No one who had ever seen James T. Kirk in his infancy, or his childhood in Iowa, would have supposed him born to be a hero.

He had a thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without much colour, hair which was thinning by the age of twelve, and ordinary features;–so much for his person;–and not less unpropitious for heroism seemed his mind. Although he was fond enough of all boys’ plays, he excelled at none, except perhaps when it was his turn to keep score.

Instead, he greatly preferred the company of girls, and whether teazing their dolls, nursing a baby gorn, feeding a tribble, or watering his quadro-triticale, he always managed to make the girls laugh while looking into a soft-focus lens.

Such were his propensities–his abilities were quite as extraordinary. He could never learn or understand any thing before he was taught; and sometimes not even then, for he was often inattentive, and occasionally stupid, and therefore believed for his entire life that “one to the fourth power” was a very large number indeed.

His father wished him to learn physics; and James Kirk was sure he should like it, for he was very fond of using his grand father’s fertilizer to build small bombs, and knew that if he could only split atoms, his explosions would increase remarkably in size, without a similar increase in work on his part. Kirk studied physics for a year, and could not bear it;–and his father, who did not insist on his sons being educated in spite of distaste or extreme incapacity, allowed him to leave off.

Such was James T. Kirk at ten. At fifteen, appearances were mending; he began to comb his hair over and long for green-skinned women; his complexion improved, his features were softened by make-up artists, his eyes gained more animation (especially in the 1970’s), and his figure more consequence. His love of dirt gave way to an inclination for yellow shirts, and he grew clean (if not precisely smart). He had the pleasure of sometimes hearing his father and mother remark on his personal improvement. “Jim grows quite a good-looking boy,–he is almost intelligent today,” were words which caught his ears now and then; and how welcome were the sounds! To be almost intelligent, is an acquisition of higher delight to a boy who thinks one to the fourth power is a giant number, than Mr. Spock from his cradle (if he had one) can ever receive.

There you have it! My newest installment of Austen Trek. (To see earlier ones, click on the “Austen Trek” link at the bottom of this post!)

Now do please vote in the comments section: Do you want new installments of Austen Trek often? Or just occasionally? Or not at all? Or are you tempted to set fire to your computer just to make the pain stop?

Cara
Cara King, author of MY LADY GAMESTER and fan of both Austen and Trek

If Jane Austen wrote Star Trek, Part II:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a Vulcan in possession of green blood must be in want of a medical check-up.

“My dear Mr. Spock,” said Leonard “Bones” McCoy one day, “didn’t you hear me tell you a hundred times that you are overdue for your physical?”

Mr. Spock replied that he had not — that the doctor had merely told him 27.3 times.

“Mr. Spock, how can take my words so literally? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves.”

“You mistake me, Doctor McCoy. I have all the compassion your nerves merit. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration throughout our five-year mission.”

“Oh! You have no idea how you drive me crazy.”

“But I hope you will get over it, and continue to administer your folk-wisdom to the flawed humans on this ship who, for some unaccountable reason, actually seem to enjoy it.”

“Come, Spock,” said McCoy, “I must have your physical. I hate to see you standing about on the bridge when you’re off-duty in this stupid manner. You had much better come to sick bay.”

“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my nurse. On such a starship as this, it would be insupportable. Nurse Chapel is engaged, and there is not another nurse on the ship, whom it would not be a punishment to me to give blood to.”

“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried McCoy, “for all the gold-pressed latinum in the universe! Upon my honour, I never saw so many competent nurses in all my life, as I have in sick-bay; and there are several of them who are uncommonly capable.”

“Nurse Chapel is the only passable nurse on the ship,” said Mr. Spock.

“Oh! she is the most brilliant nurse I ever beheld! But I have another nurse sitting down in sick bay right now, doing nothing, who is very well-educated, and I dare say, very discreet. Do let me have her draw your blood.”

“Which do you mean?” and, arriving at sick bay, he looked for a moment at the nurse McCoy indicated, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, “She may be tolerable, but not experienced enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to nurses who are slighted by other patients. You had better let me return to the bridge, where I will enjoy staring into my viewfinder, for you are wasting your time with me.”

Cara
Cara King — award-winning author of
My Lady Gamester — these are the voyages of the card-player Atalanta

IF JANE AUSTEN WROTE STAR TREK . . .

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single Vulcan must be in want of a wife.

“Have you heard?” exclaimed Yeoman Rand, her terraced hair gleaming in the red LED light. “Our new science officer, Mr. Spock, is supposed to be ever so well off. Mr. Kyle says he owns half of Rigel Seven!”

“I do find,” said Nurse Chapel, “that Mr. Spock has a — an unusual way about him. And I confess, I find him a bit intriguing.”

“Please,” said Lieutenant Uhura. “He is merely a man.”

“Merely a man!” cried the blonde yeoman. “Indeed not! He is a Vulcan, and an exceedingly fine one at that!”

“Let me rephrase,” said Uhura. “He is merely a half-human, half-Vulcan man, albeit one with a fine mind. And if the captain hears you talking about your superior officer that way, it’s half-rations for you, Miss Rand.”

“Fo, what do I care for that?” cried Rand. “I’m on a diet anyway!”

Cara
Cara King — www.caraking.com
My Lady Gamester — going where no Regency has gone before

Tomorrow, I’m headed off to Worldcon — the 64th annual World Science Fiction Convention. There will be a couple thousand science fiction and fantasy authors, fans, illustrators, actors, and others there, including Connie Willis, Anne McCaffrey, Larry Niven, Garth Nix, and Madeleine E. Robins (author of the Regency-set Point of Honour and Petty Treason.) There will be Regency dancing, we’ll find out who won the Hugos this year (I got to vote!), and there will be panels with names ranging from “I’ll Pull Out Your Eyestalks and Stomp on Them” to “Should Californians be Farmers?” to “Writing While Holding Down a Day Job” to “The Slytherin Question.”

Something for everyone, in other words. So in the spirit of mixing up Regency dancing and quantum black holes, here’s a different kind of mix-up for you to play with. If Mr. Spock had to marry one of Jane Austen’s characters, and it was your job to choose the one who would make him the happiest (and he her, of course), who would you pick? Caroline Bingley, Elizabeth Bennet, Miss Tilney? Miss Bates? Someone else? The choice is yours!

Or, if you prefer, find the lady who will finally keep Captain Kirk from straying!

Who will it be? Fanny Price, Emma Woodhouse, Elinor Dashwood? Mary Crawford? Lucy Steele? Elizabeth Elliot? Mrs. Dashwood? Someone else? Who would finally keep the captain with the ripped shirt on the straight and narrow?

Who would enjoy traveling about to other planets? Anne Elliot, perhaps? Who wouldn’t mind sleeping on beds covered only by thin metallic blankets? Who would be easily able to deal with Klingons and Organians and the like? Who wouldn’t mind raising children who rarely get to see a blue sky, a dog, or natural fabrics?

All opinions welcome!

Cara
Cara King, winner of the Booksellers’s Best Award for
MY LADY GAMESTER