He hadn’t meant to kill her. It was an accident. The whole thing was a grotesque, outlandish accident, and if Hikaru Sulu had been in the exact same position he’d have done the exact same thing, so get the hell out of my head, thought Harriman.
After Chekov was done, other crewmen came up, one by one, to talk about Demora. But Harriman went through the rest of the memorial service on autopilot. Instead he felt as if he were busy fighting a silent war. It was a war against a man who was certainly no stranger to battle, but Harriman had reserves of strength that he had not even begun to tap.
And if Demora Sulu deserved better, well . . . so did he.
* * *
The congregants were gathering in the courtyard outside the chapel. Since Demora had already been cremated, there was obviously no cemetery to go to. The service with the ashes being delivered into the heart of Sol would take place aboard the Enterprise as the ship prepared to leave orbit.
Chekov, Sulu, and Uhura were gathered in a small group, talking among themselves. Every so often officers or friends of Demora’s would drift past and offer their condolences. Sulu nodded gravely, shook hands, accepted the kind words.
Harriman watched, fatigue and his own gnawing guilt (although he wouldn’t have recognized it as such, most likely) pushing at him. He squared his shoulders and strode over toward the former Enterprise officers. They looked up as he approached, and he noted that Uhura took a step closer to Sulu in an almost protective posture. Chekov stood his ground. Sulu didn’t move at all; a mannequin would have shown more life.
“Captain Sulu . . . I just wish you to know . . . I share your loss,” said Harriman. And then he braced himself. Braced himself for the likely invective that would flow forth. The grief and anguish of a father who’d had his only child gunned down, face-to-face with the man who pulled the trigger.
Sulu’s eyes flashed for just a moment. Uhura seemed to react to it, as if she’d noticed something she hadn’t before. But then Sulu reined himself in, brushing aside the anger and frustration that threatened to overwhelm him.
“It’s . . . never easy to lose a crew member,” Sulu said. “Under circumstances like these . . .” His voice trailed off and then he cleared his throat and said, “You . . . did the best you could. It’s all right.”
Inwardly, Harriman let out a sigh. Sulu could have said anything. Could even have walked away, cold-shouldered him. Relief flooded through Harriman.
“I . . . appreciate that, sir,” he said. “The responsibility is mine. I know that you can empathize with that. Hell . . . even Captain Kirk lost his share of crew members. I doubt it ever got easier for him.”
Sulu nodded, his face impassive.
And then Chekov muttered something.
Harriman hadn’t quite heard it, and his head snapped around to lock gazes with Chekov. And whereas Sulu had seemed self-possessed, even slightly removed . . . Chekov was glaring at him with all the anger and fury that Harriman had been inflicting on himself.
And Harriman bristled.
“Did you say something to me, sir?”
“Not a thing,” Chekov replied.
For a moment the air between them was electric. Then Harriman started to turn away, and then Chekov was right in front of him, right in his face, anger to the boiling point and beyond.
“Keptin Kirk vould have found another way.”
“Would he,” said Harriman icily.
“An unarmed girl . . . and you found no other vay to stop her than to shoot her down like a dog.” Chekov’s voice was rising with fury. Sulu put a hand on Chekov’s shoulder, trying to calm him, but Chekov shrugged it off.
“You weren’t there.”
“No, I vasn’t. Because if I had been there . . . if he had been there,” and he pointed at Sulu, then gestured to Uhura, “if she had been there . . . if anyone else had been there, Demora would be alive. But no! It vas you! Ve served vit Keptin Kirk, and ve survived five-year mission after five-year mission!”
“Pavel,” and now Uhura was trying to calm him, but it wasn’t helping. His voice rose, thunderous, and now everyone was looking at him. Officers, diplomats, everyone was watching in thunderstruck amazement.
“But not Demora Sulu! No, she didn’t survive five years. Not even five months on your Enterprise! And Keptin Kirk? He didn’t even survive five minutes! And you call yourself a keptin?!”
Harriman was trembling within as he said in low fury, “I don’t think you’re exactly the best person to hold me up to opprobrium, Commander. With all due respect . . . it’s Starfleet that calls me a captain, and a starship commander. Something, I should point out, that they have never, and will never, call you.”
Harriman was approximately a head taller and fifteen years younger than Chekov. That made no difference, however, because Chekov’s left-handed punch hit him squarely on the point of his chin.
Fortunately for Harriman, he did not go down, but instead only staggered.
Unfortunately for Harriman, Chekov was by nature right-handed. And a split second after Chekov had tagged him with his left, he hauled back and dropped him with his right.
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.
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, barrel-chested, 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.”
“Wel
l, 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! And 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.”