Free The Autobiography of James T. Kirk by David A. Goodman

me and smiled.
    “Perhaps you shouldn’t. The cost sounds like it was too high.” Gill was trying to make a point, one that I wouldn’t fully understand until much later. Interestingly, this conversation would come back to haunt us both.
    But at the time I was too under siege by work to stop to think about it. I was determined to be an academic success. I was seeing less of Ruth than I wanted; I turned down furlough passes on several weekends to focus on my studies.
    On one of these nights, alone in the deserted barracks, I was so lost in trying to make sense of the Xindi Incident * that I didn’t notice Ben Finney standing in my doorway.
    “Sir, sorry, sir,” I said, quickly standing to attention.
    “At ease,” he said. “No plans tonight, cadet?”
    “No sir.”
    Finney came into my room and looked at what I was studying.
    “Oh, this mess,” he said. “I never could make head or tail of it. Do you want to take a break?”
    Finney wasn’t acting like the usual upperclassman. A few minutes later we were in his room; he gave me a chair and then pulled out a bottle. It had a long, slightly curved neck. He poured us drinks in a coffee mug and plastic cup.
    “Ever tried Saurian brandy?” He gave me a wry smile. In truth, I had had little exposure to any kind of spirits and was flabbergasted that my instructor was introducing them to me now.
    “Sir, isn’t this against regulations?”
    “It is indeed. You should report this infraction to your immediate superior.” That was him.
    “Sir …”
    “Call me Ben,” he said. “Anyone finds out about this and we’re both done.”
    He handed me the cup, and I took a swig. That first taste was vile. It was like turpentine with a fruit taste, something like apples, and burned my throat going down. I coughed and Finney laughed.
    “Give it a second,” he said.
    Its effects were almost immediate. A warm, relaxing cloud fell over me.
    “That’s amazing,” I said. “Thanks.”
    “You’re welcome. You looked like you could use it.”
    We spent the next couple of hours drinking and laughing, and found we had a lot in common. We were both from the American midwest, both our parents went to the academy, and we both had dreams of serving aboard starships. Ben asked if I had a girlfriend, then showed me a picture of his, a lovely woman named Naomi, whom he was about to marry.
    “Marry?” I said. “You graduate this year. Isn’t that going to be hard if you get posted to a ship?”
    “I’m already an instructor in computers; they’ll probably ask me to stay on at least another year after graduation,” Ben said. “Then we’ll just have to see what happens. Naomi understands.”
    Ben let on that he didn’t like the role he had to play as an upperclassman. He was gregarious and friendly, and, as I would learn, had a deep-seated need to be liked. He was a popular cadet not only in his class but in the other classes as well. Looking back, I can now see that Ben’s desire to not only be my friend but everybody’s undermined his own ability to command respect as a senior officer. This aspect of his personality, I think, contributed to the difficulties he would face later. But at the time, I was thrilled to have a pal and confidant. It helped me get through the rest of my plebe year, which was no easy feat, as 23 percent of the first-years dropped out.

    A cadet’s second summer was spent in outer space, at the academy Training Station in Earth orbit. There we learned zero gravity combat techniques and got our first taste of actual piloting. They were century-old shuttle pods, but to get behind the stick of any kind of spacecraft was a thrill.
    When I returned to the academy for my second year, things felt very different. For one, Finnegan had graduated and been posted to a starbase. He’d been a constant irritant during my first year. The hazing was endless. His parting shot before graduating was to switch my dress pants with someone much larger than me, which