Mr. Molo blinked. “Would that be a first name or last name?”
“First.”
“Most unusual.”
“I believe she said she grew up on a farm.”
“All right,” said Mr. Molo, and he carefully wrote the name, Moo. “Last name?”
“Shu pork.”
Chekov cleared his throat loudly, giving him the opportunity to put his hand carefully over his mouth to cover his smile. Sulu remained expressionless.
Mr. Molo allowed the pencil point to hover over the notepad for a moment before he laid the pencil down gently. He steepled his fingers. “Do you think you’re funny, Lieutenant Commander? Do you think that a complaint to Starfleet over your questionable conduct in our city would be as amusing as you?”
Slowly Sulu leaned forward, his eyes unblinking. “What I think, Mr. Molo, is that I’m hot. I’m tired. I’m parched. What I think"—and then his voice became low and hoarse, and there was an edge to it that could have carved diamond—"what I think is that you’re dirty. Filthy, in fact. I think there are things that go on in this town that are illegal and immoral, and payoffs are made, all of which go into your pocket. I think this lovely little fantasy city has developed its own dark underbelly, just like the cities it was created to imitate. I think you provide information to whoever wants it for the right price. That you don’t give a damn about anyone or anything except lining your own pocket. Or maybe it goes higher, to your employer’s organization. And if you want to start investigations in Starfleet of me, then you’d better be ready to withstand some heavy-duty investigating directed right back at you. Take your best shot, and I’ll take mine, and we’ll see who’s left standing.”
There was a long, deathly silence.
Then, very slowly, Mr. Molo slid open his desk drawer and placed his notepad into it. His pencil went into a pencil holder.
“I apologize for the inconveniences you’ve encountered, Lieutenant Commander,” he said. “I’ve already sent word to your hotel that all charges are to be considered compliments of management.”
Sulu made no motion. Not a nod, or even a blink of an eyebrow. He might as well have been carved from marble.
Chekov rose from his chair and said levelly, “Ve appreciate the gesture.”
They started for the door, and as they approached it Mr. Molo said, “Oh, and gentlemen . . .”
They turned to him and waited.
“. . . your business is so joyous to have, that I think it would be criminal to keep it all to ourselves. I think you should consider bringing future business to as many other places as possible. Share the wealth, as it were.”
“Other places besides here,” said Chekov.
“Actually, I was thinking any place but here.”
Sulu nodded slowly. “So was I.” And they walked out.
* * *
Their bags sat on the bed, packed and waiting for the bellman to come upstairs. Sulu stood on the porch, watching the sun halfway up in the sky.
They had stayed one more night, made one more sweep of the desert. But there had been no sign of her. They had also gone exploring in the Thieves Quarter, this time quietly armed with phasers that Chekov had acquired through means that he didn’t volunteer and Sulu didn’t inquire about. Still no sign. The mention of her name drew blank stares.
Sulu found where her apartment had been. It was vacant. He found the warehouse where he’d been imprisoned. Empty.
“I swear to you, I didn’t arrange it,” Chekov had said to him. He didn’t have to work hard to convince Sulu of that; Sulu was already a believer.
Now, on the veranda, Sulu let out a sigh. Chekov was doing one of his usual last-minute checks of drawers to make sure nothing had been overlooked. He paused and glanced over at his friend. “If you like, ve can stay longer. See if . . .”
Sulu shook his head. “No. She’s gone because she wants to be gone. No trace of her footprints in the sand. No trace of her. Gone. All gone.”
“As if none of it mattered.”
“Oh,” Sulu said, “it mattered. It mattered to me. Whatever happens with her now . . . it’s out of my control. That’s always a difficult thing for a helmsman to admit: that he’s not steering the vessel.”
“It’s not like you to give up.”
“Give up?” Sulu looked at him in surprise. “It has nothing to do with giving up, Chekov. It’s simply the end, that’s all.”
“The end?”
“Of course. Someone once said . . . I don’t remember who . . . that the entire trick to ending a story is to know where to end it. Saying ‘They lived happily ever after‣ only works because you’ve ended the story at a high point. If you continue it beyond that point, eventually the hero and heroine grow old and die. Every story really has an unhappy ending. It’s all in the timing. Ling Sui . . . she knew the timing called for her to mysteriously disappear. What else was she supposed to do? Stick with me, marry me, grow old and die with me? No no, Pav . . . that would be all wrong. All wrong. This story ends where it has to: on a note of mystery. Anything else would be . . . inappropriate.”
There was a knock at the door. The bellman entered, picking up their bags and heading down to the lobby. Chekov walked over to Sulu, stood next to him for a moment, looking out at the sun, and then said, “Those things you vere just saying . . .”
“Yes?”
“You do realize, of course, that I have absolutely no idea vat you vere talking about.”
“Of course.”
“I mean, it makes no sense at all.”
Sulu patted him on the arm and said, “It’s just a dream, honey. It’s not supposed to make sense.” He walked out the door.
“‘Honey’?” Chekov muttered. Then he shrugged. “Oh veil,” he said, and headed out after Sulu.
SECTION THREE
MEMORIAL
Chapter Thirteen
THE FUNERAL WAS SO PACKED that for a moment Sulu thought he wouldn’t be able to get in.
He recognized a number of people from his own crew, and it seemed as if the entire crew of the Enterprise 1701-B had shown up as well. He had no idea what the maximum capacity in the Starfleet memorial chapel was, but whatever that magic number might be, it had to be pushing at the seams by this point.
He stood outside it a moment, looking off to the right. The Golden Gate Bridge gleamed in the morning sun. He remembered when he’d attended Starfleet, he’d always considered the view of the bridge symbolic. The Academy was supposed to be the bridge to the stars. Somehow that seemed consistent with the Academy’s motto of “Ex astris, scientia"—"From the stars, knowledge.”
Knowledge.
He’d been staring at the stars a great deal lately. Watching them move past from the rarefied position of his command chair rather than the helm. Looking to them for answers. For knowledge.
The stars, which had told him so much in the past, had stopped talking to him. If they had knowledge or understanding of his daughter’s fate, they were mute.
Stars didn’t twinkle in space, of course. They simply sat there against their black velvet backdrop, unblinking. Staring at him. Laughing at him. Keeping their secrets to themselves.
He’d looked to the stars when James Kirk had died. Looking for answers, looking for understanding. Seeking to grasp what justice there was in Kirk’s abrupt and pointless demise while saving lives.
The stars had responded with silence then, too. Yet he had divined answers from them. The notion that Kirk was never meant to die quietly of old age on some bed somewhere. Despite his nominal roles as diplomat and explorer, what he was was, first and foremost, a warrior (he’d referred to himself as a soldier on more than one occasion). Yes, a warrior, battling against ignorance. Against fear. Against death. He’d gone out the way he would have wanted, indeed the only way it was possible for him to go.
But Demora . . .?
She’d barely begun. She’d had none of the experiences, none of the opportunities that Kirk had had. All she’d had were dreams and hopes. Seat
ed at the helm of the Enterprise . . . or at least the ship bearing the name Enterprise . . . ready to follow her father’s path.
Except her father’s path had taken him to great and glorious adventures, to the command of a starship, to . . . who knew where?
And hers had taken her to a pointless and confusing death.
He’d looked to the stars for answers, and gotten no reply at all. And this time, when the stars stared unblinkingly and silently at him, it hadn’t seemed profound. He’d garnered nothing from it. It had just angered him, as if they knew something they weren’t telling him.
A hand rested on his shoulder, startling him slightly. He turned and found himself looking into the face of Uhura. Standing just behind her was Chekov. They were in their dress uniforms.
Uhura’s eyes were red. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, and held him close.
“I know.”
“If there’s anything I can do . . .” It was the type of thing one said in such circumstances, even though helplessness was the theme of the day. Chekov, grim-faced, nodded in agreement with Uhura’s sentiments.
“I appreciate that,” said Sulu, and he truly did. He knew from personal experience that these were the sort of people who would willingly walk into the fires of hell for him if he told them that, by doing so, Demora would be returned to him.
“It’s not fair,” said Chekov through gritted teeth. There was so much anger radiating from him that it was palpable.
“No. It’s not,” agreed Sulu.
“We . . . weren’t able to let Scotty know in time,” Uhura said apologetically. “We got a message out to the Jenolen. It’s transporting him to a retirement community at the Norpin Colony. We haven’t heard back yet.”
“That’s all right,” said Sulu. “If anyone is entitled to an undisturbed retirement, it’s Scotty.”
“Meester Spock is on some sort of diplomatic mission,” Chekov said. “Ve got vord to Dr. McCoy, but he’s ill at the moment.”
Sulu looked up in concern. “Anything we should worry about?”
“He said it was nothing a transplant wouldn’t be curing. Fortunately he’s got several cloned organs in the bank. He’ll be fine.”
“That’s good to know.”
Uhura looked him in the eyes and was concerned. He didn’t look like . . . himself.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked doubtfully.
“Yes. I’m sure.”
Sulu turned away then and started into the chapel. As he approached, he was immediately recognized. Despite the density of the crowd, a path seemed to melt away for him.
Uhura didn’t follow immediately, and Chekov looked to her questioningly. “Vat is it?” he asked.
She paused and then said, “You know . . . when we look at stars, we’re really not seeing what’s there.”
“Of course.” He shrugged. “Because of the time the light takes to travel. A star can be dead, but ve still see the light from it.” He stared at her uncomprehendingly. “So?”
“So . . . so that’s what Sulu seemed like just now. There was something in his eyes . . . some faint glimmer of life . . . but it was as if the point of origin was dead. As if part of him had simply . . . disconnected.”
“I don’t blame him,” said Chekov, and then he added darkly, “But I know who I do blame.”
* * *
Captain John Harriman stepped up to the podium at the front of the chapel and looked out at the assembled Starfleet personnel.
Behind him, in an urn, were the mortal remains of Demora Sulu. Harriman couldn’t quite bring himself to turn and look at them.
He began to speak and, to his horror, found that his throat had completely closed up. All he made was the slightest of gagging noises. He hoped that no one noticed; that the sea of faces looking up at him wasn’t aware that inside he was shaking.
Because he’d killed her. He’d shot her and shot her until she stopped moving.
He hadn’t slept since that moment. Minutes here and there, floating in the gray area of drowsiness, was all he had managed to snag.
He’d replayed the moment over and over in his mind, the entire sequence of events that had led up to the nude, unmoving body of Demora Sulu lying dead on the planet surface. He had tried to figure out what other way he could have handled it. What action he could have taken so that she might have lived and he would not feel like a murderer.
If he’d been faster . . .
. . . stronger . . .
. . . smarter, better . . .
. . . better, that’s what it came down to, didn’t it. His drive to be the best. The drive that had brought him the captaincy of the flagship of the fleet.
Was he all will and no skill?
He saw Hikaru Sulu.
He hadn’t spotted him at first. He hated to admit it, but there had been a sense of relief. Looking Hikaru Sulu in the face was going to be the hardest part of all this.
The faces of his crew members had been tough enough. The looks, the sidelong glances, the conversations that would mysteriously dry up the moment that Harriman came within earshot.
But Sulu . . .
It had been tough enough at the Enterprise launch, with the eyes of three living legends drilling into the back of his neck. But, good lord, having Hikaru Sulu staring straight at him . . . he’d gone from living legends to living hell.
A moment passed between the two men, and it was as if Harriman projected a thought to him. And the thought was, Perhaps you should come up here and do this. . . .
And it was clear that Sulu had gotten the “message,” because he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He didn’t want to get up in front of this audience. He was going to sit there unmoving, unspeaking, in the eighth row, and Harriman was going to hang out there all by himself. Which was certainly no less than Harriman felt he deserved.
All of it—Harriman’s hesitation, his strangled cough, his reflection on what life had been like for him recently, and the entire silent communication with Sulu—it had all taken place in just over a second or two.
He squared his shoulders and began again, and this time—thankfully—his voice emerged firm and confident, belying the inner turmoil he felt.
“When we sign on for our exploratory service . . . we know the risk involved. We know how fragile is our existence, surrounded by a crushing vacuum, encountering unknowns at every turn. But we take that risk, we embrace that risk, because we want to. We need to.
“Nevertheless, acknowledging the inevitability of death and facing it are two different things. Especially when the circumstances are as . . . unfortunate and tragic as Demora Sulu’s passing was.
“Demora Sulu was liked and admired aboard the Enterprise. She was a good friend. She was a good officer. She deserved better than what happened. And the fact that we will never fully understand what happened makes it all the more frustrating. We want answers. And the hard truth of the universe we live in is that answers are not only not always forthcoming, but oftentimes they’re in short supply.
“She was eager and willing to learn. Her bravery was unquestioned. And she was unfailingly cheerful. She would always have a smile on her face, and she seemed to greet each day with unrestrained joy.
“She was fond of chocolate, saying she loved it more than it loved her. She was a gifted athlete, something of a gymnast. She was a . . .” He actually smiled slightly in spite of himself. “She was an abominable poker player, which made her rather popular. She liked to sing, her enthusiasm outstripping her actual musical skill. And that was part of her charm as well. It is a source of tremendous frustration that we didn’t spend more time with her. Didn’t have the opportunity to get to know her better.
“As is routine, she specified disposition of her remains in the event of . . .” And for the first time he forced himself to look at the urn. “. . . this. It is her wish that her ashes be scattered into Earth’s sun so that . . . according to her will . . . she could keep an eye on what was going on her
e.”
This actually prompted smiles from several in the audience. Soft chuckles of people remembering Demora’s rather unique thought process.
“We will honor her request. And, in this ceremony, we will honor her memory. I invite anyone who wishes to share recollections of her to come up and say something about her.”
There was a pause, that always uncomfortable moment when no one is sure what anyone else is doing. People glancing at one another, trying to determine through some sort of silent divining who’s going to be first up.
More than one pair of eyes turned to Hikaru Sulu.
He didn’t move.
Chekov, however, did. He rose at about the same time that Maggie Thompson did. But Thompson immediately sat when she saw who had risen.
Chekov’s footsteps seemed to echo in the otherwise silent chapel. He reached the front, turned to face the assemblage, and began to speak.
He spoke of Demora’s life. Of the honor he’d felt being made her godfather. Anecdotes that alternately brought smiles and tears to the faces of the mourners.
He was, in short, in excellent form. Never better, in fact. In every way, he rose to the occasion.
Hikaru Sulu didn’t hear a word of it.
Instead he was staring intently, unblinkingly at Harriman. Every so often Harriman would glance Sulu’s way, seemingly just to check if Sulu was still watching him.
He was.
It was as if he was trying to drill a hole into the man’s mind. To see what was in there, to determine firsthand how remorseful he was. To see whether he was devastated, eaten up, or simply accepting of the concept that, hey, she knew what the risks were. That’s just simply the way it plays out sometimes.
Harriman felt his soul beginning to wither under the intense scrutiny. And then, slowly, his fatigue, his frustration, his own soul-searching and acute self-examination began to rally. Damn it, he felt guilty enough. He didn’t need to feel more so, and even if this was Demora’s father, and even if he was legendary, right up there with Kirk, still . . . where did Sulu get off staring at him relentlessly, remorselessly.