The Captain's Daughter

  She said nothing as she went off to bed; just nodded her head slightly as he told her that he’d see her bright and early in the morning. He thought he should say more, but decided that there was no reason to do so now. It would seem maudlin and pointless. Plenty of time for goodbyes later.

  That night he dreamt of Susan. Or Ling Sui.

  He’d dreamt of her before. Some nights aboard the Enterprise when sleep didn’t come easily, she’d come to him. Rarely was it in the city of Demora, or in the Sahara. Instead they would be at Wrigley’s Pleasure Planet together, or cruising the rings of Saturn, or in a jungle paradise. Occasionally moments of danger from their adventure would reappear in fragmented form. But no matter what the forum for their adventure, she was always smiling and loving and set for anything.

  But not this time.

  This time he was on the bridge of the Enterprise. He was seated in the command chair. There was no one else around, and the bridge seemed oddly distended, as if being viewed through a fish-eye lens.

  He heard weeping from behind him, a soul in torment. It was echoing through the bridge. He spun in his chair and faced the turbolift.

  It sat open. Standing in the lift was Ling Sui. She said nothing, did nothing. She just stood there, with tears flowing down her cheeks, her chest heaving slightly in time to the sobs. Sulu got up from his chair and the turbolift doors slid shut. He crossed to the lift quickly, stepping over a tribble, and walked up to the doors. They didn’t open. The crying continued. He jammed his fingers in and worked on prying them wide. They slid open with a low moan rather than their customary hiss.

  The turbolift was empty.

  The crying continued.

  He stepped into the turbolift, trying to find where Ling had vanished to. The doors slid shut, and the turbolift began to move straight down.

  It began to accelerate, faster and faster, and still he heard the crying. Except it no longer sounded like that of a grown woman. It had escalated in pitch and now seemed to Sulu like the sobbing of a child.

  It was about at that time that he realized the turbolift was dropping faster than it should. Much faster. The floors were streaking past and Sulu suddenly knew that he was in free fall. There was absolutely no way in hell that the turbolift was going to slow down in time to prevent him from being a smear on the bottom of the shaft.

  The sobbing was fading, becoming fainter and fainter, and Sulu braced himself for the impact. He wondered if, as they always say, his life would flash before his eyes. He waited and then it came, danced before him, so quick that it was little more than an eyeblink.

  It was a child’s face.

  Sulu snapped awake.

  He sat in his room, bare-chested, chest heaving, for quite a while. His hands were flat on his mattress as if trying to reassure him that he was on firm ground instead of being in danger that it would begin to plummet under him.

  He checked his chronometer and was surprised to see that it was only 2 A.M. He was wide awake, completely rested . . . if one could call being jostled awake by a horrifying nightmare restful.

  He wiped the sweat from his bow and slid his feet to the floor. Then he pulled his robe from his closet and wrapped it around himself.

  He padded out into the hallway and walked the short distance to the guest bedroom. He paused a moment, listening for the sound of steady breathing. Then he slipped into the room.

  Light from the hallway cascaded through, illuminating the lower half of her bed. She had wound the sheet around her, but even so he could see that she was curled up in a fetal position. The curve of her back was rising and falling erratically. Her head was a bit twisted around and didn’t look squarely on the pillow. Somehow it all seemed very uncomfortable.

  Sulu went to her and gently started to readjust her head onto the pillow. And as he did so, he felt the pillow’s wetness. Very damp, as if . . .

  She’d been crying into it.

  Coincidental? Or had he heard it distantly in his sleep and it had worked its way into his dream? The latter seemed the more likely somehow.

  Crying herself to sleep. Why? Because her mother was gone? Because her father was sending her away? Because she had no home, no place to call her own?

  She’d put on a tremendous show of strength, a fabulous show. But there was no dissembling in sleep, no bravado to cover inner fears. There was just a sleeping child with the remnants of her anxiety still damp on the pillow.

  “Shields down,” he murmured. And he wasn’t sure if he was referring to her or to himself.

  He went back to his room, took one of the extra pillows on his bed and brought it back to her. Removing the sopping pillow, he substituted the dry one. He slid it under her head gently, then readjusted the blanket around her. Doing so required momentarily moving her hands.

  One of her small, delicate hands wrapped around two of his fingers and squeezed tightly.

  He pulled gently, trying to disengage, but she wouldn’t let go. She wasn’t consciously aware of it at all . . .

  Tenderly he wrapped the rest of his fingers around her hand, enveloping hers in his.

  In her sleep, all unintending, she had launched her weaponry. It wasn’t as devastating as a phaser, nor as destructive as a photon torpedo . . . but it cut far deeper and, in its way, was much more effective.

  He stood there for some minutes, and saw that her uneven breathing had smoothed out. Her sleep was calm now. Whatever torments had been in her mind had apparently vanished, the strength of a father’s hand enough to squeeze them into nothingness.

  Once he was positive that she was sleeping soundly, he gently—ever so gently—disengaged his hand from hers. He watched her there some more, bathed in the light from the hallway, and then carefully backed out of the room, never taking his eyes from her.

  He remained for a moment or two more, then went to the bay window in the living room. He stared up at the stars, thought about helming a starship through them.

  Thought about standing at the side of a captain.

  Thought about his own captaincy.

  Thought about the Enterprise . . . about what he’d been working for all these years . . . about the mission . . . the credo . . .

  Space, the final frontier . . .

  How could he turn away from it? It would always be calling to him, pleading with him, scolding him like a spurned lover . . .

  To explore strange new worlds . . .

  Not to see planet after planet . . . tread on alien soil . . . wonder what new mystery was to unfold before his eyes . . .

  To seek out new life . . .

  And that was where he stopped.

  New life.

  A new life. And it was new. Six years old, good lord, that wasn’t so much as an eyeblink in the history of the galaxy. Not even the beginning of a heartbeat in that endless body of time.

  A new life, and he had not sought it out, it had sought him out.

  A new life, and he was responsible for it.

  Now . . . what the hell was he going to do about it?

  * * *

  Captain Morgan Bateson’s image flickered slightly over the subspace patch. Sulu had begged a favor from Janice Rand, working the graveyard shift at Starfleet Communicore, to plug into a high-priority signal.

  “You owe me for this, Sulu,” she had said.

  “Anything,” he had replied.

  “Fine. You make captain, you rescue me out of this lousy detail.”

  “Done and done,” he had assured her.

  She’d gotten it through on a priority signal, punching through local traffic, and getting him a direct real-time line to the Bozeman.

  Captain Bateson, fingers steepled, regarded Sulu with an obvious air of puzzlement. “According to the incoming computer feed, Commander, it’s somewhere in the neighborhood of 0500 hours where you are. Early riser?”

  “Sometimes, yes, sir.”

  “Something is on your mind, I take it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sulu shifted uncomfortably, not exactly
certain how to proceed.

  Bateson nodded encouragingly. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

  “I . . . regret that I will not be able to serve you as your second-in-command, sir. A circumstance has arisen that precludes my leaving Earth for the foreseeable future.”

  “I see.” Bateson smiled. “Didn’t get somebody pregnant, did you?” He was joking.

  Sulu blinked in surprise. “Yes, sir.” He paused. “Seven years ago.”

  Now it was Bateson’s turn to look surprised. He recovered very quickly, however. “Well, Commander . . . I take it that either the mother has a gestation period exceeded only by the eight-year birth cycle of a Terwilligan Flogg . . . or else this was a fairly recent revelation.”

  “The latter, sir.”

  “The mother just sprung this on you?”

  “The mother is dead, sir.”

  “Oh.” Bateson pursed his lips slightly. “You could make other arrangements for the . . .” He paused. “Boy or girl?”

  “Girl, sir.”

  “Girl. You could make other arrangements for her, I presume.”

  “Yes, sir. I choose not to.”

  “I see. You could also have simply informed me via communiqué through Starfleet Command.”

  “I know, sir. I also choose not to do that. I . . . feel I owe you a face-to-face explanation, sir.”

  “What you owe me, mister, is your service as my second-in-command,” said Bateson sharply. “I did not make my choice lightly, and I dislike the notion of having to start from scratch.”

  “Yes, sir. However . . .”

  “However, you feel you owe something to your daughter as well.” His voice softened. “Must have been a difficult decision for you, Commander.”

  “None harder, sir.”

  “Then I’ll be damned if I make it any more so for you.” He sighed.

  “I’m sorry about this, sir.”

  He actually chuckled slightly. “Save your sympathy for yourself, Commander. All I have to worry about is a temporary inconvenience. You have the far more serious situation on your hands. What’s the girl’s name, by the way?”

  “Demora.”

  “Demora Sulu. I’ll remember that. And you be sure she remembers the name of Morgan Bateson, whom she deprived of a perfectly good first officer.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “Good luck, Commander.”

  “And to you, sir.”

  “Bozeman out.”

  And just like that, it was over. The line was cut, the Bozeman and all the people aboard with their lives . . .

  And Sulu’s was about to begin.

  * * *

  Demora Ling rolled over and stretched, blinking against the sunlight coming in through the window.

  She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and got out of bed. The hem of her nightgown fell down to her ankles as she walked over to the window, yawned, and looked out.

  The sun was high in the sky. Too high. They had a reservation for her on an early-morning shuttle. Her suspicion was verified a moment later when she checked the chronometer and saw that it was a few minutes before noon.

  She ran out into the living room and found Sulu sitting there, calmly scanning the morning headlines while sipping a cup of tea. He looked at her blandly. “Finally roll out of bed, did you. You always sleep in like this?”

  “It’s noon,” she said.

  “Yes, I know. Do you drink tea? I don’t have any kid’s-type drinks, like hot chocolate or such. Sorry.”

  “It’s noon,” she repeated, as if she couldn’t quite believe he was that oblivious of the time. “We . . . I have a shuttle to get to.”

  “We do?”

  “And . . . and you have an assignment to get to.”

  Ah. Well, there you’re right. But the Academy can wait a few days.”

  She rubbed her eyes, apparently to make sure that she was genuinely awake. “The Academy?”

  “Yes, Starfleet Academy. When Admiral Kirk was offered a teaching position there, he made an open offer to myself and several other longtime associates. I’ve decided to take him up on it.”

  Her head bobbed up and down slightly, a physical reflection of each new piece of information that was entering her head. “That’s . . . that’s here.”

  “Right.”

  “Here in San Francisco.”

  “Right.”

  “Am I still going up to the place up in Washington?”

  “Not if you don’t want to.” He paused. “Do you want to?”

  In a very soft voice, she said, “No. I hate it.” “Then why didn’t you say so?” Even more softly, she admitted, “Because I didn’t think you’d care.”

  “Of course I care. I’m your father.”

  “I know you are. I just . . . I didn’t know what that meant. Not really. I’m still not sure.”

  He put down the teacup. The movement was clumsy, and he hoped it didn’t betray his nervousness. Lord, his hands had been steadier when he’d been programming phaser blasts against Klingon ships that had them sighted.

  “What it means,” he said slowly, “is that after you have some breakfast, we go out and take a Lifeshot, so we can watch you grow up. We go buy you some clothes. Some toys . . .”

  “Toys?” she said.

  “Okay, a lot of toys. We stop calling the guest room the guest room, and start calling it Demora’s room. We put the wheels in motion—if you’d like—for me to officially adopt you. We do right by you.”

  She seemed to want to say a hundred things at once. Instead the only word the child was able to get out, her eyes wide in wonderment, was “Why?”

  He smiled. “A lot of reasons. Only two that really matter: Because I’m your father. And because I love you.”

  “Love me?” she said incredulously. “You don’t even know me.”

  “I know. Isn’t it the most stupid thing you’ve ever heard?”

  “Yes,” she said, her lower lip trembling.

  He put out a hand to her, and she took it and started to cry just as she had the previous night, except this time there were strong arms to hold her and comfort her as she said over and over, “It’s stupid it’s stupid it’s stupid . . .”

  And somehow, Sulu felt the eyes of Ling Sui upon him.

  Wherever you are, you crazy woman . . . I hate you. And by the way . . . thank you . . . thank you forever. . . .

  Chapter Eighteen

  "DAD . . . CAN I GO with you to the Academy sometime?”

  Sulu looked at Demora in surprise while, at the same time, never breaking stride.

  The two of them were jogging briskly down Telegraph Hill, the way up always being a bit easier than the way down. The sun was still just in the process of coming up over the horizon, as it usually was during their early-morning runs.

  In the early days, when Demora had wanted to run beside him, he’d had to completely alter his route to accommodate her. But over the years, as she’d approached her teen years, she’d had less and less trouble keeping up with him. Consequently he’d started going back to his old running paths. She’d continued to keep up with him, and he started to foresee a time when it would be all he could do to keep up with her.

  “You want to come to the Academy?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Her long hair swung across the small of her back like a pendulum. They were both wearing T-shirts and shorts as she displayed her ability to maintain pace with her father.

  What Demora wasn’t was tall . . . a source of great frustration to her, although Sulu kept assuring her that she was in for a growth spurt. Demora would teasingly ask him if he was anticipating a growth spurt for himself, and indeed would occasionally gibe him by calling him Tiny. She meant it affectionately, and he let her get away with it, although he swore that anyone else who ever tried to call him that would sorely regret it.

  Indeed, her lack of height made her appear, at first glance, much younger than she was. Her face still had the softness of childhood. Fully
dressed, she looked preadolescent. However, in the sweaty shirt plastered to her chest and the shorts, and the shorts revealing legs like those of a young colt, there was no mistaking the fact that she was a youthful woman on the cutting edge of maturity. Sulu noticed young men’s eyes turning these days as they jogged along, and he had a sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t the one being sized up.

  They slowed to a stop at a street corner. Sulu started to stretch, massaging a muscle that was cramping. “You’ve never asked to before. In fact, the first time I mentioned it, you showed such disinterest I never brought it up again.”

  She shrugged (some things never changing). “I didn’t think you really wanted me to.”

  He gaped at her. But then he thought better of his first reaction, because if there was one thing he’d come to learn, it was never to accept anything Demora said or did at face value. It had been a long and hard lesson for him. He was used to dealing with adults . . . and outspoken adults, at that, such as Leonard McCoy or Pavel Chekov. People who told you exactly where they stood.

  Demora wasn’t always as forthcoming. This had worried him at first, but Sulu—being thorough—had researched the subject. He’d read everything he could get his hands on, from recent treatises on child rearing, all the way back to material written centuries before. He remembered a confusing conversation he’d had with Chekov, wherein Sulu had been quoting certain philosophies on parenting and Chekov had asked him who was the authority Sulu was using.

  “Spock,” Sulu had told him.

  Chekov had looked exceedingly confused. “Meester Spock? Vat does he know about children?”

  “No, Dr. Spock.”

  “A doctor?” Chekov was even more befuddled. “Ven did he become a doctor? Does Dr. McCoy know?”

  In any event, Sulu had learned not to believe the first thing Demora said . . . or, for that matter, even the second or third necessarily. Speaking with any child was less like a normal conversation and more like peeling an onion: many layers to slice through to get to the core, and not a few tears shed along the way.

  “You thought I didn’t want you to? Demy . . . come on. You couldn’t have thought that. I’ve told you about it often enough. Encouraged you. You’ve heard Chekov and me discuss the old days whenever he comes over. So how could you possibly think that I didn’t want to share it with you?”