people what he thought about that Ferengi swill.

  “Light.”

  The computer obeyed and illuminated the interior of the bungalow Montgomery Scott had occupied for the past two months. It was not as spacious as the one he had lived in after he moved out of his parents’ house, but it was more than just acceptable. Most important, there were enough shelves for all the engineering textbooks, technical manuals, starship guides, and engineering briefs that he’d collected over the years. It was a quite impressive collection, and it moved with him whenever he changed residences. Those books had been in Aberdeen—albeit in not so great a number—first in his room on the second floor of his family’s house, then in his flat; they had been in his room on the San Francisco campus, and they also had been in his quarters on all the Enterprise s. He’d even taken them with him when he’d moved into his sister’s house just some months before he boarded the Jenolen. Thank goodness he’d left them there when he left for the retirement colony, otherwise they’d be so much debris on the side of a Dyson sphere right now.

  There was a small hallway that led from the entrance to the back of the building, with two rooms on either side of it. It contained a row of coat hangers as well as a clothing replicator integrated into the wall also containing a com panel and computer access. The first room on the left was his office/bedroom; opposite it was the bungalow’s kitchen, whose reduced size was due to the big living room adjacent to it. The final, fourth room was the bathroom, which contained a sonic shower and a real bathtub, a toilet and an Antedean soaking spot.

  The bungalow was small, especially if one compared it to some of the others Scotty had been offered by Quincy, but it was perfectly suited to his needs. A single man did not need as much space as two people did. Belunis had never mentioned moving in with him, nor suggested he move in with her. Scotty had the feeling it wasn’t only because their relationship had not lasted long enough to give her a chance to think about this major step, it was also because Belunis wasn’t the type for such relationships. She was passionate and caring, but deep down she wanted to be free of commitments. She was what was now called a “free bird,” flying wherever she wanted and settling down only when needed.

  Scotty, however, was all too happy to settle down permanently. He was ready for retirement, had been ever since before Khitomer. There were some in Starfleet who thought it a good idea to get him back into action, but they simply had not found out yet that they were wrong.

  Granted, working until they dropped dead might be all right for some, but it wasn’t for him. He was no Leonard McCoy—still an active Starfleet admiral at nearly 150, occasionally commanding a starship on a mission, visiting starbases and cruising around the Federation in a small runabout.

  That inspection tour he’d joined McCoy on had been a lot of fun, even when they had almost met their fate on Bakrii at the hands of a Breen warship. It was better than paperwork, at any rate. Afterward, though, they had seen the damage wrought by the Breen on Earth, and learned how fragile some things really were.

  The Breen. Of course.

  His mind was going in circles, never straying too far from the subject that was at the heart of the matter. It all came down to the orders Nechayev had given him, the ones that had forced him to betray the trust of a planet full of innocent beings, simply because she thought it a good idea.

  Blast the Breen.

  Blast Nechayev.

  Abruptly, Scotty moved over to the desk upon which the computer terminal sat.

  “Computer, patch me through to Admiral Leonard McCoy’s office.”

  “Working.”

  Seconds passed, and even though he hated the cliché, they seemed much longer—though not quite like hours.

  Then, finally: “Unable to comply. Admiral McCoy’s office is closed.”

  “Why?”

  “Admiral McCoy is not in his office,” the computer said, almost mockingly.

  What? Where would Leonard be at this time of year? And why would he close his office? The last time they’d spoken face-to-face—which had happened shortly after their return to Earth, in the aftermath of the Breen attack on San Francisco—McCoy had intimated that he’d refrain from ever leaving his home planet again, “unless it turns out to be absolutely necessary and impossible to avoid.”

  “Locate Admiral McCoy. Authorization: Scott-Psi-Three-Phi-Tango.”

  “Authorization accepted. Locating.” A few more moments passed. “Admiral Leonard H. McCoy is currently on Arcturus.”

  “Patch me through to Arcturus, then. And better make it quick, y’hear?”

  “Working,” the computer’s male voice said, ignoring the angry undertone in Scott’s voice.

  While the computer contacted the planet via various subspace relays, Scott took another sip of the Takaran ale. It was a bitter brew, and even for him it had required some getting used to.

  “Comlink to
Arcturus established. Contacting Admiral McCoy.”

  “Finally. Next time I’ll do it myself. Wouldn’t be any slower than you, I’m tellin’ you,” Scotty grumbled.

  Another sip, and he closed his eyes as the liquid made its way down his throat. Because of that, he was completely unprepared for what happened next.

  “I’d sure like to know who has such a unique talent of calling at the worst possible moment!”

  It was all Scotty could to do keep from sputtering his ale across the computer screen. He’d been successful!

  “Hello, Admiral,” Scotty said, using the formal address that Len so despised.

  “Scotty! I should have known it was you. I’m doing something very important, and I don’t want to be disturbed. Why do you think I closed down my office?”

  “And a good day to you, too, Len.”

  “Oh, don’t pretend to be so awfully polite. Doesn’t get you anywhere, y’know?” McCoy said, looking distracted. Scotty couldn’t quite make out where his friend was, except that it was a room with a giant emblem of Starfleet Medical on the wall. A medical conference? But they usually took place on holiday planets, didn’t they?

  “I’ll try to remember it for the future. So, what is it you’re doing, and why did you close your office in Krung Thep for it?”

  “Because this is the presentation of this year’s Carrington Award winner, and I’ve been chosen to announce the winner. Having won the award twice before, I must’ve seemed like the logical choice,” McCoy said with a glint in his eye. Something amused him, though Scotty did not know what.

  “And the office?” he asked.

  “Is closed until further notice. Rank hath its privileges, you should know that by now. It’s not like I’m actually responsible for running the place—Yerbi does that, even if everything would fall apart without me. And after all I’ve done for him, he can’t deny an old fart like me a little pleasure. Look at me, I’m older’n Sarek was when I met him for the first time. Every day I am surprised that I’m still alive. I take it you know the feeling?”