by Peter David
Harriman went down, his lip split, slightly dazed.
Now everyone was shouting, trying to pull Chekov away. He was unleashing a string of profanities in Russian.
"Pavel, calm down! This isn't helping!" Sulu was shouting.
But Harriman was back on his feet, and the world seemed to haze red in front of him. He felt as if the surface of Askalon V were crunching beneath him once more, and he drove forward and crashed into Chekov. Chekov met the charge and they shoved against each other even as people tried to pull them apart. They tore at each other's jackets, decorum forgotten, the solemnity of the moment forgotten. The only thing that mattered was doing something about the anger that both of them felt. Anger directed from Chekov at Harriman, and anger directed from Harriman at … himself.
"Stop it!" Sulu bellowed, coming between them, shoving them away from each other. "Do you think she would want this? Do you? Do you?!"
Chekov and Harriman glared at each other, chests heaving. They said nothing, for, indeed, what was there to say?They turned away from each other and walked away in opposite directions, leaving silence hanging over the assemblage.
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Chapter Fourteen
HARRIMAN SAT in his quarters aboard the Enterprise, studying his face in the mirror. The swelling had gone down somewhat, which was fortunate.
His door chime beeped. He wasn't especially in the mood to receive visitors; on the other hand, he didn't want anyone to accuse him of hiding in his stateroom. "Come," he called.
The door slid open and Harriman was literally stunned to see who'd entered.
It was a Starfleet admiral, square-shouldered, barrelchested, white hair trimmed in a buzz cut. He stood half a head taller than Harriman and the room seemed to expand to incorporate his presence.
"Admiral!" Harriman was immediately on his feet. "I wasn't expecting you! I'd have … have arranged for a detail to …"
The admiral made a dismissive wave. "No need to worry, son. Some people my age like to stand on ceremony, and others like to walk around it. Me, hell … I run around it." He stuck out a hand and Harriman shook it firmly. "How you feeling, son?"
Harriman sighed. "I won't lie; it's been rough, Father."
Admiral Blackjack Harriman nodded sympathetically. Technically speaking, he was John Harriman, Senior, making his son Junior. But he'd been called Jack for as long as he could remember, and Blackjack since his Academy days wherein his card playing skills became legendary.
"Glad you're not lying, son," said the admiral. "You never could lie to me, you know. Never."
"Sit down, sir, please."
Blackjack took his son's chin and turned his head this way and that. "Chekov really tore into you, didn't he," said Blackjack. "Starfleet's all abuzz about it. He didn't do himself much good with that little stunt."
"Well, I can't exactly say that I've done myself all that much good either," admitted Harriman.
Blackjack sighed, his meaty fingers resting on his lap. "Well, let's get the simple stuff out of the way. The main reason I'm here is that I'm going to be attending that reception on Donatti Two. Scientifically advanced society, good strategic location … and, as it so happens, their sovereign emperor is a nut about Earth card games." He winked broadly. "I'll try not to fleece him too badly, for the sake of interstellar harmony. In any event, I was going to be hitching a transport out there … but since you rerouted Enterprise here, Starfleet decided I might as well arrive in style. Seemed like the ideal opportunity to catch a lift from my only son."
"It's an honor to have you aboard, sir."
The admiral leaned forward, his face darkening. "Having a rough time of it, aren't you, son."
"You could say that, sir. I'm …" He sighed. "I'm afraid I'm being regarded as something of a jinx."
"Listen, son. There's something I want you to understand, and it goes no further than this room. Get it?"
Harriman nodded.
"Because," continued Blackjack, "I know Kirk had a lot of friends. And hell, I'll admit his accomplishments were not inconsiderable. But a good officer, John, he was not."
"But … this isn't about Kirk."
"Oh, yes it is," said Blackjack. "What happened to the girl is tragic, sure, but tragedies happen all the time. Yeah … you killed her. Guess what, son. Every time a commander ever sent troops into a situation, knowing that most of 'em wouldn't be coming back except in pieces, that commander was killing those people. They all had folks, and they all had friends, and they were all dead. And that's just the way of it, is all.
"But what's giving this thing its subtext is the Kirk connection. And I'm telling you right now—and I can say this as an admiral, not as your father—that you're ten times the officer Kirk ever was. Kirk was a cowboy, a troublemaker. Thought he owned the galaxy. Thought he had all the answers. Second-guessed regs all the time, did what he felt like doing and managed to come up smelling like a rose because he had admirers in the right places. That, and people who were willing to tolerate his activities as long as it didn't backfire. They gave him the rope, and maybe he tripped on it every now and then, but he never hung himself with it.
"And what's frightening to me as an officer in Starfleet is the notion that some young officers might see him as a role model. That's not what we need, Johnny. We need officers with smarts … and respect … and an awareness that Starfleet is a unit, and must function with that sort of respect for the order of things. You understand that. Kirk never understood it, and none of Kirk's officers ever understood it. That's why Commander Chekov vented his spleen. I'm just sorry you had to be the recipient of it."
"I'm sorry, too, sir."
Blackjack stood and clapped Harriman on the shoulder. "I'm gonna go grab some chow. Join me?"
Harriman shrugged and then nodded. "Whatever you say, sir. Wouldn't want to buck a senior officer."
"That's my boy!" laughed the admiral, and they headed down to the officers' lounge.
* * *
Chekov paced Sulu's apartment, holding a coldpak against his eye. Uhura was seated nearby and looking at him accusingly. At a table, Sulu was calmly pouring out tea.
"Do you have any idea what a fool you made of yourself?" Uhura demanded.
"I'd do it again," shot back Chekov.
"Oh, I see. Well, you're not a fool, then. You're a damned fool."
"I appreciate the wote of confidence."
"Appreciate this then, too," Uhura told him. "Whether you like it or not, Chekov, the fact is that Starfleet has reviewed the facts regarding Demora's death, taken depositions from the other crew members involved, and concluded that Captain Harriman acted properly."
"Oh, acted properly, yes. Paragon of wirtue, that one." He shook his head, removed the coldpak, and examined his face in a mirror. "He has the nerve to stand there and say he takes responsibility for vat happened. Takes responsibility how, precisely? Ven Keptin Kirk took responsibility for his actions, he brought us all back from Vulcan, stood before the Federation Council, took full culpability for all actions, and vas busted in rank. Harriman takes responsibility, and it's business as usual." He shook his head. "Vat a joke. Vat a sick joke." Then Chekov turned to Sulu. "Vat about you?"
"Me?" Sulu looked up at him calmly. "What about me?"
"I did it for you, too."
As always, Sulu's face remained impassive. "I don't recall asking you to take a swing …"
"Two swings," Uhura pointed out.
"Two swings at Captain Harriman."
"You didn't have to. I could tell."
"You could tell I wanted you, at my daughter's memorial service, to get into a fistfight with her commander?"
Chekov strode toward him and leaned forward on the table. "I could tell that you were angry. That you were furious. This man, this … 'keptin' … lost Keptin Kirk for us. Lost Demora for us. Lost her? Killed her! And you stood there and gave him absolution! That's vat he vanted, that's vat you gave him! As if vat he did was acceptable! And it vas not! Not to me! An
d it should not have been to you!"
And Sulu slammed his open palm on the table so hard that the tea service rattled. One of the cups overturned, spilling a thin trail of liquid down the center of the table.
"She was my daughter, Chekov. Your goddaughter, but my child. I will honor her in my own way. And let me tell you that trying to knock out her captain … whether we like him or not, whether we accept what he did or not … is not how I choose to respect her memory. Is that understood?"
"And how do you choose to respect it, then."
"None of your business."
Chekov and Uhura exchanged glances. Then Uhura slowly stepped forward and said, "Sulu … I don't think what Chekov did was any more right than you do. But … after everything we've been through together, now you claim something is none of our business. Sulu! I thought we were beyond that."
"Beyond a right to privacy? Beyond a right to deal with grief however we wish?" Sulu shook his head. "I don't think we ever move beyond that."
He rose and went to the window, leaning against the plexi. "I'll be returning to the Excelsior shortly. You each have assignments to get to. I'd recommend you get to them."
Uhura and Chekov exchanged glances. "Aren't you … aren't you going to the ceremony?" asked Uhura.
"You mean hurling her ashes into the sun?" Sulu said evenly.
"Of course."
Sulu shrugged. "It's pointless. She's not going to know or care. She's gone, Uhura. She's gone. Those ashes in that urn aren't her, any more than the urn itself is. We say we're doing it to honor her wishes, but it's … it's nonsense. Her wish would have been to live. That's all. To live. And since we couldn't honor that wish, what does any of the rest of it matter? Ceremonies like that, they're for the living, not the dead. They're for survivors to find a way that they can … let go … of the departed. Well, I let go in my own way. And my way doesn't include standing there in maudlin assemblage while a corpse's ashes …"
Uhura slapped him.
She did it even before she'd realized her hand was in motion. She gasped as she did so, as if she'd been the one who'd been struck.
Sulu stood there, his cheek flushed red from the impact.
With the slightest hint of amusement, he said, "And you were chewing out Chekov."
Uhura folded her hands and looked down. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I'm sorry because I know that you're not … not acting like yourself. I know you too well to believe that you're this … this dispassionate. You're simply … I don't know … unwilling to accept what's happened. Or unable. Whatever the reason, you're simply not dealing with it. So you're shutting us out. Shutting out emotion, as if you were Spock."
"He has been on my mind recently, yes," Sulu admitted. "And Captain Kirk, as well."
"Don't you see, then?" She took him by the arms, as if she could squeeze emotion into him. "Don't you see what's happening? We've reached an age, Sulu, where it starts to feel like all we're going to experience from here on in is death. We're going to make no more new friends, bond with no more loved ones. Instead we're just going to watch old friends and lovers die, one by one. But we can't just shut down, just disconnect as you're doing. You'll die inside if you do, be less of a human being. . . ."
Sulu met her gaze and, just for a moment, she thought she saw something stirring in his eyes. But then he seemed to just fade away from her once more, and he replied, "I appreciate the sentiment, Uhura. I do. And I'm going to be fine. Truly."
There was a sharp beep from his personal computer station. "That's probably a call I've been waiting for," said Sulu. "If both of you don't mind, I'd … like to be alone now. Gather my thoughts. That sort of thing."
Chekov and Uhura nodded in what they hoped was understanding. Sulu moved with them to the door, accepting their muttered condolences once more, nodding in acquiescence to their offers of emotional support. They would both be there for him, that they made quite clear, and he acknowledged it and expressed all the requisite gratitude for their sentiments.
The moment they were out the door, Sulu pivoted and headed back for the computer station. If Chekov or Uhura had still been watching, they would have noticed a subtle but significant change in Sulu's manner. Sharper, decisive, the almost suffocating lethargy lifted from him like the removal of a shroud.
The screen blinked on and there was the image of Admiral LaVelle. LaVelle had a round face, with dark curly hair tinged with gray. "Captain," she said without preamble, her voice echoing a faint Southern drawl, "first allow me to extend condolences once more, both for myself and behalf of Starfleet, on your loss."
"Appreciated, Admiral."
"Regarding your inquiry as to the status of Askalon Five, site of your daughter's death"—LaVelle was clearly glancing at another screen off to the side—"Captain Harriman has quarantined it. You know the regs regarding a quarantine once it's been set in place."
"Yes, ma'am. Quarantine cannot be lifted, nor any contact made with the planet, until a quarantine team has been sent in to discover the source of infection, dispatch it if possible, and then observe the planet for one month to make certain that no sign of the reason for the quarantine remains."
"You know this, then."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Yet you request permission for the Excelsior to go to Askalon Five. You've already put this request in to Admiral Paul over in the quarantine division and, when she said no, you had the request pushed up to me."
"That is correct, ma'am."
LaVelle smiled sympathetically. "Captain … I appreciate your concerns … but regulations were put into place specifically for this sort of situation. A situation where our emotional impulses might prompt us to take some sort of action that could have serious repercussions. At the time when we most want to get around or ignore regulations is the moment when we must, most faithfully, adhere to them. You understand that, correct?"
"Absolutely, Admiral." He nodded respectfully. "I was simply proceeding up the chain of command in pursuing a query."
"And that is perfectly acceptable. But the query will end here. We understand that, Captain Sulu?"
"Yes, ma'am, we do. A question, though. At what point will a quarantine team be dispatched to make its initial inquiries?"
"I thought you might ask that. At the moment, Captain, our resources are somewhat stretched. The collapse of the Klingon Empire has strained the Federation's capabilities. We're dealing with situations that have greater immediacy than that of Askalon Five. We can't pull a team off Cygnus Three, for example, where a virus is ravaging an entire colony, to investigate where there are no inhabitants. We're trying to prevent people dying, Captain, and shifting a team to see what the problem is on Askalon Five will not bring back your daughter, and may even cost lives if the time could have been better spent elsewhere."
"I appreciate and understand all that, Admiral," Sulu said evenly. "I simply wish to have a projected date."
LaVelle let out a sigh and once again checked a screen that Sulu couldn't see. "Eight … nine months, perhaps. Could be a little sooner, I imagine. Could also be considerably later. We do the best we can, Captain."
"Yes, ma'am. We all do."
"Good. Now … have you been apprised of the situation on Centrelis?"
"Yes, Admiral. Newly admitted to the Federation, and just beyond the outskirts of Tholian space …"
"Correct, and the Tholian assembly is claiming that the planet's orbit brings it into Tholian space thirty percent of the Centrelian year … and therefore is making noise that the Centrelians should turn over thirty percent of the planet's resources. We're endeavoring to handle it through diplomatic channels, but the diplomats have requested the presence of a starship as backup."
"The theory being that it will cut down on Tholian saber-rattling."
"Exactly. You, Captain, have the most experience with the Tholians. So you're elected to handle this."
"'Elected.' You make it sound like a democracy, Admiral."
"That we most definitely are
not. You will proceed to Centrelis with all due haste and stay on-station there until the situation is resolved. Good luck in your mission, Captain. And again … my condolences."
"Thank you, Admiral," said Sulu.
The screen blinked out.
Sulu stared for a long time at the computer. Then he leaned forward and said, "Computer … prepare to record a message."
"Ready," said the computer.
He steepled his fingers for a moment, and then he began to speak.
"By the time you receive this," he said, "I may very well have thrown away my captaincy. For all I know, I may even be dead."
And he continued. As he did so, his gaze settled on a small holopicture that sat on the desk just to the right of the screen.
It was one of those special ones called a Lifeshot. Taken over a series of years, the Lifeshot took the subject at the youngest age photographed, and merged it sequentially with the next shot and the next and so on. The simple routine on the Lifeshot's computer created a tasteful wardrobe, clothing the image. The morphing program did the rest.
The result was that the Lifeshot gave a visual progression of the subject, at varying speeds depending upon the viewer's preference.
Sulu watched the Lifeshot, ranging from Demora's smiling six-year-old face to the final shot that had been taken of her when she was about twenty. He'd taken her regularly every year until the point where he'd assumed command of the Excelsior. He'd asked her to keep up with it while he was gone, but she'd hemmed and hawed and finally told him that she just didn't want to anymore. He hadn't argued with her because, frankly, arguing with Demora could often be a losing proposition. Once she'd made her mind up, that was pretty much that.
The transition on the Lifeshot took about a minute. Sulu sat there and watched her grow from child to blossoming adolescence, and from there to a young woman … nine inches high, to be sure, but there was nothing diminutive about the memories or the feelings.
He was surprised how steady his voice was as he recorded. It really shouldn't have been surprising, because he really wasn't giving much thought to what he was saying. His thoughts, his emotions … his soul, he realized … were a million miles away. Or, to be more specific … thirteen years ago. . . .