EXT. WARP SPACE – ENTERPRISE
The Enterprise continues to travel through the darkness of warp space, blue spiderweb patterns appearing and disappearing sporadically across the otherwise invisible walls of the field holding this small pocket universe together.
KIRK: (V.O.) Ship’s log, StarDate 1312.21, Capt. James R. Kirk reporting. (beat) Five days have passed since we departed Starbase 95, and we are on a delivery run to Starbase 104, our cargo bay laden with supplies the station is in need of. (beat) There’s a day left in-transit before we reach the starbase, so I’ve decided to kill some time exploring my new ship ….
INT. ENTERPRISE/MAIN ENGINEERING
Entering main engineering, the captain finds this section of the ship a-bustle with activity; various crewmen in engineering suits make their way to-and-fro about their duties, working hard to keep the warp drive and associated systems in top operating condition. Nodding with silent approval, the captain finds his way to Mr. Scott.
SCOTT: (notices Kirk and stops what he’s doing to acknowledge the captain’s presence) Er … Capt. Kirk.
KIRK: I thought I’d get acquainted with the ship.
Walking around Scotty, Kirk continues to scrutinize the surrounding systems and equipment.
KIRK: I’m very impressed, Mr. Scott.
SCOTT: (hopeful) Then ye’ll want to be making some speed trials, will ye, Captain?
KIRK: Not just now, Mr. Scott. Maybe later in the trip.
SCOTT: But, Captain –
KIRK: (firm) Later, Mr. Scott.
Scott decides to remain silent. Once Kirk leaves, he frowns to himself.
SCOTT: (in a mock Shatnerian impression) Later, Mr. Scott! (beat) Blast it out yer shaft, ye inexperienced tyro ….
INT. ENTERPRISE/RECREATION DECK
The recreation deck (having returned to the state it was in prior to the change-of-command ceremony held at Starbase 95) has been subdivided into a multitude of gymnasiums, game rooms, and lounges.
In one of the lounges, S’Pock sits alone at a table, playing a game of three-dimensional chess against himself. Deep in concentration, he doesn’t make an effort to acknowledge Captain Kirk’s presence as the Human enters the room and walks up to him.
KIRK: Need an opponent?
S’POCK: No, Captain.
KIRK: Why are you playing alone?
S’POCK: Because, Captain, no one on board plays at my level.
KIRK: You’re modest, aren’t you?
S’POCK: I am neither modest nor immodest; both are character traits beyond which Vulcans have evolved. I state a fact.
KIRK: (scrutinizes the chessboard) Are you playing black or white?
S’POCK: Both, of course, Captain.
KIRK: But black’s move? (smiles wrily) Of course?
Making a noncommittal sound, S’Pock proceeds to move a piece: queen to queen’s pawn D-4. Placing the piece down, he thoughtfully draws his hand back.
KIRK: White to checkmate in three.
As the half-Vulcan looks up at him in disbelief, Kirk simply turns around, leisurely surveys the lounge, and then strolls away.
INT. ENTERPRISE/MESS HALL
It is dinner time aboard the Enterprise, and a good number of the ship’s crew have assembled to eat.
S’Pock approaches one of the mess hall’s food synthesizers.
S’POCK: Computer, green salad, undressed.
As soon as the request is given, a tray with a plate of undressed green salad materializes within the synthesizer’s slot.
Taking the tray, S’Pock makes his way over to his usual table. Unfortunately for the major, who prefers to eat alone, the table is occupied by some of the female crew members: the exotic, dusky Zahra Jamal; the pretty, auburn-haired Marla McGivers; and the cat-eyed Hazarstennaj. Talking with one another animatedly, they freeze and fall silent once they see S’Pock standing over them. Hesitating but a single moment, the half-Vulcan decides to take a seat with them.
CPL. JAMAL: (uneasy) Uh, Mr. S’Pock ….
S’POCK: Yes, Corporal?
CPL. JAMAL: Nothing. I mean, hello, sir.
Accepting her greeting without response, S’Pock settles down to eat. Grasping his fork, he spears some of the greens and lifts them to his mouth. Before he has a chance to bite down, though, the smell of the vegetables reaches his nostrils. Assaulted by the scent, he slowly puts the fork down and glances at the meals of his table partners; Jamal is having broiled salmon, McGivers some type of glazed fowl, and Hazarstennaj a large, raw, 1-kilo steak; from the look of things, their plates have barely been touched.
S’POCK: Are your meals satisfactorily synthesized?
The others exchange glances. McGivers then giggles.
S’POCK: Erroneous synthesis is a serious matter. I did not intend levity.
2ND LT. MCGIVERS: I know that, Mr. S’Pock, but we were just talking about the food. It’s been getting worse all day.
S’POCK: The synthesizers must have been reprogrammed. I suspect the maintenance crews misadjusted them at Starbase 95.
CPL. JAMAL: Anything’s a disappointment after the fresh salmon we had on Two Dawns, but this tastes like … (cringes) chicken.
2ND LT. MCGIVERS: I knew I was challenging the synthesizer, so I suppose I was asking for it.
S’POCK: I beg your pardon, Lieutenant, but do you mean you got the meal you asked for, or you did not get the meal you asked for?
2ND LT. MCGIVERS: (grins) Both. Neither. What I asked for was duck lu-se-te. It’s a variation of duck à l’orange, but le-se is from my homeworld, and it’s green. (beat) I didn’t expect the synthesizer to know what I was asking for. It didn’t reject the request … but it didn’t exactly fill it, either. This tastes like … (cringes) wood pulp and sugar syrup.
S’POCK: Am I correct in assuming that this is not what you wished it to taste like?
2ND LT. MCGIVERS: You are correct.
A1C. HAZARSTENNAJ: Wood pulp and syrup would be an improvement on this!
Growling, the felinoid airman picks up a shred of pink meat and thrusts it before S’Pock’s face. The half-Vulcan barely manages to keep himself from recoiling in disgust.
A1C. HAZARSTENNAJ: Taste it!
S’POCK: Your assurance that it is unacceptable is quite sufficient.
A1C. HAZARSTENNAJ: No, you must taste it to get the full effect. It tastes like … (cringes) it tastes like vegetables.
Cocking an eyebrow, S’Pock picks the morsel from Hazarstennaj’s slender fingers, gives it a sniff, then pops it in his mouth. Chewing carefully, allowing the full flavour of the food to cover his palate, he swallows.
S’POCK: (picks up his forkful of salad and offers it to Hazard) Perhaps you will find this to your taste.
A1C. HAZARSTENNAJ: (growls) You wish me to eat leaves?
CPL. JAMAL: Hazard will never live it down if she eats a salad, Mr. S’Pock.
S’POCK: The salad may be her only choice if she wishes animal protein in her dinner.
Growling softly, Hazarstennaj plucks the bit of salad off S’Pock’s fork and, with trepidation, places it in her mouth.
A1C. HAZARSTENNAJ: (surprised) It is cooked!
S’POCK: That is true.
Taking her plate, Hazard swaps it for S’Pock’s.
A1C. HAZARSTENNAJ: Better than nothing. I will trade you.
S’POCK: Very well. (divides the huge pseudo-steak in three) Lt. McGivers, Cpl. Jamal, will you have some? It tastes – I assume – more acceptable than wood pulp or chicken.
JAMAL & MCGIVERS: (in unison) Thanks.
Taking two-thirds of his pseudo-steak, S’Pock places either piece on each of the Humans’ plates. Meanwhile, Hazard consumes her meat salad with great relish before going off to order another.
INT. ENTERPRISE/KIRK’S QUARTERS
Kirk is seated at his desk, dividing his finite attention between his computer console, a PADD, and several hardcopy printouts when a BUZZ resounds through his door.
KIRK: Come.
The door opens and Maj. Mitchell saunters in.
MITCHELL: Did you eat?
KIRK: Eat?
MITCHELL: Dinner.
KIRK: Oh, Lord – I lost track of time. (shakes his head) I don’t believe it – five days into my five-year mission, and I’m already behind on my paperwork.
MITCHELL: (looks at the mess of Kirk’s desk) What’s all this?
KIRK: It’s, you know, (waves his hands) paperwork.
MITCHELL: Why are you doing it?
KIRK: It has to be done. (beat) I always do it, but I never had quite so much of it before.
MITCHELL: Where’s your yeoman?
KIRK: I don’t have a yeoman.
MITCHELL: (nonplussed) You don’t have one?
KIRK: I’ve never had one before.
MITCHELL: You’ve never been captain of a Constitution-class starship before.
KIRK: (irate) I don’t want a yeoman. I don’t need someone fussing over me and sticking things under my nose to sign and being sure the synthesizer put the right amount of carbohydrates in my food.
MITCHELL: (draws up a chair and straddles it) James, permit your ol’ buddy, ol’ pal Mitch to give you some friendly advice. You’re commanding twice as many people as you ever have before. Starfleet paperwork increases in proportion to the size of the crew.
KIRK: It’ll be alright as soon as I get caught up.
MITCHELL: You’ll never get caught up. You know you’ll never get caught up. This isn’t your job anymore.
KIRK: I suppose you have a magical solution.
MITCHELL: James, go down to the quartermaster’s office, pick out a likely clerk, and promote them.
KIRK: It’ll take me more time to train somebody to do this than it would to do it myself.
MITCHELL: Not in the long run. Not if you pick someone with more than half a brain.
KIRK: (sighs) Alright, I’ll try it – on a temporary basis.
MITCHELL: (smiles) Good. (walks over to the food synthesizer) Now, what do you want?
KIRK: Gary, I can feed myself.
MITCHELL: Just consider me acting yeoman for the time being.
KIRK: (sighs) Surprise me.
MITCHELL: Computer, roast teracaq with a side of west Centauri poutine and iced jestral tea.
The order materializes. Picking it up, Mitchell carries it over and sets it down before the captain.
MITCHELL: Bon appetit.
As the major departs, Kirk picks up his fork and knife and slices off a thin piece of the teracaj. As he bites into the meat, though, his face turns green, and he quickly spits it out into his napkin. The unwelcome taste still in his mouth, he picks up his mug of tea and takes a sip, only to automatically spew the horrid liquid from his mouth.