Star Trek - TNG - Generations

  Star Trek - TNG - Generations

  Part One

  SPACEDOCK, EARTH

  2293 Old Earth Date

  ONE

  In the captain's quarters aboard the Enterprise-A the nautical clock chimed, breaking the silence to softly mark the passage of time. James Kirk paused over the suitcase open on his bunk, neatly folded civilian tunic in hand, and straightened to listen. As he did, a second clock--an antique mantelpiece, cased in polished dark cherry and wound for the first time in years, specially for this occasion--began to strike the hour.

  Nineteen hundred hours. Spock and McCoy would be arriving soon to accompany him on the long gauntlet of traditional firewatch parties--the crew's celebration of the last night aboard a vessel at the end of a long mission.

  Nineteen hundred hours, the sound of time moving inexorably onward. The night had already begun and would move all too swiftly to its inevitable conclusion.

  Kirk dropped the tunic inside the suitcase and moved over to the bulkhead to press a control, key in a code. A panel slid up, and he retrieved a handful of small cases, each of which hid a medal. He did not stop to examine them, but placed them carefully in the suitcase, just as he

  had done a handful of times before in his life, when he had taken leave of the captain's quarters in the very same fashion and wondered whether it might be his last.

  He had wondered a lifetime ago, when he was still young and the first starship named Enterprise had returned to spacedock at the end of her five-year mis- sion. He had been angry then at the realization that Admiral Nogura was determined to force him into accepting a promotion to the admiralty, and a desk job.

  Now there was no anger, no frustration--only sadness and an overwhelming sense of loss. And a faint stirring of pride at the memory of when, all those years ago, he had fought to get his ship back--had taken on Heihachiro Nogura, the head of Starfleet himself, and won.

  This time, Kirk did not wonder whether this would be the last night he would stand aboard the Enterprise as her captain. There could be no doubt that it was. He and the ship were both to be decommissioned, along with the senior bridge crew: Spock, McCoy, Uhura--even Scot- ty, who had chosen to take retirement rather than remain in Starfleet without the opportunity to serve with this particular crew.

  There could be no more gambits, no more ploys to get his ship back, to stave off the inevitable. He had ex- hausted them all; and now he himself was exhausted after fighting so many years to keep his command. He absently massaged an aching muscle in his back, recently injured while working in the mines on the Klingon penal colony of Rura Penthe. He had not been able to bring himself to trouble McCoy about it; it would have been an admission of the truthmthat he was getting too old to withstand the rigors of the captaincy.

  He looked about for something else to pack, reached for a holo on the dresser, and gazed into the smiling countenance of his and Carol's son, David. David, too, had fallen prey to time some years before, when he died at Klingon hands. Kirk gently set the picture back down, beside the mantel clock and antique paper book set aside for the occasion. David's holo was always the first thing he set in a cabin to make it his own, the last thing he packed before leaving. It would stay on his dresser until morning, when he packed it along with his captain's uniform.

  The intercom whistled; he winced at the twinge of pain in his back as he wheeled abruptly to punch the toggle and respond. "Kirk here." A familiar feminine voice filtered through the grid.

  "Uhura, Captain. I--" He interrupted, "I thought you were supposed to be on your way to a firewatch party, Commander." "I am, sir." He could hear her smile. "But I had a few minutes left, and I wanted to spend them on duty." "Understood," Kirk said softly.

  "Sir, the subspace interference has eased. I was finally able to clear a channel to Starbase Twenty-three. I can even get you that visual now--but I'm warning you, the reception isn't that great." "Uhura, you're a marvel." "I know, sir." "Patch it through to my quarters." Aware of the sudden rapidity of his heartbeat, he strode over to the viewer and watched a burst of visual static on the screen.

  It resolved itself into the greenish and slightly fritzed image of Carol Marcus, against a setting Jim recognized as her hospital bed on the starbase. He had visited her there once, before he was called away to what the media were already calling the Khitomer mission--his and the Enterprise-A's final mission. Carol had been almost fatally wounded in an apparent Klingon attack; she had been unconscious his entire stay, and he had left fearful that he would never see her again.

  He had promised himself that, if and when he had another chance to speak to her, it would be to say that he was coming home to her, never again to leave. The pain of losing the Enterprise was eased by knowing that Carol was all right, that she would be waiting for him.

  "Carol?" The words came out in a rush. "Carol, thank God, you have no idea how good it is to see you awake.

  When I left you, I was so afraid--" She spoke at the same time. "Jim. Oh, God, Jim, they said the Klingons charged you with Gorkon's murder and shipped you off to that terrible prison. I was so afraid--" They both broke off at the same instant and laughed gently, delightedly. "It looks like you survived," Carol said at last. It was hard to tell with the bad reception, but she seemed the same shade of pastel green as her normally golden hair, as the pillows propped behind her--which gave him the impression that she was terribly pale. Yet she seemed herself, and in her lap lay a padd; she had been sitting up working.

  He grinned. "Always. How about you?" "Doctor tells me I can be out of here in a day, at most two. So you're really all right?" "I'm all right. Just out of a job, starting tomorrow. I'm sitting in spacedock, Carol. They're decommissioning us." He tried to sound cavalier, but the heaviness came through despite his efforts.

  Her smile faded; she was silent a beat, then said, "I'm truly sorry, Jim." "It's not like I didn't see it coming." He shrugged and managed a hghter tone. S... what are you going to be doing in a day or two?" She brightened and straightened in her seat; he fan- cied he detected a gleam of intensity in her eyes, the one she always got when speaking about work that was important to her. "I'm going to rebuild the Themis research station, Jim. Now that things with the Klingons are settling down--" He cut her off. "Carol, you almost died. It's time to take things easy, not to rush into a massive undertak- ing." Her lip quirked with fond exasperation. "You're one to talk. How many times have you almost been killed?

  And still I couldn't hold you back from that damned ship of yours with a tractor beam--" "Well, you've got the opportunity now." He tried to keep the irony he felt from his tone. "I've got time on my hands now. And I want to spend it with you." "Well, of course. You know I'm always glad to see you, Jim. But it won't be much of a vacation on Themis.

  There's nothing to see except a scorched research station.... " "Dammit," he said lightly, "could you help me out little here? I'm not talking about a weekend on while you workú I'm talking about a honeymoon." She released a startled little laugh, and despite fuzzy reception, seemed to color a bit. "Jim," admonished, smiling, and with that one word to convey, You're joking, right?

  "I'm serious," he said. "Don't tell me you haven't

  been expecting this." He had thought it had been clear to her; he tried now vainly to recall the conversation, the precise words they had used to state that they would marry once he retired, but the specific memory eluded him.

  "I haven't been expecting this." Her smile vanished, replaced by an expression of concern. "Jim, you know the time we spend together is special to me, but... we never said anything about legalities." "I'm saying it now. I love you, Carol. I always thought we'd be together once I retired. That we'd settle down.

  You
even said Marcuslabs could use someone like me--" "As for Marcuslabs, I'll hire you in a heartbeat, if you want. You're someone with connections who could go all over the galaxy facilitating the creation of new research stations. Plenty of travel, a chance to practice your diplomacy. But I wouldn't be able to travel with you." She let go a long breath. "Jim, I love you, but you couldn't settle down if you wanted to. You'll be on the move, restless, looking for excitement until the day you die. If you're suggesting we buy a little condo somewhere and take up housekeeping--it'd be death for both of US." "I see," he said quietly.

  "Jim, don't be hurt." "No... no, you're right," he admitted weakly; what was worse, he meant it. Somewhere, in the deepest recesses of his mind, he had seen this very scene played out before, had known it was coming--yet he still felt as though the deck had been pulled from under his feet.

  "I'm not hurt, just... tired. Looking for someplace to rest. It's been a tough last mission."

  "Then come see me. We should talk." Behind him, the door chimed. He glanced toward it, then back at Carol. "I have to go. Firewatch parties." "I love you, Jim." He touched the screen as if to take her hand, to hold on to her--on to the present, but he could sense her and time slipping away from him, like the ship on which he stood.

  The screen darkened; Kirk turned toward the door and said, "Come." Spock entered, carrying two packages--a smaller stacked atop a larger, both precisely wrapped in colored paper. He hesitated, looking reserved and somewhat awkward, just inside the door.

  "What's this?" Kirk gestured with feigned surprise at packages. th'e'A gift, sir." Spock handed him the larger box.

  "Perhaps it is not the custom; but it seemed. somehow appropriate to mark the end of our years of service together." Kirk smiled faintly, touched, and sat on his bunk to open it. He removed the paper carefully; inside the box, swathed in tissue, was a gleaming brass-and-polished- wood sextant--a centuries-old tool sailors once used to navigate by the stars.

  "To help me find my way?" Kirk asked lightly, running his fingers over it in admiration. "Spock--thank you.

  It's beautiful...." As he spoke, the door chimed once more. Come, Jim said, and McCoy entered.

  There was a wide grin on the doctor's face and two dust-covered flagons in his arms; but to Jim, the smile seemed forced. Purple shadows had gathered beneath

  McCoy's ice blue eyes; he looked as haggard as Kirk felt after the hardships endured on Rura Penthe.

  My God, Jim thought. He ~ old... and so am I.

  "Well," McCoy said cheerfully, holding up the flasks.

  "I see the Vulcan beat me to it. I, too, came bearing gifts." "Two bottles? I hope they're both for me." Kirk squinted at them, wishing he had his spectacles.

  "Not in the least." The doctor lifted one and blew on the label; Kirk raised his hands to protect himself from the approaching cloud of dust. "This one's oldest, so it's yours." Kirk took the bottle and smiled at the date on the label.

  "For auld lang syne," said McCoy, with the slightest quaver in his voice; or was it Jim's imagination? "And this one--" He blew on the second bottle's label and handed it to Spock.

  "Why, Dr. McCoy," the Vulcan said with mild sur- prise. "This is alcohol." "Good old-fashioned Saurian brandy, to be precise," the doctor said with gusto. "Drink it and remember me--and the importance of loosening up once in a while." "I shall," Spock replied. "If you will attempt to recall the importance of logic when you gaze upon this." He proffered McCoy the smaller package.

  McCoy unwrapped it and lifted out a palm-sized circle of burnished metal, on which was etched an intricate maze of geometric design. He frowned at it. "It's lovely, Spock.... But... what is it?" "A Vulcan mandala. One contemplates it to quiet the

  mind and emotions, in preparation for the reception of logic." "Oh. Thank you." McCoy slipped it into his jacket pocket. "I'll be sure to look at it every time I need a little logic. Now that you won't be around to provide it for me.

  "Gentlemen." Kirk rose and went over to the dresser.

  "I'm no good at wrapping things, but... these are for you." He handed the small paper book to Spock.

  Spock looked down at the book and allowed the merest ghost of a smile to pass over his features.

  "Horatio Hornblower. Thank you, Captain." "To remember me by," Jim said.

  McCoy lifted a brow. "Don't you think Don Juan would have been a little more appropriate?" "Watch your tongue, Doctor, or I'll keep your pres- ent," Kirk retorted, gesturing toward the mantel clock.

  "I was tempted to keep it anyway." He opened the crystal face and set the minute hand back to the hour; the clock began again to chime, a rich, melodic sound that echoed faintly off the bulkheads.

  Lips parted with delight, McCoy listened, clearly enchanted.

  "To remember the good times." Kirk smiled.

  "Jim... it's beautiful. I think that's the finest present anyone's ever given me--with the exception of my grandkids, of course." The doctor's expression grew suddenly somber as he gazed up at his friends. "I can't imagine what life will be like without you two. It isn't really ending, is it? After all these years, it can't be over.... " Doctor." Jim's tone grew~ "Don't get maudlin on me, firm. They had a long night ahead of them--one in which he'd be asked a hundred times what he was going to do with himself now that he didn't have the Enter- prise; and a hundred times, he would have to reply graciously. He didn't need to start out the evening depressed. "And stop talking like we'll never see each other again." "Well--when will we see each other?" "How about tomorrow? I was thinking of heading to Yosemite, and thought you two might enjoy going there with me again--" "Can't do it," McCoy said glumly. "I'm going to stay with Joanna and her family, and we're talking about heading off to do some research out in the B'renga sector. And Spock's headed home--" "Home?" Jim glanced swiftly at his first officer for verification.

  Spock gave a single nod. "I am... discussing the possibility of doing some diplomatic work with Ambas- sador Sarek. I shall be returning to Vulcan tomorrow. I am afraid I cannot accompany you to Yosemite." "I see," Jim said softly. And for the first time, he realized that he was not simply parting for a few months' shore leave, but saying good-bye to his two best friends.

  A sudden indescribable loneliness overtook him, mel- ancholy coupled with premonition. He flashed on an image of himself, years before, seated in front of a crackling campfire in Yosemite Park, grinning up at his two friends' faces, orange with reflected firelight.

  That's right; he had scaled El Capitan, the most rugged peak in the park, and had fallen. And Spock had him. And Bones, outraged as usual by his cap- tain's risk-taking, had asked him whether he had been trying to kill himself.

  It was funny, Kirk had answered then, but even as I was falling, I knew I wouldn't die... because the two of you were with me. I've always known I'll die alone.

  Spock would no longer be there to catch him, nor McCoy to sputter in outrage. The thought that he was losing all that was dearest to him--Carol, Spock, Bones, the Enterprise--finally struck home. He was alone now, unfettered, moorless.

  A shudder passed through him. Someone walking on my grave.

  But the thought seemed too self-pitying. He dismissed it resolutely, forced himself to smile. "Well... we will be getting together again at some point." He rose.

  "Gentlemen. Thank you for the gifts. I think it's time we were off to the festivities." "The last firewatch." McCoy drew a breath that caught in his throat as he studied his two friends. "Are we really ready for this?" "Not at all," Jim answered honestly. "Let's go."

  TWO

  One year later, Pavel Chekov, Commander, Starfleet, stood in the midst of a vast and undulating ocean of wheat and gazed up at the cloudless sky. He had been standing patient watch for some time--long enough to be heated and dazzled by the bright sun; long enough, certainly, to grow reflective about the object of his search.

  The parallel seas of blue and gold, one above, one below, seemed infinite, and evoked the same dizzying sensation of freedom, of disconnectednes
s, he had felt over the past year since leaving the Enterprise and the service. Transitions were never easy, but as a Starfleet officer, Chekov had learned to take them in stride; only this one had proved the most challenging of all. A year or two before, he had thought to avoid that sensation by re-forming old connections. He had contacted Irina Galliulin, his love from his Academy days, the one woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life within only to learn that she was soon to marry.

  And so he had acquired a small dacha outside Moscow and spent his off-time there alone, except for those opportunities to gather with old friends. When the invitation came from Starfleet to attend the christening of the Enterprise-B, he jumped at the chance.

  He stood beside Montgomery Scott now, who also frowned up at the sky. He enjoyed ScoWs companyrain part, because Scott was clearly enjoying himself, enjoy- ing retirement. He had settled in his native Scotland with his sister's family, playing the role of doting uncle with gusto, producing a rapid spate of engineering articles for technical journals. And, he had relayed to Chekov with obvious pride, Starfleet had hired him as a part-time consultant in the design of new vessels. Yet his family ties and his labor of love for Starfleet still left him with enough freedom to reunite with old friends. He was looking as healthy as Chekov had ever seen him; his face was well tanned, with a faint ruddy glow that spoke of contentment rather than Scotch, and though his form was still stout, he seemed to Chekov slightly leaner as of late.