Yesterday Son (2 page)

And so it is that many writers never get up the gumption to take that risk. By the time we met in the elevator, Ann had already submitted
Yesterday’s Son
and, not having heard a word from Pocket
[10]
Books, was getting anxious. Ann tells me she “hassled” me “rudely” for encouraging fans to try their hands at pro writing, insisting that previously unpublished writers wouldn’t get the time of day from big-time publishers and editors.

It is with a great sigh of relief that I blow Ann a big Bronx cheer and say, “I told you so!”

Not that
everyone
can do what Ann has done—scoring with her first-ever pro submission. I like to share my own writing experiences, offering what’s happened in my pursuit of this odd excuse for a career as an example. I was lucky enough to sell
The Pirates of Orion
to the animated STAR TREK TV series when I was 19 years old ... and then I didn’t sell anything for five years ... five very sobering years.

So I’m no superstar writer. But I had a large enough ego to think I could tell stories well enough for other people to want to pay to read them.
And if I could sell a story, maybe other semi-egotistical wishful thinkers can, too.

That’s probably what I told Ann, and she listened—poor fool! She thought about it for a while, then called me several months later to talk some more. And called a few months after that ... and a few months after that ...

At that stage, I should point out, our commiseration had become mutual. While Ann was grinding her teeth and awaiting the life-or-death final word on her manuscript, I was going through seemingly endless delays in the publication of my already-purchased-and-paid-for STAR TREK book. Long-distance phone calls aren’t cheap, but they’re usually cheaper than psychiatry, so I figure I saved Ann a lot of money over those next couple of years.

And both our vigils had happy endings.
Covenant
came out in December 1981, and has been very well received. Several months after that, Ann got the word from Pocket Books—
Yesterday’s Son
was “go for launch!”

[11]
In July 1982, Ann sent me a manuscript copy to read. After the first two chapters, I knew it was a winner. The rest of the book did not let me down. And I was convinced it should have its coming-out as my book did, having chapters read at a convention.

Quite frankly, Ann was chicken. She didn’t think she should read it because no one would be able to hear the words over the racket caused by her chattering teeth. Secretly, I was glad—because that meant
I
would have the distinct pleasure of reading those opening chapters to a packed ballroom at Summer Media Fest ’82 in Arlington, Virginia.

That audience loved what they heard, but you are far luckier than they were ... for
you
get to read the whole book, and you’ll be glad you did!

Howard Weinstein

September 1982

P.S. If you write to Ann c/o Pocket Books, and you’d like an answer from her, please be sure to enclose a stamped, self-addressed envelope. New authors aren’t rich enough to afford hundreds of return-postage stamps!

Doctor McCoy picked up his rook and plunked it down again, taking one of his opponent’s pawns. “Get out of that one if you can,” he said, sitting back confidently. The man on the other side of the chessboard raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“An interesting move ...” Spock conceded, and lapsed into an unmoving study of the board.

McCoy smiled. Spock had agreed to a game of the old-fashioned, two-dimensional chess when the Doctor suggested it. Now the Vulcan was discovering that McCoy’s moves, though occasionally erratic, could be inspired, and a challenge to his logical mind. McCoy hadn’t been captain of the chess team in med school for nothing.

While the First Officer mulled over his Queen’s predicament, McCoy glanced idly around the recreation room. It was filled with crew members reading, playing cards or chess, or talking in groups. His gaze stopped on the face of a pretty young Ensign. The Doctor searched his mind for her name, recalled it. Teresa McNair. Straight out of the Academy, barely a day over twenty-three. Nice brown hair, green eyes. She had her nose in a micro-reader, scanning the material with careful scrutiny. As he watched, enjoying the long, slender legs curled up underneath her, she stopped the reader with a quick gesture and sat up. Tearing off two long strips of readout paper, she got up and walked straight toward him.

McCoy gave a guilty start, realizing he’d been staring, and turned away. A moment later, McNair
[14]
appeared at Spock’s elbow. “Excuse me, Mr. Spock.”

The First Officer looked up. “Yes, Ensign?”

“Sir, would you please confirm a fact for me? I thought it was well-established that early Vulcan colonization was confined to the area closest to the Romulan Neutral Zone?” McNair’s voice rose, making it a question.

“That’s correct, Ensign.” Spock was patience itself, but hardly inviting.

“Then do you know of any explanation for this?” She placed the large readout in front of the Vulcan and continued, “This photo came from archeological data published about the Beta Niobe system. That’s clear at the other end of the explored portion of the Galaxy, and if there was no Vulcan colonization ...” McNair sounded puzzled as she trailed off.

McCoy saw something flicker across Spock’s face at the mention of Beta Niobe. He vainly tried to place it ... no use, too many planets, too many suns. You had to be a biological computer like the Vulcan to remember half of them.

Spock scanned the sheet, eyes narrowed. The Doctor looked up at McNair. “Beta Niobe? Can’t place it, but it sounds familiar.”

The Ensign grinned at him and responded, “It should, Doctor. The
Enterprise
was the ship detailed to warn the people of Sarpeidon that Beta Niobe was ready to nova. I believe you were one of the landing party. There was a huge library complex on the planet. Our computers scanned and recorded the information in it before Sarpeidon was destroyed. The archeological information I was studying came right out of the Atoz Library.” She turned back to Spock, who was still studying the readout. “Neutron dating places the cave paintings you can see as circa 5,000 years old—Sarpeidon’s last ice age. This is an enlargement of the face you can see on the left.” She spread another sheet in front of the First Officer.

[15]
Spock leaned forward, face a carven mask, and McCoy was alerted by his complete withdrawal. The Doctor edged around in his seat to study the photos.

The one nearest him showed a cave wall, gray, with reddish highlights. The first painting was a hunting scene. Two figures—humanoid—faced two large creatures. One looked like a lion with a skinny neck and long fur. The other stood on its hind legs, and resembled a bear that had been made to order by a committee. Floppy ears, long snout—it should have looked comical, but not with a mouthful of tusks, and a height nearly twice that of the hunters.

On the far left side of the wall there was another, smaller painting of a single face. McCoy craned his neck to see the other photo, the blowup of that face.

Glowing ghostly white against the dark stone of the cave wall, it seemed to float in front of the Doctor’s incredulous eyes. Two slanting eyes, a jagged lock of bushy dark hair, a nose, a mouth. The style was primitive but arresting, and the features were executed with meticulous care. Including the pointed ears.

McCoy looked at Spock, whose expression was more remote then ever. The Doctor’s mouth was dry, and his voice cracked on the words. “Sarpeidon? It’s been two years since we ...” He trailed off and sat back, biting his lip. Spock turned to McNair.

“Perhaps a genetic anomaly, or racial offshoot with interesting parallel development. Or, possibly, a representation of some mythical being. Remember Pan, from Terran folklore. I’d appreciate it if you’d allow me to look at that tape when you’re finished, Ensign.” The Vulcan’s voice was completely normal. McNair nodded and left, taking the readouts with her.

Spock turned back to his chess partner. “If you don’t mind, Doctor, I should like to return to our game, as I go on duty in forty-five point three minutes. I’ve thought of a way to negate your interesting, but illogical campaign.”

[16]
McCoy’s eyes narrowed. “It’s your move, Spock. Or had you forgotten?”

The Vulcan barely glanced at the board, as he quickly moved a bishop. The Doctor didn’t miss the tremor, immediately stilled, in the lean fingers.

McCoy took the hint, and pulled his chair back around. “Never doubted you’d beat me for a moment, Spock. All that logic has got to be good for
something.”

But McCoy won the game.

Captain’s Personal Log
Stardate 6324.09

“Our current assignment of charting Sector 70.2 of this unexplored quadrant has been proceeding uneventfully—so uneventfully that I’ve been resorting to simulated battle drills and abandon-ship exercises to keep up my crew’s efficiency. Everyone is looking forward to our scheduled inspection and repair detail at Star Base 11, and most of the crew have requested leave. Morale is high—partially because of the party planned for the evening we dock. The only members of my crew who aren’t space happy are my Chief Medical Officer and my First Officer. Both have been remarkably quiet for the past two days. I haven’t questioned either of them, but I intend to if this behavior continues.”

The
Enterprise,
starship of the heavy cruiser class, glided serenely through space, unmindful of the excitement caused by her approaching overhaul at Star Base 11. Most of the crew, however, were polishing up assorted skills for the party. Lieutenant Sulu and Yeoman Phillips were giving an exhibition of fencing. The choral group was rehearsing some slightly raunchy—and slightly true—ballads about the Captain. (He was carefully remaining unaware of them.)

And the Little Theatre was staging
H.M.S. Pinafore.
The production was directed by Lieutenant Uhura, and Chief Engineer Scott, who had a fine
[18]
baritone, was singing the part of Captain Corcoran. Kirk, Scotty and Uhura were discussing the operetta one afternoon at lunch, when McCoy joined them.

“Have a seat, Bones.” Kirk took a determined bite from a large green salad and sipped his skim milk. “I’m going to turn into a rabbit if you keep putting me on these diets. And then I have to watch while Scotty gorges himself on Black Forest cake!”

The Chief Engineer swallowed and grinned. “A man’s got t’ keep up his strength if he’s going t’ work all day and then rehearse all night!”

“Actually, Captain,” Uhura said, tapping a manicured nail thoughtfully against her dark cheek, “we ought to update the production a bit, don’t you think? Rewrite Gilbert and Sullivan to make it more ... contemporary. For instance, why not set the operetta aboard the
Enterprise,
and rename it?
U.S.S. Enterprise
has just as much ring as
H.M.S. Pinafore.
And then
you
could sing the Captain’s part!”

Kirk chuckled, hummed a few bars, then broke into song. “And I’m never ever sick in space ...” he warbled, innocent of key. Uhura and Scotty chimed in.

“What, never?”

“No, never!”

“What,
never?”

Well ... hardly ever ...” Kirk broke off and grinned at McCoy. “What about it, Bones? Have I got a future in the opera? The singing idol of Star Fleet, huh?”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “In my professional opinion, you should’ve had your larynx removed at birth to prevent that possibility. As a starship Captain you’ll get by. As a singer ... sorry, Jim.”

Kirk shook his head ruefully. “Another great career, nipped in the bud by lack of encouragement.” He glanced at the chrono, stood up. “Got to get back to the bridge. Coming, Doctor?”

When they reached the relative privacy of the corridor, he asked casually, “What’s up, Bones?”

[19]
McCoy shook his head and didn’t answer. Instead he asked, “Do you remember a planet Sarpeidon we visited two years ago?”

The Captain gave him a sharp glance. “It took me weeks to get the smell of that medieval jail out of my nose. And that crazy old Mr. Atoz ... What about it?”

Again the Doctor didn’t answer. After a long pause, he queried, “Did Spock ever talk to you about what happened to us back there?”

“No, as I recall, both of you were pretty quiet about the whole experience. From the official report you logged, I gathered there was a woman back in that ice age who saved your lives. What was her name?”

McCoy hesitated. “Zarabeth. Have you seen Spock lately?”

“No. Should I have? He’s been off-duty for the past 36 hours.” Hazel eyes scanned the Doctor’s face, concerned. “Sure you can’t talk about it?”

McCoy avoided the steady gaze. “Nothing to talk about, Captain. I’ll see you later.”

Kirk stared at the empty corridor, tempted to follow and pursue the subject, but finally continued on his way. McCoy might not care to admit it, but he shared a certain kinship with Spock. If he didn’t want to talk, he couldn’t be persuaded.

The bridge was quiet and reassuring. Kirk dropped into his command chair, scanning the clipboard of reports, but one part of his mind was counting the minutes until Spock appeared for duty. The best First Officer in the fleet ... yes, he was that, for sure. What could McCoy have been hinting at, harking back to Sarpeidon? And that woman? Was he talking about himself? Somehow, Kirk thought not. But Spock wouldn’t get mixed up with a woman ... at least he never had, except for
Omicron Ceti
III, and those spores ... funny, he’d always thought there was something besides the damned spores working
[20]
on the Vulcan ... and of course, there was T’Pring ... but that was different. ...