The Captain's Daughter

by Peter David

  SECTION FOUR

  PARENTHOOD

  Chapter Fifteen

  IT HELPED TO HAVE friends in the office of the Surgeon General in Starfleet, and those Leonard McCoy had in abundance. So when the rather curious "situation" arose, it was McCoy who was summoned in for a consult out of deference to his long-standing relationship with the … as it was delicately put … "person in question."

  He wished that Jim were around to handle this, but he was off doing that damned fool diving of his. Kirk had regaled him with tales of deep-sea explorations, wearing antiquated gear and a bathing suit rather than proper insulated suits with their built-in fail-safe oxygen supplies. "That's not really undersea diving," he'd sniffed. "You don't feel like you're part of the sea."

  "You'll become a permanent part of the sea if you're not careful," McCoy had grumbled at him. But he'd decided not to push it too much; the problem with Kirk was that he'd probably come up with something even more dangerous to do. That's the kind of guy he was: totally uncaring about personal safety. Under the impression that trivialities such as mortality applied to lesser beings.

  Hopefully that would change as soon as Kirk started the faculty assignment at Starfleet Academy. Even that, though, made McCoy apprehensive. There was only one place where Kirk would truly be happy, and that was in the command chair of a starship. But they'd been giving him the full treatment, Starfleet had. Emphasized all the experience he had to share. Convinced him that by teaching at the Academy, he could be improving Starfleet at its core.

  And he'd bought it. Blast him, he'd bought it. McCoy knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was going to cost Kirk in the long run. His body might have been on Earth, but his soul was in the stars. He would keep running faster and faster, looking for something that he didn't even know he was missing. And when he finally realized that whatever it was he was searching for was still gone—light-years away and forever beyond his reach—he would start to wither. Wither and die. McCoy could see it clear as anything, but Kirk—home and flush with triumph from his second five-year mission—had been blinded to it. Blinded by the success and accolades. And maybe, God help him, by the legend that was building around him. McCoy had no doubt that, sooner or later, Kirk would realize the hideous mistake. Realize what he'd gotten himself into because he'd believed his own press.

  "Damn his ego," he muttered.

  "Damn whose ego, Doc?"

  McCoy looked up and saw Mr. Sulu standing there, his arms folded across his chest.

  "No one's," replied McCoy.

  Sulu smiled. "Oh, come on now, Doc. You ask me to come meet you here at the Surgeon General's building … you're all mysterious about it … and now you won't even tell me what's on your mind?"

  "Oh, we'll … discuss it," said McCoy. "Uhm … sit down, Sulu. How are things going with you?"

  Sulu looked at McCoy appraisingly. It was clear he knew something was on the doctor's mind. How could he not, after all? McCoy had summoned him, with some degree of urgency, from Starfleet Headquarters, and obviously had some reason for doing so. But he also knew that McCoy wasn't the type to be rushed. He'd get to it in his own good time, so it was simplest to go along with McCoy at his own speed.

  "Things are going fine, Doc," Sulu said as he sank into the chair opposite McCoy. It wasn't McCoy's office, but merely one that he was borrowing. "Have you heard?"

  "Heard what?"

  "I've been offered the position of first officer aboard the Bozeman. Had a subspace meeting with Captain Bateson. He's," and he smiled slightly, "not exactly Captain Kirk. More the … cerebral type."

  "Funny. For some reason, I have trouble picturing you any place other than the helm of the Enterprise."

  "So do I. But let's face it, Doc. The newest Enterprise refit will take at least six to eight months … I've even heard as much as a year. Plus there's talk about this new Excelsior class that will make the Enterprise obsolete. I have as much loyalty to the Enterprise as the next man, Doc … but the writing's on the wall. Two, maybe three years tops, and she'll be retired, and I'll be … what? Three years older? Still at helm?" He shook his head. "I have to admit that Admiral's Kirk's decision to teach shook me a bit. At first I was a bit stunned. But then I thought, Well, with the sort of career he's had, he deserves it, right? He's entitled."

  McCoy said nothing.

  Sulu continued, "Somehow I was perfectly satisfied with the status quo as along as James Kirk was in that command chair. But if I'm going to be out there on my own, Doc, then it's about time I started working on my career, too. Sink or swim, as they say."

  "As they say." He paused. "Sulu, do you ever wish there was … something else? Something more, besides a career?"

  "Wish?" He shrugged. "I've … thought of it from time to time, of course. But this is who I am, Doctor. It's what I do. No use complaining about it now."

  McCoy shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Sulu looked at him a bit askance. "Doc …?" He let the prompt hang there in the air. "Doc … we've known each other for too long to be shy about things now. If there's something on your mind …"

  "You know," McCoy said, "no matter how many times I've had to deliver news like this, it doesn't get easier. Sulu … Susan Ling is dead."

  Sulu stared at him a moment and then said calmly, "I'm … sorry to hear that."

  McCoy looked surprised. "Don't take this wrong, but … I'd have expected even Spock to give more of a reaction than that."

  "More of a reaction?"

  "Yes! I tell you she's dead, you sit there cool as you please and just tell me you're sorry to hear it."

  Sulu was about to reply, then stopped, reconsidered, and started again. "Doc … there's something I'm missing here. I feel badly that this friend of yours is—"

  "Mine? I never …" He sighed in exasperation, then turned and said, "Computer—file on Susan Ling."

  A file appeared on the screen and McCoy swiveled it around for Sulu to see.

  Sulu stared at it … and went ashen.

  McCoy saw the instant change in Sulu's demeanor, and immediately realized the magnitude of his error. "Oh, God … you didn't know her real name, did you?"

  Sulu shook his head.

  "I'm sorry, Sulu."

  He stared at the image on the screen. Ling Sui, as he had known her, stared back at him with that slightly uncomfortable expression one always has when posing for some sort of official photograph. Words ran alongside the picture and he tried to read them, but they blurred together. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and sat back, trying to compose himself. "How?" he managed to ask.

  "Sakuro's disease. Apparently the symptoms first manifested while she was on Marris Three, and their facilities aren't exactly up to Federation standard. She managed to get to a starbase, but by then it was too late."

  Sulu looked down at his lap. "I … haven't seen her for years. Six … maybe seven years, I think."

  "Haven't thought about her since then?"

  He shook his head, and a small smile touched his lips. "Oh, I've … remembered her … from time to time. I'll tell you about it sometime … although it would help if you had a few drinks in you to make it believable. I wish …"

  McCoy raised an eyebrow. "What?"

  "I was just thinking that … Susan … was a remarkable woman. Being with her was like trying to snag light rays. And I sometimes wish I'd … I'd managed to have more of her than just a fleeting memory."

  "Well … you're always supposed to be careful of what you wish for, because you may get it."

  The comment jogged at Sulu's memory for a moment, and then he recalled. He shook his head slowly. "That's funny."

  "There's something funny about this?"

  "Well, only in that Chekov said exactly the same thing shortly before I met Susan."

  Then, slowly, a tumbler clicked over in Sulu's mind. He looked at McCoy with curiosity and said, "Doc … how did you know that I knew her?"

  McCoy sighed. "I was wondering when you'd ask. She didn't have a formal
will, precisely, but she did leave behind a document and you were named in it."

  "What, she left me something?"

  "Not something exactly …"

  There was a knock at the door, and a soft voice came from the other side. It was female, very young, with a slightly musical lilt to it. "Doctor? I'm lonely in the other room. Can I come in? Is he here yet?"

  Sulu and McCoy exchanged glances.

  And Sulu knew.

  Instantly.

  His voice was a hoarse whisper. "You can't be serious."

  McCoy nodded.

  "But …" Sulu felt as if he'd lost physical contact with the rest of his body. "But … we just … there was just that one time, in the desert …"

  "A lot about humans has changed over the millenia, but the fact that it only takes once isn't among them," McCoy said dryly. "Would you like to meet her?"

  Before Sulu could get out another word, the door slid open.

  She was wearing a carefully pressed blue dress. Her hands were interlaced in front of her, her fingernails delicately painted red. Her long black hair was drawn back in a ponytail. Her face …

  Her face looked like someone had taken Ling Sui's head, shrunk it to child size, and stuck it on a little girl's body.

  She studied Sulu carefully.

  "Are you my father?" she asked. Her English was carefully spoken and slightly accented. Sulu knew immediately that she was multilingual.

  Sulu looked to McCoy. McCoy nodded slowly. "First thing we did," he said softly. "Ran a test cross-matched against your gene files. There's no doubt."

  He turned back and stared at her. "It … appears so," he said in answer to her question. He was looking for something to say, something memorable, something that he could look back on years from now and marvel at its brilliance and pithiness.

  "And you are—?" he asked after a moment.

  It wasn't brilliant. It wasn't pithy. It wasn't even especially useful, because she simply stared at him.

  Not wanting to leave matters hanging, McCoy said, "Hikaru Sulu … this is Demora Ling. Or … Demora Sulu, if you …"

  "Get married?" asked Demora.

  Despite the fragility of the situation, McCoy was nonetheless amused. "I was going to say 'arrange an adoption.' But that's pretty much up to you. To both of you."

  Sulu felt as if he were reeling. It seemed all a hell of a lot to absorb at one time, and there was Demora simply staring at him with Ling Sui's eyes.

  "So … you'll be going off on another ship soon, right? The Bozeman?"

  Sulu nodded.

  "That sounds exciting. Have a good time."

  Slowly Sulu hunkered down until he was on eye level with her. "Honey," he said slowly, "I'm … look, I want you to be a big girl about this …"

  "You don't have to sound so patronizing," she informed him airily.

  "I'm … sorry. I didn't mean to. Demora … could you wait outside? I know you've been there for a while," he said upon seeing her face start to twist in exasperation. "Just a short while longer. And then we'll go …" For want of a better word, he said, "home."

  She seemed to be looking straight through to the back of his head. Then she nodded and stepped into the outside room, the doors hissing behind her.

  He remained in a crouched position, his back to McCoy. "It's … a lot to absorb. You understand, don't you?"

  "I wish there had been a smoother way to tell you." He paused. "What are you going to do?"

  "I don't know. Not yet. I just … need time to think." Slowly he straightened up.

  "I know this may sound like an odd thing to say at this time, Sulu, but …" McCoy stuck out a hand. "Congratulations. You're a father."

  "Thank you, Doctor." Sulu shook the hand. Then he started for the door, stopped, turned back to McCoy, and said once more, with unmistakable incredulity in his voice, "It was just the one time."

  "I hope it was worth it," said McCoy.

  "Actually … I barely remember it. I was half asleep," said Sulu, and he walked out the door.

  And McCoy shook his head and muttered to himself, "Well, it's pretty damned obvious which half was awake."

  Chapter Sixteen

  WHEN THE DOOR to Sulu's apartment slid open, Chekov found himself staring at a young Asian girl in a blue dress. Reflexively he glanced at the apartment number on the assumption that he was at the wrong place. But a quick check proved that he was where he was supposed to be.

  "Is Meester Sulu here?" he asked.

  She nodded but didn't step aside. "Who are you?"

  "Pavel Chekov. Who are you?"

  "Demora."

  "Demora, like the city?"

  "Just like."

  "Vell … most unusual. I am a friend of Sulu's. Are you?"

  She appeared to consider it. "The jury's still out on that, frankly."

  He was surprised by her apparent erudition. Then again, Chekov didn't have a great deal of experience with children, so he wasn't entirely certain what to expect.

  "May I come in?"

  She stepped aside, giving him room to enter.

  He'd always liked Sulu's apartment … not that Sulu had a great deal of time to spend there, what with being gone for years at a time. Furnished in dark browns, with real wood furniture (lord only knew where Sulu had acquired it). His antique weapons collection, ranging from swords to firearms, was secured behind plexi cabinets. Pictures or portraits of his various ancestors hung on the walls. Sulu was fairly big on families, and could trace his ancestry back centuries.

  "Vere is Sulu, do you know?"

  She chucked a finger. "In the kitchen. Making dinner."

  "I'll just go talk to him then."

  "Fine," said Demora with a shrug. She moved over to a couch and sank down into the cushion.

  Chekov found Sulu in the kitchen. "So … vat mysterious and exotic dish are you preparing?"

  Sulu was busy scooping something from a pot and pouring it over rolls. "Chili," he said. "It's what Demora wanted."

  "Ah, Demora. Your sentinel at the gate. Interesting little girl. She's … vat? Eleven? Twelve?"

  "Just turning seven."

  "She seems older."

  "Well, that's appropriate. I feel older."

  "So who is she? Niece?"

  "Daughter."

  "Whose daughter?"

  Sulu stared at him. "Mine."

  It was clear that Chekov was having trouble digesting the information. "I'm sorry … vat?"

  "She's my daughter."

  Chekov looked in the direction of the living room, where Demora was seated, and then back to Sulu. He looked stunned. "Your … daughter."

  "Yes."

  "Your daughter. Your daughter?"

  Sulu put the plates down, making no attempt to hide his impatience. He spoke in a low tone to keep their voices from reaching Demora. "Are we going to move past this sentence anytime soon?"

  "You have a daughter?" Chekov whispered. "And you never mentioned her to me?"

  "I didn't know! I didn't know until a few hours ago."

  "Do you know who the mother is?"

  "Of course I know who the mother is."

  "Oh, now you say 'Of course.' Considering you didn't know the child existed, the idea of you not knowing who the mother is doesn't seem all that farfetched."

  "It's Ling Sui. You remember her."

  "Of course I remember her. The woman from …" And then he thudded his hand against his forehead. "Of course. From Demora. I should have realized it vasn't simply coincidence." He hesitated. "So … so vat do you do now?"

  "I don't know," said Sulu in exasperation. "She has no other relatives but me. She's just lost her mother. She doesn't seem especially interested in me. And I'm scheduled to ship out with the Bozeman."

  "Does she know that?"

  "She knows it, yes."

  "Vell, perhaps the reason she's not especially interested is because she doesn't vant to make the emotional investment in someone who is leaving."

  Sulu transferred
the dishes onto a serving tray. "Since when are you the great child psychiatrist?"

  "Since ven are you a father?"

  Sulu sighed. "All right. Touché."

  As he started to head into the dining room, Chekov stopped him and said, "Uhm … you didn't mention to me at the time that you and Ling Sui …"

  "It was just once."

  "That's all it takes."

  "So I've heard," said Sulu.

  The meal didn't go precisely as planned.

  For one thing, Chekov didn't plan for himself and Demora to hit it off as well as they did. He had grown accustomed to thinking of children as odd, separate creatures, rather than simply small humans. Beings with their own rules and own manner of communication to which no adult could be privy.

  Demora was quite the opposite. She was, he suspected, very much her mother's daughter. She spoke with intelligence and education about a startling number of topics, ranging from archaeology to the present condition of Federation politics. Chekov found himself becoming quite fond of her during his visit, and he suspected that Demora felt likewise.

  Sulu, for his part, kept his own counsel. His gaze would dart from one to the other as they chatted. Chekov interacted with Demora with such ease that Sulu felt torn. On the one hand he was pleased that they were hitting it off so well. On the other hand … he was a little jealous.

  But he realized why it was that Chekov felt so at ease with her. It was because he was going to be able to leave. This was Sulu's problem, Sulu's situation, and Chekov was just a visitor to it. He could get to know Demora as a person, chat with her, laugh with her … and Sulu got to worry about what in hell he was going to do next.

  Chekov stayed late into the evening, regaling Demora with stories about his and Sulu's time together in the service. A couple of times Sulu tried to hush him up, but Chekov was not easy to stop. Each anecdote would remind him of another, and he'd say with growing excitement, "And then there vas the time …"