Disclaimer: Star Trek: The Original Series belongs to CBS, not me.


"Twelve years ago, I was First Officer on a scout ship called the Daniel Boone. She was old and cramped, her equipment was always breaking, and her skipper was a few years shy of retirement age. Conditions weren't ideal, but we made it work most of the time."

Tucker and I are in the hallway again, retracing our steps to the transporter lounge. The corridors seemed busier the last time I was here. At any rate, the lack of foot traffic and competing voices makes it considerably easier to stay together.

"Captain Hasselbeck was a good commanding officer at one time. I'd served under him for eleven years, and I learned a lot from him when I first came on board. But then burnout set in. All the things that he used to believe mattered—ship maintenance, drills, practice maneuvers—started either slipping or getting put off on me. And he'd started avoiding landing parties because they complicated his reports, and he'd lost his patience for paperwork too."

I understand why the Committee assigned Tucker as my handler. He knows first-hand what it means to serve under a commanding officer who shouldn't be on the line. Based on his own history, he knows how to judge the condition of a ship's command structure. "That sounds like a recipe for trouble."

"It was. And Starfleet must have picked up on the change because they'd started sending us on a lot of planetary surveys. That made his job easy. All he had to do was delegate teams to send down, wait for the departmental reports, and sign off on them."

Listening to Tucker, I realize how lucky I was. All of my commanding officers were top-notch. They ran tight, well-organized ships and were actively involved in the missions we'd been assigned.

"I'm telling you all this not to criticize Captain Hasselbeck, but so that you'll understand why things happened the way they did."

"I understand."

"Starfleet had sent us to explore the Foscara system and survey any habitable planets. Our initial sensor readings indicated that there were two possibilities, the sixth planet and the tenth. The sixth was inhabited, but without any evidence that they were warp-capable the Prime Directive was in effect. That was going to make the survey complicated. By comparison, surveying the tenth planet would be easy because it was uninhabited."

Merging into the starbase's primary corridor, I relocate from the center to the right-hand wall because that makes it easier to follow the curve. I also turn down the volume on my signal transmitter, reduce the signal speed, and start scanning. The only drawback to the new arrangement is that if I do ricochet off a wall, I'm going to bounce off of Tucker next.

"Do you need to concentrate, Captain?"

"I should be fine as long as you're talking, but if I look like I'm going to run into you, either say something or just tap me."

"You've got it. Our sensors showed that the planet only supported a limited range of plants and no large animals, so the captain sent down teams of geologists and botanists to start the survey. The botany team radioed back within the first fifteen minutes claiming to have seen an animal—they described it as a panther, only with fangs. Our sensor readings still showed no life signs, but the geologists suggested that some of the planet's minerals could be throwing the sensors off, so the captain sent down a team of zoologists and a large security detachment."

Along the outside wall, I hear the transporter room—or what I presume to be the transporter room, since I don't remember passing any other open spaces when we arrived. I turn toward it, only to be stopped by Tucker's forearm.

"Too soon," he says. "There are two rooms side-by-side. I'm not sure how useful it would be, but you're welcome to take my arm if you think it would help."

While I believe what he's telling me, I don't hear two rooms; I only hear one large, open space. I'm sure I could identify the transporter lounge if I spent time studying the space, but right now I'm more interested in Tucker's story. "It would help. Thank you." All I need from him is a sense of direction, so I keep my cane extended in my free hand and trap the folder and my PADD under my arm on that side. "Sorry for the interruption. Go ahead."

"No need to apologize. We kept a security detachment on the planet for several days, until the zoologists reported that they hadn't seen any large animals. None of the security officers had seen anything either and they were complaining about being cold, so Captain Hasselbeck withdrew them. Immediately the botanists started complaining that no one was taking them seriously. Both the geology and botany teams only had another six to eight hours of work left, so the captain sent me down for the last shift just to appease them."

Inside the transporter lounge, the acoustics normalize. I spot the platform along the back wall and let go of Tucker's arm to readjust my signal transmitter. My cane catches the bottom step within a few meters, and we both climb up to the platform, Tucker only one step behind me. Once we're each settled on a transporter pad, I pull out my communicator and flip it open. "Kirk to Enterprise. Two to beam up."

My signal transmitter starts working a full second before my body finishes rematerializing on the ship. By the time I'm able to move, two signals have already passed, one from each side—illuminating the far corners of the room, the transporter console, and a pair of bodies behind it. Once the tip of my cane slides over the nose of the first step, I put the cane away and jog down the steps, then turn back to wait for Tucker.

One body steps out from behind the console, leaving the other to greet us from behind it. "Welcome home, Captain." Transporter Chief Kyle, still behind the console. "Yeoman Burris is here with me, sir. Commodore, we just received your bag from the Carolina, and Yeoman Burris was about to deliver it to your quarters."

Maneuvering down seems to be trickier than going up, and Tucker is still approaching the first step. "That's fine, Yeoman, but would you come and add this card to my bag, please? Thank you."

"You're welcome, sir."

She retrieves the card, then picks up his bag and heads for the door. "Yeoman Burris leaving, Captain."

"Before you do—" I hold the file folder out to her. "Take this to my quarters and lay it on my desk, please."

"Yes, sir."

As soon as Burris is gone, Kyle steps out from behind the transporter console. "Commodore, do you need any help, sir?"

The hesitation in Tucker's answer leads me to think he's considering the offer. "No, I'm usually steadier than I look. But thank you, Lieutenant." He sidesteps, steadying himself against the left-hand wall, and finally steps down with his bad leg. "I'm slowing you down, Captain. My apologies. If you need to go on ahead, just tell me where you're headed and I can catch up."

"Don't apologize, Commodore. I can wait. Just take your time."

"I'm afraid I don't have a choice going down stairs. You'd never know I used to be an avid hiker."

Ordinarily, I would call up to the bridge and have the helm start undocking procedures, but in this case I'd be afraid of the movement upsetting his balance while he was between steps. Another minute in space dock won't hurt us. "So you beamed down to the planet. Based on what you've said and on what I've observed, I'm guessing that you had a run-in with the panther?"

"About three hours in. I never heard it, never saw it; I was so cold by that point that I never even felt it. It jumped me from behind and sank its fangs into the lower part of my neck. We found out later that those fangs were coated in a neurotoxin, which is what caused the damage."

"Your neck? You're lucky it didn't kill you."

"Luckier than you can imagine. It missed one of my carotid arteries by millimeters." He moves down another step. "Luckily, one of the geologists heard me collapse; he turned around and shot the animal before it had a chance to do any more damage, and he got me back to the ship before I either bled out or developed frostbite." He negotiates the last step, then lets out a sigh. "Thank you, Captain."

"For what?"

"Distracting me."

"Oh." I grin. "That wasn't my intention, but if it helped, I suppose you're welcome. If you're ready, we'll head up to the bridge and get underway."

"I'll follow you. You don't use your cane on board the ship?"

"The Enterprise is home." Heading toward the door, I shrug. "I know where all the hazards are."

"That's true. I guess you would."

We're heading toward the turbo lift when footsteps round the bend out of an intersecting hallway ahead of us. "Jim!" McCoy barrels toward us.

"Bones. Something wrong?"

"You could say that." McCoy does an about-face and falls into step on my other side. "I just had the most maddening call from the Carolina's CMO, and I have half a mind to report the man."

"You'd better be of a whole mind before you actually go through with it. What did he say?"

The turbo lift doors open, and McCoy follows us inside. "There are certain words in the English language that ought to have been outlawed—especially coming out of the mouths of supposed medical professionals. And I'm relatively sure Starfleet must have some kind of regulation against applying them to flag officers."

"Bones?"

"Jim, I don't even like to repeat it. Let's just say if I'd ever used the word in front of my mother, she'd have made me sterilize my mouth."

Steadying himself on the railing inside the turbo lift, Tucker seems unfazed by McCoy's explosion. "Dr. Steiner—the Carolina's CMO—restricted me from the bridge based strictly on my medical record, and I'm surprised he didn't confine me to my quarters. Didn't even bother to set eyes on me first. When he finally did bump into me in the mess hall the day before we reached the starbase, he called me a cripple in front of a dozen junior officers. I heard him use the same term half a dozen times before I beamed off the ship."

"Wait. You mean to tell me that you heard him say it but you didn't report him?"

"Doctor, if I reported everybody who used unflattering words to describe me, the halls of Starfleet Headquarters would be vacant. I learned a long time ago to ignore the names and insinuations and insults—as long as they only apply to me."

"But why? No one deserves to be talked about that way."

"Maybe because I'm a mouse by nature." Tucker's tone implies that he's shrugged the incident with Steiner off. But then his tone hardens, and I realize that the casualness was a bluff just like the one in Neilson's office. "No one ever expects the mouse to bite. It makes them yelp a little louder when I do."

McCoy's most immediate answer is to grunt. "Now I know how Starfleet came up with the description in your psychological profile."

"Bones?"

"Commodore Tucker's profile described him as 'thick-skinned and shrewd'—and headstrong. It mentioned that too. Speaking of which, Commodore, welcome aboard. You should fit right in around here."

Tucker laughs, long and hearty, and holds out his left hand to McCoy. "Thank you, Doctor. That's the most welcoming thing I've heard in a long time. It's good to finally meet you in person."

"Same here." McCoy steps forward to accept the handshake, and his voice loosens up in response to Tucker's laugh. "So how long before the cargo's loaded, Jim?"

"There isn't any cargo. There's been a change in plans."

"Oh?"

"One word, Bones: Romulans."

"Well, that'll certainly liven things up. Where at?"

"Stick around and you'll find out." The turbo lift slows to a stop on the bridge and I lead the way out, angling toward communications. Spock vacates the command chair, displacing Chekov from the science station back to navigation and Leslie from navigation to environmental engineering.

"Welcome back, Captain," Uhura says, turning to look up at me.

"Thank you. I need you to compose a message to Menno Four and send it encrypted to their Minister of Defense."

"Menno Four? Yes, sir."

"Let them know that half a dozen Romulan birds-of-prey have been spotted in their sector, both cloaked and uncloaked, over the course of the past Earth week. Let the Mennoans know that the Enterprise will be patrolling their sector until further notice—that part is non-negotiable—but we will not enter the Mennoan star system unless they specifically request protection."

"Yes, sir. Given that this is the Mennoans, would you like to review the message before I send it?"

"Good idea. Send it to my PADD when you finish and I'll look it over." I step down to the command chair. "Chekov, lay in a course for Foscara Six, please. Sulu, take us out of dock and accelerate to warp six."

As the ship eases out of space dock, Tucker stops within reach of the railing at engineering. He seems steady as long as we're only maneuvering using thrusters. Accelerating to impulse power doesn't seem to bother him. It's the jump from impulse power to warp speed that finally throws him off-balance. He stumbles and steadies himself against the railing.

"Commodore, are you all right?" McCoy leaves his place behind the command chair to stand near Tucker instead, presumably in case he needs to lend a hand.

"I'm fine, Doctor. Pay me no mind."

McCoy grunts. "With all due respect, sir—Nothing doing. Jim, can you increase one warp factor at a time? I'm working a theory."

"Of course. Sulu, you heard the doctor. Take us to warp two."

Tucker stumbles again as the ship accelerates, but less this time.

By the time we're ready to make the last jump, from warp five to six, Tucker's only response is to take a single extra step. "My apologies, Captain, but thank you. And thank you, Doctor."

McCoy huffs. "Lucky for you, I know a thing or two about stubborn crewmembers."

Judging by the way everyone laughs, and by Spock's understated grunt—I wouldn't have heard it at all, except that he's stepped down to stand at my right elbow—I think I know what just happened. "Spock, did we just get called out?"

"Indeed, Captain."

"Well, at least we're in good company."

"Couldn't have said it better myself." Tucker moves out from behind the railing, apparently intending to make his way down to the command level. "I'll eventually figure out how to maintain my balance as we change speeds. It's just that I've logged appallingly few space hours in the last twelve years."

I grin at him. "No trouble, Commodore. We'll have that corrected in no time. You're all right?"

"I'm fine. The problem is that I only have limited sensation in my trunk and lower body, so finding my balance in certain situations can be challenging—but like I said, I will figure it out in time. Dr. McCoy's idea to increase one warp factor at a time was extremely helpful."

"Jim, if you do the same thing when you need to decelerate, pretty soon you should be able to increase and decrease by bigger margins. The most important thing is to let him know what you're jumping to so he can learn to anticipate."

"Understood. Spock, I assume everything was quiet here on the ship?"

"It was, Captain—with the exception of a call to you from the captain of the Carolina. I suggested that she leave a message for you in your quarters, since it appeared to be of a personal nature."

"Gloating over her win at the docking station, no doubt." The crew needs to be briefed about our new assignment, so I should probably wait to retrieve the message later. But given the problem Tucker had on Sam's ship, I decide to play a hunch and retrieve it now. "I need everybody in the briefing room in 30 minutes. Until then, I'll be in my quarters."

McCoy follows me to the turbo lift, leaving Tucker behind on the bridge to observe.

Once the turbo lift doors close, I have between the bridge and Deck 3 to ask as many questions as I can. "Bones, explain Tucker's condition. I think I have the basics figured out, but there's something I can't put my finger on."

"You're not alone."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that judging by his Starfleet medical records, there's no way he should be walking—not without support and certainly not as well as he does. He had severe nerve damage from an unknown neurotoxin. He has next to no sensation below the injury site, slightly worse on the left—"

"Wait. Left? But his bad side is on the right."

"In terms of motor function, yes, but in terms of sensation his left side is the bad one."

"How is that possible?"

"As I said, it was an unknown neurotoxin, so we don't fully understand the mechanism of it—and the Daniel Boone's CMO didn't seem interested in floating too many theories about it. But there is a degree of cross-laterality in the spinal cord; my guess is that had something to do with it. Anyhow, he was completely paralyzed at first."

"All right, I'm with you so far. But if he shouldn't be able to walk, how is he doing it?"

"Darned if I know. Starfleet Medical can't even explain it. But just to be clear, what he's doing isn't technically impossible. It's just that ordinarily I would only expect to see results like this in someone who'd had an extensive amount of therapy—we're talking about ongoing treatment for years—and even then I wouldn't have guaranteed it."

"He didn't have that?"

"No. Starfleet provided him with regular therapy for the first year after the injury, but it was discontinued due to lack of progress. He could only walk limited distances with extensive support, and he wasn't expected to make much progress beyond that. But when he came in for his annual physical a year after that, he walked in—slowly and with support, but he was walking a lot farther and better than he was a year earlier."

"And here he is ten years later, negotiating starships again."

"Small gains in muscle control and strength I could understand, but his reflexes are something else entirely. They're significantly better than they should be, and so is his balance. It's really remarkable what he's able to do with what little he has."

"That's what stubbornness buys you."

"Maybe. But I can't understand what would possess the Committee to send him out here on an assignment like this. Jim, maneuvering this ship—even just standing on the bridge, like what we just saw—requires a tremendous amount of effort. I wonder if the Committee understood what it was asking him to do."

"They didn't ask him to, per se. He argued against a cargo run because he knew a real assignment would give me a better chance to prove myself. He volunteered for this."

"Which is admirable, unless it becomes a liability."

"Will it?"

Following me out of the turbo lift and down the hall to my quarters, Bones doesn't answer right away. Instead, he follows me inside and lets the door shut behind us. "Depends on the situation, of course, but I don't think so—not as long as it's managed right. Same as you."

I nod. "Thanks, Bones. That's what I needed to know. I don't want him getting thrown into something that's beyond what he can do, so I'll depend on you to stay on top of it—whether he likes it or not."

"Of course. I'll keep probing to make sure we all know when and how far he's pushing himself."

"That's all I ask. I'm too grateful to him, and I have too much respect for him, to let him get himself hurt in the name of saving my career."

"That's why Steiner's comment makes me so furious. How can you not respect a man who boards a vessel that's headed into combat, knowing his body doesn't operate the way it should, just because it'll benefit someone else?"

I nod. "I wonder if that's why the Committee assigned me to Tucker instead of to another handler. They knew he'd give me a fair chance because they knew he was willing to take chances himself."

"You could be right." Bones claps me on the shoulder. "All right, I'll let you get to your message. I'm heading back up to the bridge."

Once McCoy leaves, I head over to my desk and settle down behind the monitor. The message from Sam is waiting for me.

"Hey, Jim. Sam Carmichael here." It's the same breezy tone I remember, casual—with fangs. "With a helmsman that slow, I don't see how you've survived as many battles as you have. But it seems to work for you, so I guess we all make do with what we've got, right?" She never could pass up a chance to throw insults. "Anyhow, I just wanted to drop you a line to say hi. And to warn you about Tucker."

I sit up straight and focus. Sam always had good insights and I respect her for that, even when I'm not in the mood to enjoy her hypercompetitive tendencies.

"I've heard a lot of conflicting rumors about how much vision you have, and I'm not sure which ones to believe, but in any case it sounds like your vision is seriously compromised, so I figured I'd do you a favor and warn you. Tucker's a liability waiting to happen. My CMO said he was too unstable on his feet and wanted him in a wheelchair while he was on board, but Tucker refused. He agreed to stay out of critical areas, so I asked Dr. Steiner not to push the issue."

Even when McCoy said he didn't understand how Tucker was walking, it didn't occur to me that a wheelchair might be appropriate. The question is, am I overlooking something—not seeing something that's obvious to a person with vision—or am I just seeing the situation from a different perspective?

"I hope you know you got lucky. Your career depends on Tucker being able to do his job, and I could have stopped that from happening by letting Steiner file a complaint against him. The only reason I didn't—and this shouldn't surprise you—is because I want your ship, and everyone knows you have a few powerful friends on the Committee. I didn't want to risk running afoul of them by filing a complaint against Tucker before we even delivered him to the starbase."

I haven't had much contact with my former classmates from the Academy, including the ones I called friends. Partly that's by virtue of how quickly I've been promoted, and partly it's by choice. Hearing from Sam again reminds me exactly why I've made that choice.

She clears her throat, and for a brief moment she sounds genuine. "In a way, I feel bad for you. A man with your ambition and drive having no control over his career, being at the mercy of a bureaucratic committee—It must drive you crazy. If I was in your position, I would rather step in front of a phaser than spend the rest of my career depending on the charity of others."

That's the other reason I haven't stayed in touch. I don't need Sam Carmichael's—or anyone else's—pity.

"But I have to give you credit. You've got a lot of nerve insisting that they keep letting you command the Fleet's biggest fighting machine. So as long as you still insist on putting yourself on the line, this is the last time I'm going to let you off easy. Next time, it's game on. In the meantime, you'll have your hands full with Tucker—but then you always did like challenges, so maybe that suits you. I just thought you deserved to know. Talk to you later."

It takes me a minute to digest the whole call, but especially the bit about Tucker and Steiner. Despite his senior rank, Tucker is a staff officer and can have his wishes overridden by either a ship's captain or CMO. By refusing to follow the CMO's recommendations, he was technically out of compliance, and Steiner would have been within his rights to file a complaint. But how far out of line was Steiner's recommendation?

There's only one way to find out. "Kirk to Dr. McCoy."

"McCoy here. You need me, Captain?"

"I do."

"Be right there." A few minutes later, McCoy arrives and settles into the guest chair at my desk. "Something in the message from Captain Carmichael?"

"Apparently Steiner wanted Tucker in a wheelchair while he was on board the Carolina, and Tucker refused. Was the recommendation out of line, or was Tucker out of line for refusing?"

"No wonder Tucker wouldn't file that complaint." McCoy's sigh sounds troubled. "Neither was out of line."

"How do you figure that?"

"Just to look at what's written in his medical record, I understand Steiner's recommendation. Artificial gravity aside, walking on a starship is different than walking on a planet. Your muscles have to work harder to keep you balanced, especially when there's a change in speed, so there is a much higher risk for falling on a ship."

"Okay."

"On the other hand, he should have examined Tucker in person before he made the call. People are more than a collection of diagnoses and prescriptions, and any doctor worth his medical license should know that."

"So what you're telling me is that Steiner was technically within his rights as the CMO, but he also wasn't following best practice."

"Exactly. Plus, I do understand Tucker not wanting to use a wheelchair. On a small transport ship like the Carolina, even the smallest chair would've restricted where he could go and what he could do—much more than the restrictions imposed by his own body."

"I hadn't thought about that, but you're right. Transport ships are small, and he would have known how limited the chair would make him. I can understand him wanting to avoid that—especially given that he thinks he can adapt."

"And then there's the psychological bit of it."

"Talk to me."

"For some people—maybe even for most people in his condition—a wheelchair might mean freedom from a body that won't cooperate, but that isn't the case for Tucker."

"Is that your observation, or was it in his psychological profile?"

"Some of both, but his psych records deal quite extensively with how he manages his disability. He's gotten used to the way his body works, he enjoys using it, and he's not afraid to push himself. For a man like that, a wheelchair would add a disability, not remove it. Steiner should have considered that."

"So it sounds like Steiner was in the wrong."

McCoy sighs. "It's a complicated situation, but if you press me into picking sides—Yes, he was. He made a recommendation without first observing the patient or considering the patient's psychological well-being, and that's poor practice."

"If Tucker does fall, how fragile is he?"

"Not. His body is every bit as healthy as yours. It's just less coordinated."

"In that case, if I'm understanding the situation correctly, insisting that Tucker use a wheelchair would be like insisting that I use a vision replacement system. For some people in my situation—maybe even most—any visual input at all would be welcome, but for me it would just remind me of how much I'd lost."

"You understand the situation perfectly. You going to let Tucker know that you know?"

"I will if it comes up, but right now I have bigger problems to worry about."

McCoy stands, heading for the door. "Sounds like it's shaping up to be one heck of a meeting."

"You can only imagine." Before I head to the briefing room, I have one other old classmate to get in touch with. "See you again in just a few."