CAPTAIN HIKARU SULU woke up trembling and covered with sweat.
"Demora," he murmured.
He sat in the darkened quarters for a moment, and then said, "Lights." They came on in prompt response.
He felt an absurd sense of relief. He was, naturally, still within the confines of the Excelsior. No reason he wouldn't be; that was, after all, where he'd gone to sleep at the end of his shift.
But for a moment it had all seemed so real.
Demora had been dead.
The dream could not have been any more clear, or any more frightening. She had been lying there, unmoving, on the surface of a dark and frightening world. Phaser burns covered her broken body. And Sulu had been there, shouting her name, unable to make himself heard over the steady roar of the wind. It had seemed to blow the name back into his face.
He had tried to reach her, to get to her somehow so that he could help her. But he'd been unable to move. Indeed, he had seemed intangible, incapable of physically interacting with the world in any way. So he'd stood there, an impotent and frustrated ghost, shaking fists that no one could see and shouting names with a voice no one could hear. He was so close to her, so close, and yet unable to help her.
"Demora," he said again. He checked the time and discovered that he had awoken an hour before he was supposed to. He tried lying back down, but it did him no good. He simply lay there and stared at the ceiling until he couldn't stand it anymore and roused himself out of bed.
As he showered and dressed, he thought of Demora. He also thought of the dream about her. He'd read any number of cases wherein a relative—mother, father, sibling—had a sort of psychic "flash" at a time of a loved one's crisis. It didn't matter how much distance separated the two. There was somehow, in some way, a connection that no one really professed to be able to understand. It happened without rhyme or reason. Many people who reported such instances made no claim to psychic ability. They'd had no similar experiences before, and could go (and probably happily would go) the rest of their lives without having such a thing recur.
Some scientists tended to dismiss such notions out of hand. There were some, though, who gave it credence and greater study. It was their position that the human mind was capable of far more than it was generally given credit for.
Demora, he thought again, and he did not like one bit the tremendous discomfiture he was feeling every time Demora's name crossed his mind now.
He had hardly been in touch with her since her assignment to the Enterprise. Something had happened between the two of them, and he wasn't entirely sure of what it was. Ever since she had gotten into Starfleet Academy there had been a change in her. She was still polite to him. That much was unfailing. But it had come across as very … formal, somehow. The warmth wasn't quite there the way it used to be. Or at least so he thought.
"Velcome to reality," Chekov had said to him. Chekov and Sulu had spoken of it, right around the time that Sulu had been given command of the Excelsior.
"What are you talking about?" Sulu had asked.
"Eesn't it obvious? A child always rejects her father. All part of growing up, Meester Sulu."
Sulu had smiled in amusement. "The wifeless, childless Pavel Chekov is the world expert on what children do and don't do, eh?"
"Of course I am the expert," Chekov had said sagely. "Only an expert in children vould be intelligent enough not to have any."
"Well, that's tough to argue with, I suppose. Although that is an alarming attitude for my daughter's godparent to have."
Chekov had shrugged and then gestured expansively. "Vat can I say?"
Sulu had been unwilling to accept Chekov's easy answer, in any event. Sulu had never "rejected" either of his parents, and he had done just fine… .
Demora …
His mind had drifted, and was once more pulled back to his feeling of unease. If he tried to contact her on the Enterprise out of the blue, what would he say? "Honey, I dreamed you were dead; how are you doing?" That wouldn't sound particularly good.
Besides which, they were probably nowhere near enough to the Enterprise to have a real-time conversation anyway. He'd probably have to settle for a letter. Yes. That was definitely the way to go. A letter.
He sat down at his workstation and said, "Activate messaging service."
"Service activated," the computer informed him.
"To Demora Sulu. Ensign, helmswoman"—the latter he added somewhat unnecessarily, but with distinct pride—"U.S.S. Enterprise. Demora …"
He stopped a moment, unsure of what to say, and came to the surprising realization that he'd never composed a letter to her that was merely for the purpose of chatting.
Oh, he'd sent communications to her, of course. Many a time, in fact. But there was always a specific reason for it that was based in conveying information: promotions, extended stays, unexpected events that could have an effect on her. That sort of thing. For all his hobbies, for all his interests, simple "Hi, how are you" gabbing over subspace was not something in which he indulged.
Which was why he was struggling now. The "information" to be conveyed was that he'd had a bad dream about her. But he couldn't call her and tell her that, because either he'd make himself look foolish or else he'd worry her needlessly. Needlessly because he didn't really think anything was going to happen to her. He was just trying to quell his admittedly irrational concerns.
Left to her own devices, Demora might very well get around to contacting him on her own. Then again, she had acquired Sulu's knack for being unable to turn out anything except the most perfunctory of missives. Unless something genuinely major happened to her, it might be ages before he heard from her. The only way to speed up the process was to write to her himself.
And maybe it was about time he did that.
"Waiting," prompted the computer, just in case Sulu had forgotten he'd left the function on.
Sulu looked into the screen, trying to appear relaxed, since it was a video message and his image was naturally going to be recorded. "Honey … I'm just writing to say hi," he started, using the term "writing" in its traditional sense—as so many still did—even though he was, of course, not really writing anything. "I was thinking about you … thinking about all the things you're experiencing and …"
Might as well be blindingly obvious about it.
"… I'd like to hear from you. Things that seem trivial to you will very likely be interesting to me. Think of it as me being selfish, wanting to see early days aboard the Enterprise through your eyes so that I can relive my own early career just a little. As I said, selfish. I hope you can forgive me the indulgence. Of course, since I outrank you, I can order you to forgive me." He flashed a smile and hoped that the joke seemed remotely funny. Ah, well … if it didn't, well, to paraphrase Leonard McCoy, he was a captain, not a comedian.
"I hope all is well, and that you'll inform me soon of how things are going. Very truly yours … your father." The closing line seemed a bit hokey, considering that she would have to be both deaf and blind not to know who was sending her the letter. But it was traditional, and besides, there was something about the way the words "your father" rolled off his tongue.
"Computer, end transmission and send."
"Sending."
Sulu nodded with satisfaction. It was on its way. Now it would just be a matter of time before he received a response from Demora. It would be one of her usual pleasant, straightforward letters, perhaps with a touch of mild surprise that her father had initiated the contact. But why shouldn't he have done so? He was her father, after all. They weren't estranged. Sure, there was that distant way she acted sometimes, but hell, she had a lot on her mind. Starfleet Academy, as Sulu well knew, was enough to change anyone's behavior patterns. Why should Demora be any exception?
She'd respond, the sheer normality of her reply helping to ground him once more. And that would be that.
He headed for the door of his quarters, only to discover Lieutenant Commander Janice Rand, the communications officer, standing outside his door about to push the door chime.
"Janice," he said, somewhat in surprise. "Is something wrong?" It was a natural question to ask. As far back as the two of them went, nevertheless it was unusual for Rand to simply drop by, particularly at such an early hour.
She looked down. "Captain …"
"Captain?" He made no effort to hide his amusement.
"Getting somewhat formal on me, aren't you, Jan—"
Then his voice trailed off because he knew, he knew.
He backed up, his legs suddenly feeling weak, and when he bumped into a chair it took no effort at all to release the muscles in them so that he dropped heavily into it.
"Demora," he said.
Rand blinked in surprise. But her wonder vanished immediately as the gravity of the situation reasserted itself. "Yes" was all she could bring herself to say.
There was a long moment of silence. Then, sounding about a thousand years older, he said, "How?"
She paused a moment.
"How?" he asked again. "In combat? An accident? Ambush? What?" It was amazing—truthfully, he himself was amazed—how calm and even he was keeping his voice. Actually, it took no effort. He was simply numb.
She looked down, and could barely get out the words: "Friendly fire."
It was a term that had survived centuries. Terms that have such remarkably self-contradictory perversity often do.
All the color drained from his face. "What?" he said, the word thudding from him. "One of the crew shot her?"
"Captain … maybe you should just read the report. . . ."
He looked at her oddly. "The report … would have been marked 'Personal.' You read something directed to me that was indicated to be personal."
She looked down guiltily. "Yes, sir. It was from the Enterprise … but from the chief medical officer. I … put two and two together. I am aware that my actions could be considered cause for severe penalties … even court-martial, if you choose to pursue it …"
"Oh, be quiet, Janice," he said, but there was no heat in his voice. Indeed, just for a moment, he sounded like the Sulu of old. The one who, back when she was a yeoman and he was a helmsman, she would bring sandwiches to while he messed around with whatever his latest hobby might be. Back when they were both young, and the galaxy was an infinity of possibilities.
And in the spirit of those long-gone days, the ranks fell away for a moment. She stomped her foot in irritation. "Well, dammit, Sulu, what did you expect me to do? I mean, this message comes in, and I can pretty much guess what it says. And I'm supposed to just forward it down to you without comment?"
He walked to her and rested a hand on her shoulder. "If you wanted me to read the report, you'd simply have sent it down to me. Obviously you wanted to cushion the … the blow." And now it was an effort to keep his voice level, the initial numbness having worn off. "I can handle it. Tell me."
"It's … I don't pretend to understand it, sir. It …" She gathered her strength and then it all came out in a rush. "The report is that she began attacking other crewmen while on a landing party. Assaulted the science officer, nearly killed the captain. He was compelled to shoot and ki … to use terminal force against her."
He stared at her as if she'd grown antenna. "The … captain shot her? Are you serious?"
"Yes, sir. The report was very specific."
Sulu looked as if he'd been sucker-punched. "And … and what caused it? Caused her to attack her own people?"
"They don't know. They haven't been able to determine any …"
"There must be an answer," Sulu said, his efforts to rein in his frustration stretched to their limits, "It's insane. Demora wouldn't just … something must have caused it. Some virus, some animal that bit her … something. What sort of subsequent investigations is Harriman performing?"
"Reading between the lines: None. The CMO made mention that the planet's been placed under quarantine. No one in or out."
"That's a reasonable precaution," he admitted slowly. "But my daughter's life ended there. I see no reason that the investigation should end as well. Are we close enough to Enterprise for a direct subspace link?"
"No, sir."
He nodded. "That's … probably fortunate. I don't think I'd … trust myself to speak with Harriman right now. I need time to … deal with this, so that I can act in an appropriate manner."
"Meaning a manner more appropriate to the decorum of a Starfleet captain than to a grieving father."
Rand took a step toward him and said softly, "I know how you feel."
"I know. No one knows better than me how close you and Demora …"
"It's not just that. I mean, that's part of it, sure. But …" She looked down. "There's something I never told you."
He looked at her, waiting. He didn't feel like he had the strength to say anything.
With a sigh that sounded heavy with exhaustion, Rand said, "It was years ago. Years and years. Didn't you wonder why I took a leave of absence from Starfleet for a time?"
"Your record cited personal reasons. I never felt it was my business to ask."
"Yes, well … that was the personal reason. Her name was Annie. She lived until the ripe old age of two, and then she got sick and died. Because for all our medical knowledge, sometimes people—even young people, even very young people—still die. And after she was gone, I was at loose ends for a time before I was able to bring myself to return to Starfleet. End of my life as a mother."
He put a hand on hers. "Janice … I'm so sorry. . . ."
"This is not the time for you to be comforting me. I just … I wanted you to know how much I feel for you."
"Do you still think about her?"
Rand smiled thinly. "Only on days ending in the letter y."
Sulu stared straight ahead. Rand reached over and touched his back. Every muscle under his jacket was knotted. It was like touching rock. There seemed to be nothing more to say, so she headed for the door.
"Rand …"
She stopped, turned, and looked at him questioningly.
"The father," Sulu asked. "Do you mind my asking … who it was."
She sighed. "It doesn't matter," she said. "He's dead now, too."
"Did you ever tell him?"
"I didn't want to risk sidetracking his career. You see … I suspected that he was headed for a great destiny, and I didn't want to do anything to distract him from it."
"And did he fulfill his great destiny, Janice?"
With a sad look she said, "We all do, Sulu. We all do." And she walked out of his quarters.
Sulu sat there for quite some time. He waited for the tears to come … but none did. There was a slight stinging in his eyes, but overall it was like the sensation of a sneeze that's puttering around one's nose but doesn't quite escape.
He was still numb. That was it. Still overcome by the shock.
Demora was dead. His little girl, whom he had known for so brief a time, was gone. Never to laugh with him or at him again, or to puncture any of his pretensions with her musical laugh or her mischievous wit.
Never again to look into Demora's face, or into her eyes, and see her staring back at him.
Her … Demora's mother.
The lunatic. The madwoman. The exotic nut, straight out of those old adventure stories that Sulu had read when he was so young, a lifetime ago …
You know the old Russian saying … be care—
Sulu shook it off. He didn't want to think about those times now. Didn't want to dredge up the old memories of that period in his life. Of that insane time, with her, and the mysterious enemies, dangerous cities with threats hiding within every shadow, a roller-coaster ride which, for all that he had experienced in his very full life, remained for him the pinnacle of loopy, non-sequitur bizarreness …
And the tears still weren't coming.
He wanted that release. Wanted to get the anger and rage and hurt out of his system, but it wouldn't go. What the hell was the matter with him? Had he become so closed up, so out of touch with his emotions, that he couldn't even properly grieve his daughter?
Or was it that with this loss, coming so hard on the heels of the demise of James Kirk, had simply overloaded him. Robbed him of his ability to deal with any more grief.
He thought of Demora, and he thought of Ling … and couldn't deal with thinking of either of them.
He informed the bridge that he would be indisposed for a short time and would be late in arrival. And then he lay back on his bed and, even though he had just awoken from a full night's sleep … he closed his eyes.
The words echoed once more … You know the old Russian saying … be careful vat you vish for …
… and then, mercifully, the darkness claimed him before the memories could return.
Word spread quickly through the Excelsior, as such things are wont to do. Rand never did find out the origin of the news; she sure knew they hadn't heard it from her. Regardless, within hours of Rand's talk with Sulu, it seemed that every crew member from the newest ensign to the oldest hand knew of Sulu's loss. And, of course, Sulu knew that they knew. It was clear from the deference paid above and beyond that which he normally received in his day-to-day life as captain of the Excelsior. Crewmen would greet him in low, respectful tones, and a number of them had trouble making eye contact. It wasn't just the death of Demora, although that was certainly odd enough. It was the bizarre circumstances surrounding it.
Sulu walked out on the bridge. The bridge was never filled with bustling, idle chatter even under normal circumstances. But this time it was silent as …
As the grave, thought Sulu.
Sulu's first officer—a Maternian named Anik—was newly assigned to the Excelsior. Anik was tall and thin, almost ethereal-looking, with skin so thin that one could see blood flowing against the surface. Normally, when Sulu was off the bridge, Anik would have been seated in the command chair. But today she felt a certain reluctance. As if it would somehow be disrespectful, although she couldn't exactly articulate why.
He stepped out of the turbolift, and he could feel the difference in the atmosphere. Everyone was looking at him and, by the same token, trying to look away.
Opting to take the initiative, Anik stepped forward and said, in her accented English, "Captain, the crew wishes to extend to you its condolences for the loss of your daughter."
He stood there for a moment, his hands draped behind his back. His voice sounded especially gravelly as he said, "I appreciate that. I appreciate the support from all of you. Some further news of interest to all of you, I'm sure: We'll all be going home. Our current heading brings us close enough to Earth so that the readjustment in our schedule is minor. So crew members who have friends or family on Earth will have the opportunity to visit."
"That being the case, sir," said Anik, "I would anticipate a considerable portion of the crew asking about the appropriateness or desirability of attending the funeral services."
Sulu gave it a moment's thought with furrowed brow, and then shook his head. "If any of them happened to know Demora personally, then attending is, of course, their prerogative. But if anyone feels obliged purely out of deference to me … by all means, they should not. What they should do is go and spend some time with the people they love. I certainly think Demora would have far preferred that."
"Yes, sir," said Anik, and there were nods of understanding from around the bridge as well.
Sulu had been standing with his hands resting lightly on the back of his command chair. Now he moved around to the front and lowered himself into it.
It was all in his imagination, he was sure, but all at once he felt his age … and older. He could swear his knees audibly creaked, and there was a pulling sensation in his thigh. His body mass seemed to have tripled, and it was all he could do to keep his head up.
"Captain?"
He suddenly realized that Anik was standing directly in front of him. Why was she doing that? Why had she walked around to be in front of him that way?
"Yes, Commander?"
Anik tilted her head slightly in that curious manner of hers. "We're … awaiting your orders, sir."
"Oh. Of course." He let out an unsteady sigh. "Set course for Earth."
"Course plotted and laid in, sir."
"Take us home, then."
He stared at the screen, not really registering the shift in the star patterns that indicated the great ship was coming around. Instead he was watching in wonderment as the screen seemed to waver and then blank out. Moments later another image appeared on it.
It was a town. A town that Sulu had not seen for many, many years.
By any definition, it was primitive … which was its entire charm.
It was the last place that Sulu wanted to think of. For a moment he thought he was losing his mind, because, of course, it couldn't possibly be that the town was there on the screen.
He realized at that point just how badly he had slept, as if tossing and turning in premonition of things to come. He should just get off the bridge, get the hell off.
But he didn't want to just up and bolt. Go hide in his room like some upset child. He was the captain of the Excelsior. He could deal with this.
To hell with it. He was not afraid of his memories. He was not afraid of thinking about the things he had done. It was many years since he hadn't dwelt on that wild, insane, deliriously dangerous week … and yet, in odd contradiction, it had never really been far from his thoughts.
And he had no regrets. No regrets over what had happened a little over twenty years ago. (Twenty years ago! Could it have been that long? An eyeblink it had been, certainly.)
No regrets. None at all.
Well …
… maybe except for his deciding to listen to Chekov
"Demora," he murmured.
He sat in the darkened quarters for a moment, and then said, "Lights." They came on in prompt response.
He felt an absurd sense of relief. He was, naturally, still within the confines of the Excelsior. No reason he wouldn't be; that was, after all, where he'd gone to sleep at the end of his shift.
But for a moment it had all seemed so real.
Demora had been dead.
The dream could not have been any more clear, or any more frightening. She had been lying there, unmoving, on the surface of a dark and frightening world. Phaser burns covered her broken body. And Sulu had been there, shouting her name, unable to make himself heard over the steady roar of the wind. It had seemed to blow the name back into his face.
He had tried to reach her, to get to her somehow so that he could help her. But he'd been unable to move. Indeed, he had seemed intangible, incapable of physically interacting with the world in any way. So he'd stood there, an impotent and frustrated ghost, shaking fists that no one could see and shouting names with a voice no one could hear. He was so close to her, so close, and yet unable to help her.
"Demora," he said again. He checked the time and discovered that he had awoken an hour before he was supposed to. He tried lying back down, but it did him no good. He simply lay there and stared at the ceiling until he couldn't stand it anymore and roused himself out of bed.
As he showered and dressed, he thought of Demora. He also thought of the dream about her. He'd read any number of cases wherein a relative—mother, father, sibling—had a sort of psychic "flash" at a time of a loved one's crisis. It didn't matter how much distance separated the two. There was somehow, in some way, a connection that no one really professed to be able to understand. It happened without rhyme or reason. Many people who reported such instances made no claim to psychic ability. They'd had no similar experiences before, and could go (and probably happily would go) the rest of their lives without having such a thing recur.
Some scientists tended to dismiss such notions out of hand. There were some, though, who gave it credence and greater study. It was their position that the human mind was capable of far more than it was generally given credit for.
Demora, he thought again, and he did not like one bit the tremendous discomfiture he was feeling every time Demora's name crossed his mind now.
He had hardly been in touch with her since her assignment to the Enterprise. Something had happened between the two of them, and he wasn't entirely sure of what it was. Ever since she had gotten into Starfleet Academy there had been a change in her. She was still polite to him. That much was unfailing. But it had come across as very … formal, somehow. The warmth wasn't quite there the way it used to be. Or at least so he thought.
"Velcome to reality," Chekov had said to him. Chekov and Sulu had spoken of it, right around the time that Sulu had been given command of the Excelsior.
"What are you talking about?" Sulu had asked.
"Eesn't it obvious? A child always rejects her father. All part of growing up, Meester Sulu."
Sulu had smiled in amusement. "The wifeless, childless Pavel Chekov is the world expert on what children do and don't do, eh?"
"Of course I am the expert," Chekov had said sagely. "Only an expert in children vould be intelligent enough not to have any."
"Well, that's tough to argue with, I suppose. Although that is an alarming attitude for my daughter's godparent to have."
Chekov had shrugged and then gestured expansively. "Vat can I say?"
Sulu had been unwilling to accept Chekov's easy answer, in any event. Sulu had never "rejected" either of his parents, and he had done just fine… .
Demora …
His mind had drifted, and was once more pulled back to his feeling of unease. If he tried to contact her on the Enterprise out of the blue, what would he say? "Honey, I dreamed you were dead; how are you doing?" That wouldn't sound particularly good.
Besides which, they were probably nowhere near enough to the Enterprise to have a real-time conversation anyway. He'd probably have to settle for a letter. Yes. That was definitely the way to go. A letter.
He sat down at his workstation and said, "Activate messaging service."
"Service activated," the computer informed him.
"To Demora Sulu. Ensign, helmswoman"—the latter he added somewhat unnecessarily, but with distinct pride—"U.S.S. Enterprise. Demora …"
He stopped a moment, unsure of what to say, and came to the surprising realization that he'd never composed a letter to her that was merely for the purpose of chatting.
Oh, he'd sent communications to her, of course. Many a time, in fact. But there was always a specific reason for it that was based in conveying information: promotions, extended stays, unexpected events that could have an effect on her. That sort of thing. For all his hobbies, for all his interests, simple "Hi, how are you" gabbing over subspace was not something in which he indulged.
Which was why he was struggling now. The "information" to be conveyed was that he'd had a bad dream about her. But he couldn't call her and tell her that, because either he'd make himself look foolish or else he'd worry her needlessly. Needlessly because he didn't really think anything was going to happen to her. He was just trying to quell his admittedly irrational concerns.
Left to her own devices, Demora might very well get around to contacting him on her own. Then again, she had acquired Sulu's knack for being unable to turn out anything except the most perfunctory of missives. Unless something genuinely major happened to her, it might be ages before he heard from her. The only way to speed up the process was to write to her himself.
And maybe it was about time he did that.
"Waiting," prompted the computer, just in case Sulu had forgotten he'd left the function on.
Sulu looked into the screen, trying to appear relaxed, since it was a video message and his image was naturally going to be recorded. "Honey … I'm just writing to say hi," he started, using the term "writing" in its traditional sense—as so many still did—even though he was, of course, not really writing anything. "I was thinking about you … thinking about all the things you're experiencing and …"
Might as well be blindingly obvious about it.
"… I'd like to hear from you. Things that seem trivial to you will very likely be interesting to me. Think of it as me being selfish, wanting to see early days aboard the Enterprise through your eyes so that I can relive my own early career just a little. As I said, selfish. I hope you can forgive me the indulgence. Of course, since I outrank you, I can order you to forgive me." He flashed a smile and hoped that the joke seemed remotely funny. Ah, well … if it didn't, well, to paraphrase Leonard McCoy, he was a captain, not a comedian.
"I hope all is well, and that you'll inform me soon of how things are going. Very truly yours … your father." The closing line seemed a bit hokey, considering that she would have to be both deaf and blind not to know who was sending her the letter. But it was traditional, and besides, there was something about the way the words "your father" rolled off his tongue.
"Computer, end transmission and send."
"Sending."
Sulu nodded with satisfaction. It was on its way. Now it would just be a matter of time before he received a response from Demora. It would be one of her usual pleasant, straightforward letters, perhaps with a touch of mild surprise that her father had initiated the contact. But why shouldn't he have done so? He was her father, after all. They weren't estranged. Sure, there was that distant way she acted sometimes, but hell, she had a lot on her mind. Starfleet Academy, as Sulu well knew, was enough to change anyone's behavior patterns. Why should Demora be any exception?
She'd respond, the sheer normality of her reply helping to ground him once more. And that would be that.
He headed for the door of his quarters, only to discover Lieutenant Commander Janice Rand, the communications officer, standing outside his door about to push the door chime.
"Janice," he said, somewhat in surprise. "Is something wrong?" It was a natural question to ask. As far back as the two of them went, nevertheless it was unusual for Rand to simply drop by, particularly at such an early hour.
She looked down. "Captain …"
"Captain?" He made no effort to hide his amusement.
"Getting somewhat formal on me, aren't you, Jan—"
Then his voice trailed off because he knew, he knew.
He backed up, his legs suddenly feeling weak, and when he bumped into a chair it took no effort at all to release the muscles in them so that he dropped heavily into it.
"Demora," he said.
Rand blinked in surprise. But her wonder vanished immediately as the gravity of the situation reasserted itself. "Yes" was all she could bring herself to say.
There was a long moment of silence. Then, sounding about a thousand years older, he said, "How?"
She paused a moment.
"How?" he asked again. "In combat? An accident? Ambush? What?" It was amazing—truthfully, he himself was amazed—how calm and even he was keeping his voice. Actually, it took no effort. He was simply numb.
She looked down, and could barely get out the words: "Friendly fire."
It was a term that had survived centuries. Terms that have such remarkably self-contradictory perversity often do.
All the color drained from his face. "What?" he said, the word thudding from him. "One of the crew shot her?"
"Captain … maybe you should just read the report. . . ."
He looked at her oddly. "The report … would have been marked 'Personal.' You read something directed to me that was indicated to be personal."
She looked down guiltily. "Yes, sir. It was from the Enterprise … but from the chief medical officer. I … put two and two together. I am aware that my actions could be considered cause for severe penalties … even court-martial, if you choose to pursue it …"
"Oh, be quiet, Janice," he said, but there was no heat in his voice. Indeed, just for a moment, he sounded like the Sulu of old. The one who, back when she was a yeoman and he was a helmsman, she would bring sandwiches to while he messed around with whatever his latest hobby might be. Back when they were both young, and the galaxy was an infinity of possibilities.
And in the spirit of those long-gone days, the ranks fell away for a moment. She stomped her foot in irritation. "Well, dammit, Sulu, what did you expect me to do? I mean, this message comes in, and I can pretty much guess what it says. And I'm supposed to just forward it down to you without comment?"
He walked to her and rested a hand on her shoulder. "If you wanted me to read the report, you'd simply have sent it down to me. Obviously you wanted to cushion the … the blow." And now it was an effort to keep his voice level, the initial numbness having worn off. "I can handle it. Tell me."
"It's … I don't pretend to understand it, sir. It …" She gathered her strength and then it all came out in a rush. "The report is that she began attacking other crewmen while on a landing party. Assaulted the science officer, nearly killed the captain. He was compelled to shoot and ki … to use terminal force against her."
He stared at her as if she'd grown antenna. "The … captain shot her? Are you serious?"
"Yes, sir. The report was very specific."
Sulu looked as if he'd been sucker-punched. "And … and what caused it? Caused her to attack her own people?"
"They don't know. They haven't been able to determine any …"
"There must be an answer," Sulu said, his efforts to rein in his frustration stretched to their limits, "It's insane. Demora wouldn't just … something must have caused it. Some virus, some animal that bit her … something. What sort of subsequent investigations is Harriman performing?"
"Reading between the lines: None. The CMO made mention that the planet's been placed under quarantine. No one in or out."
"That's a reasonable precaution," he admitted slowly. "But my daughter's life ended there. I see no reason that the investigation should end as well. Are we close enough to Enterprise for a direct subspace link?"
"No, sir."
He nodded. "That's … probably fortunate. I don't think I'd … trust myself to speak with Harriman right now. I need time to … deal with this, so that I can act in an appropriate manner."
"Meaning a manner more appropriate to the decorum of a Starfleet captain than to a grieving father."
Rand took a step toward him and said softly, "I know how you feel."
"I know. No one knows better than me how close you and Demora …"
"It's not just that. I mean, that's part of it, sure. But …" She looked down. "There's something I never told you."
He looked at her, waiting. He didn't feel like he had the strength to say anything.
With a sigh that sounded heavy with exhaustion, Rand said, "It was years ago. Years and years. Didn't you wonder why I took a leave of absence from Starfleet for a time?"
"Your record cited personal reasons. I never felt it was my business to ask."
"Yes, well … that was the personal reason. Her name was Annie. She lived until the ripe old age of two, and then she got sick and died. Because for all our medical knowledge, sometimes people—even young people, even very young people—still die. And after she was gone, I was at loose ends for a time before I was able to bring myself to return to Starfleet. End of my life as a mother."
He put a hand on hers. "Janice … I'm so sorry. . . ."
"This is not the time for you to be comforting me. I just … I wanted you to know how much I feel for you."
"Do you still think about her?"
Rand smiled thinly. "Only on days ending in the letter y."
Sulu stared straight ahead. Rand reached over and touched his back. Every muscle under his jacket was knotted. It was like touching rock. There seemed to be nothing more to say, so she headed for the door.
"Rand …"
She stopped, turned, and looked at him questioningly.
"The father," Sulu asked. "Do you mind my asking … who it was."
She sighed. "It doesn't matter," she said. "He's dead now, too."
"Did you ever tell him?"
"I didn't want to risk sidetracking his career. You see … I suspected that he was headed for a great destiny, and I didn't want to do anything to distract him from it."
"And did he fulfill his great destiny, Janice?"
With a sad look she said, "We all do, Sulu. We all do." And she walked out of his quarters.
Sulu sat there for quite some time. He waited for the tears to come … but none did. There was a slight stinging in his eyes, but overall it was like the sensation of a sneeze that's puttering around one's nose but doesn't quite escape.
He was still numb. That was it. Still overcome by the shock.
Demora was dead. His little girl, whom he had known for so brief a time, was gone. Never to laugh with him or at him again, or to puncture any of his pretensions with her musical laugh or her mischievous wit.
Never again to look into Demora's face, or into her eyes, and see her staring back at him.
Her … Demora's mother.
The lunatic. The madwoman. The exotic nut, straight out of those old adventure stories that Sulu had read when he was so young, a lifetime ago …
You know the old Russian saying … be care—
Sulu shook it off. He didn't want to think about those times now. Didn't want to dredge up the old memories of that period in his life. Of that insane time, with her, and the mysterious enemies, dangerous cities with threats hiding within every shadow, a roller-coaster ride which, for all that he had experienced in his very full life, remained for him the pinnacle of loopy, non-sequitur bizarreness …
And the tears still weren't coming.
He wanted that release. Wanted to get the anger and rage and hurt out of his system, but it wouldn't go. What the hell was the matter with him? Had he become so closed up, so out of touch with his emotions, that he couldn't even properly grieve his daughter?
Or was it that with this loss, coming so hard on the heels of the demise of James Kirk, had simply overloaded him. Robbed him of his ability to deal with any more grief.
He thought of Demora, and he thought of Ling … and couldn't deal with thinking of either of them.
He informed the bridge that he would be indisposed for a short time and would be late in arrival. And then he lay back on his bed and, even though he had just awoken from a full night's sleep … he closed his eyes.
The words echoed once more … You know the old Russian saying … be careful vat you vish for …
… and then, mercifully, the darkness claimed him before the memories could return.
Word spread quickly through the Excelsior, as such things are wont to do. Rand never did find out the origin of the news; she sure knew they hadn't heard it from her. Regardless, within hours of Rand's talk with Sulu, it seemed that every crew member from the newest ensign to the oldest hand knew of Sulu's loss. And, of course, Sulu knew that they knew. It was clear from the deference paid above and beyond that which he normally received in his day-to-day life as captain of the Excelsior. Crewmen would greet him in low, respectful tones, and a number of them had trouble making eye contact. It wasn't just the death of Demora, although that was certainly odd enough. It was the bizarre circumstances surrounding it.
Sulu walked out on the bridge. The bridge was never filled with bustling, idle chatter even under normal circumstances. But this time it was silent as …
As the grave, thought Sulu.
Sulu's first officer—a Maternian named Anik—was newly assigned to the Excelsior. Anik was tall and thin, almost ethereal-looking, with skin so thin that one could see blood flowing against the surface. Normally, when Sulu was off the bridge, Anik would have been seated in the command chair. But today she felt a certain reluctance. As if it would somehow be disrespectful, although she couldn't exactly articulate why.
He stepped out of the turbolift, and he could feel the difference in the atmosphere. Everyone was looking at him and, by the same token, trying to look away.
Opting to take the initiative, Anik stepped forward and said, in her accented English, "Captain, the crew wishes to extend to you its condolences for the loss of your daughter."
He stood there for a moment, his hands draped behind his back. His voice sounded especially gravelly as he said, "I appreciate that. I appreciate the support from all of you. Some further news of interest to all of you, I'm sure: We'll all be going home. Our current heading brings us close enough to Earth so that the readjustment in our schedule is minor. So crew members who have friends or family on Earth will have the opportunity to visit."
"That being the case, sir," said Anik, "I would anticipate a considerable portion of the crew asking about the appropriateness or desirability of attending the funeral services."
Sulu gave it a moment's thought with furrowed brow, and then shook his head. "If any of them happened to know Demora personally, then attending is, of course, their prerogative. But if anyone feels obliged purely out of deference to me … by all means, they should not. What they should do is go and spend some time with the people they love. I certainly think Demora would have far preferred that."
"Yes, sir," said Anik, and there were nods of understanding from around the bridge as well.
Sulu had been standing with his hands resting lightly on the back of his command chair. Now he moved around to the front and lowered himself into it.
It was all in his imagination, he was sure, but all at once he felt his age … and older. He could swear his knees audibly creaked, and there was a pulling sensation in his thigh. His body mass seemed to have tripled, and it was all he could do to keep his head up.
"Captain?"
He suddenly realized that Anik was standing directly in front of him. Why was she doing that? Why had she walked around to be in front of him that way?
"Yes, Commander?"
Anik tilted her head slightly in that curious manner of hers. "We're … awaiting your orders, sir."
"Oh. Of course." He let out an unsteady sigh. "Set course for Earth."
"Course plotted and laid in, sir."
"Take us home, then."
He stared at the screen, not really registering the shift in the star patterns that indicated the great ship was coming around. Instead he was watching in wonderment as the screen seemed to waver and then blank out. Moments later another image appeared on it.
It was a town. A town that Sulu had not seen for many, many years.
By any definition, it was primitive … which was its entire charm.
It was the last place that Sulu wanted to think of. For a moment he thought he was losing his mind, because, of course, it couldn't possibly be that the town was there on the screen.
He realized at that point just how badly he had slept, as if tossing and turning in premonition of things to come. He should just get off the bridge, get the hell off.
But he didn't want to just up and bolt. Go hide in his room like some upset child. He was the captain of the Excelsior. He could deal with this.
To hell with it. He was not afraid of his memories. He was not afraid of thinking about the things he had done. It was many years since he hadn't dwelt on that wild, insane, deliriously dangerous week … and yet, in odd contradiction, it had never really been far from his thoughts.
And he had no regrets. No regrets over what had happened a little over twenty years ago. (Twenty years ago! Could it have been that long? An eyeblink it had been, certainly.)
No regrets. None at all.
Well …
… maybe except for his deciding to listen to Chekov