Star Trek - TNG - Generations Page 2

  Chekov envied him. Perhaps, with time, he, Chekov, would find his own niche, as Scott had. But for the time he identified more with the captain~with Jim, he corrected himself silently. It was difficult, almost impos- sible, for him to dispense with the notion of rank after all these years; as strange as hearing Scott address him as Payel. Kirk clearly was consumed with the same restless- ness, the same dissatisfaction Chekov experienced daily; he had seen it in the captain's--Jim's--eyes.

  Chekov's reverie ceased abruptly as he spotted a tiny black speck in the midst of all that blue. He raised an arm and pointed to it as he turned excitedly to Scott.

  "There he is--there, to the south!" Scott lifted a hand to his weathered forehead, displac- ing a silver fringe of hair as he shielded his eyes from the glare. After a moment's scrutiny, he clicked his tongue.

  "What are ye, blind? That's a bird." Chekov squinted, ready to protest until he made out the wings. He sagged slightly as anticipation left him.

  "Rappelling the Crystalline Trench," Scott said sud- denly, in the same indignant tone. "Rafting down lava flows... orbital skydiving... It's like the man is run- ning a bloody decathlon across the galaxy." Chekov frowned at the note of disapproval in Scott's voice. Certainly there was nothing wrong with orbital skydiving; in fact, Chekov had hoped to try it himself-- after he saw how Jim Kirk fared with it. He opened his mouth to say something in the captain's defense. Per- haps Scott, with his comfortable family life, did not understand what it was to feel restless, unanchored, eager for excitement.

  But Chekov never got the chance to explain things to Scott; a sonic boom, followed almost instantly by anoth- er, distracted him. "That should be him now," he said.

  "I think he's just crossed the sound barrier." The two shaded their eyes from the sun and stared up at the sky. For a few seconds, Chekov thought he might have been mistaken again; but then, slightly to the west of where he anticipated, a dark speck appeared in the midst of the cerulean blue. It loomed suddenly larger, and larger, and this time, it most definitely was not a bird, but the form of a man hanging from a parachute.

  He sailed down rapidly and landed unceremoniously flat on his back several meters away in the wheat.

  Chekov and Scott hurried over to him.

  Kirk sat up and pulled off his helmet, revealing the broad grin of a delighted child. "Right on target! I jump out over the Arabian Peninsula... and I end up here, right on the dime." He got to his feet, brushing away his two friends' attempts at assistance, cheerfully oblivious to the wisps of smoke still emanating from his charred, scorched suit.

  "Actually, Captain," Chekov offered, "your precise target area was thirty-five meters"--he gestured to the west--"that way." Kirk's lip quirked wryly, in the same manner Chekov had seen so many times on the bridge, when Spock had offered concise but unwanted details; perhaps, Chekov thought, he had offered the information precisely be- cause Spock could not be there with them. "Thanks for pointing that out," the captain said. He began pulling off his suit, but drew up and winced suddenly in obvious pain.

  Scott was shaking his head with fresh disapproval.

  "I've warned ye about that back of yours. You should have a doctor take a look at it." Kirk made a sound of skepticism and started to remove his harness. "Tomorrow," he told Chekov excit- edly, knowing that the younger man shared his enthusi- asm for daredevil feats to a much greater extent than did his former engineer, "I want to make a tri-elliptical jump. That's where you jump out over northern China, and make three complete orbits before you start reentry.... " Chekov was sincerely interested in hearing about tri-elliptical jumps--and perhaps even trying one himself--but Kirk had apparently suffered a memory lapse. The very notion that the captain might have

  become forgetful embarrassed Chekov; gently, he said, "Captain. Perhaps you have forgotten that tomorrow is the christening ceremony.... " Kirk clearly had not. A flash of irritation crossed his features, then faded to stubborn resolve as he said curtly, "I'm not going." He paused, then fumbled at the straps on his body harness. "Scotty, help me with this chute." Scott stepped forward and reached for the straps, his expression again stern and reproachful. "What do ye mean, you're not going? We promised." "When I retired, I swore I'd never set foot on a starship again, and I meant it." "Captain..." Chekov chided mildly, meaning: We know you don't really mean it, sir. He was not quite sure what prompted Kirk's sudden outburst of mulishness, except possibly the recent disappointing news that Spock and McCoy would not be joining them for the christening ceremony. Nor would Uhura, who was vaca- tioning in a far-off region of the galaxy before returning to teach at the Academy, or Sulu, who was off command- ing the Excelsior.

  "I don't want to hear any more about it," Kirk told them both. "I'm not going and that's final." Yes, sir, Chekov almost said, but he and Scott shared a knowing glance; he had heard the uncertainty in the captain's tone, and would not be at all surprised if Kirk had another change of heart before morning.

  In the instant before the turbolift doors slid open, Jim Kirk drew a deep breath and steeled himself. A year before, in his final moments as captain on the bridge of his ship, he had sworn that he would never set foot on another starship again... for the simple, painful reason that he would never again be in the command chair. Yet despite his protestations to Scott and Chekov the day before, he had yielded to duty, responsibility--and no small amount of curiosity--and accompanied his friends to the christening of the Enterprise-B.

  But from the moment he arrived on spacedock, he was unable to shake the feeling that it had been a mistake to come, that something indescribable was wrong. Perhaps it was just the weight of the past and his current pointless existence settling over him, or perhaps the simple disap- pointment that the friends who should have stood beside him now--Spock and Bones--could not be here. Spock was involved with a diplomatic mission on behalf of Vulcan and could not free himself, though he had sent a terse, elegant message honoring the former crew of the Enterprise-A and congratulating the new crew of the Enterprise-B. As for McCoy, he and his family were attending his granddaughter's graduation from the Vul- can Science Academy; he, too, had sent a polite message of congratulations to Starfleet--and a private message to Jim, saying: Miss you, old friend. I'll be with you in spirit.

  Jim's unease had begun with a restless night of trou- bling dreams; and in the fleeting second as he stared at the seam in the lift doors, he was haunted by dimly colored images from the night before, from dreams that had been strands of memory braided with imagination: Yosemite. E1 Capitan. Climbing, gripping cool rock with his fingers, his hands, breathing in sweet Terran air, gazing out at hawks flying past. Spock appearing out of the literal blue, distracting him, and then:

  The fall, just as it had happened those years ago, so swiftly that it shoved the air from his lungs, made him dizzy as he flailed, clawing vainly at smooth rock.

  Abruptly, the superimposed flash of himself seated at the campfire beside Spock and Bones, explaining why he had not been afraid. ú.. even as I was falling, I knew I wouldn't die, because the two of you were with me.

  Captain, Spock said, as the setting shifted again, and they were on the Enterprise-A in Jim's quarters, on his last night as captain. I shall be returning to Vulcan.

  And then he was falling again--falling into infinity, past El Capitan, over the Arabian Peninsula with the air roaring in his ears, waiting for Spock to catch him.

  But Spock was gone--on Vulcanmand Bones was nowhere to be found, either. Jim was alonemfor the first time really alone, terrified and in free fall. Even so, he heard the doctor's voice whisper in his ear: Miss you, old friend....

  And then, the question Bones had asked Spock so long ago, on the Klingon Bird-of-Prey soon after the Vulcan had returned to the living: What did it feel like, being dead?

  Ridiculous, to be so unsettled by dreams. Kirk gave his head a slight shake and detached himself from the memory. Self-pity was useless; it might seem wrong that Spock and McCoy were not here beside hirambut he was gratef
ul for Scotty and Chekov, the two friends who flanked him now. He glanced at them and saw that Chekov's apprehension matched his own, while Scott's expression was one of wistfulness, mixed with an over- whelming curiosity about the turbolift's new designú

  Yet despite his resolve to forget last night's dreams, he felt his unease grow. The only thing that felt comfortable about the whole affair was the chance to wear his uniform again.

  The lift doors opened onto blinding light and ap- plause. Dazzled, Kirk blinked until his vision cleared to reveal a holocam with spotlight, a bevy of journalists with padds, and the applauding bridge crew. He forced a gracious smile, and felt Scott and Chekov tense self- consciously beside him.

  "Captain Kirk," one of the reporters called, "how does it feel to be back on the Enterprise bridge?" The question was the only one he could make out clearly amid the sudden barrage: Captain, couM I have a min-- Captain Scott, do you have any comment on the-- Commander Chekov, after seeing the new Enterprise, do you regretw Blessedly, a uniformed figure pushed forward through the crowd and stepped in front of the light. Kirk knew even without looking at the insignia who it would be; authority conferred a certain confident grace, a deter- mined manner of walking that marked a captain on his own bridge.

  And a tension that permeated the air around him.

  Like a coiled spring, Jim thought. Was I ever that intense?

  "Excuse me," the man told the reporters as he strode past them. "Excuse me, there will be plenty of time for questions later." The journalists at once fell silent, and receded like a tidemall except the cameraman, who angled himself for a better picture, throwing the light directly into Kirk's

  eyes. Kirk tried not to squint, not to let his annoyance show in his frozen smile, directed now at the lean young officer who stood before him.

  "I'm Captain John Hardman." The current com- mander of the Enterprise directed a polite nod at each of the retired officers. "I'd like to welcome you all aboard." "It's our pleasure." Despite his discomfort, Kirk's smile warmed genuinely. Harriman seemed to him painfully young, painfully eager, painfully earnest about his first command--no doubt exactly the way a certain James T. Kirk had been when he had first taken com- mand of a ship called Enterprise. And while Harriman was doing a fair job of hiding his nervousness, he did not quite succeed in masking his awe of the men who stood before him.

  "I just want you to know how excited we all are to have a group of living legends with us on our maiden voyage," Harriman said. "I remember reading about your missions when I was in grade school." Scott and Chekov stiflened; Harriman's expression grew embarrassed as he realized his gaffe. His panic was so sincere that Kirk's lips quirked in amusement.

  "Well," he said easily, "may we have a look around?" "Please." Harriman gestured at the gleaming bridge, plainly relieved at the rescue. "Please..." "Demora!" Chekov's face brightened with sudden pleasure as he caught a familiar face among the sea of uniforms in the background. He headed off as the other three ceremoniously made their way toward the conn.

  "This is the new command chair," Harriman ex- plained unnecessarily to his two politely attentive guests.

  He laid a proud hand on the armrest. "If you take a look

  at the comm panel, you'll see a number of small but significant improvements over the Enterprise-A.... " He droned on for a moment; Scott seemed raptly attentive, but Kirk did not hear. Hardman and Scott quickly moved on to the helm, but Kirk lingered a moment to rest his hand enviously upon the back vf the new captain's chair.

  It seemed wrong that another man should sit here; wrong that Bones and Spock should not be here, stand- ing in their customary places beside him. He felt an abrupt, odd sense of discomfort, and flashed again on the memory of his last night as captain of the Enterprise, and the sudden chill he had felt when Spock and McCoy confessed they were going their separate ways.

  ... even as I was falling, I knew I wouldn't die... because the two of you were with me.

  Stop, he told himself firmly. He was being maudlin, self-pitying again--yet he could not quite shake the eerie sense of premonition prompted by dreams.

  "So, Captain..." someone said.

  He jerked his head up to see a reporter with a padd.

  In the same breezy tone, she continued, "This is the first Starship Enterprise in thirty years without James T.

  Kirk in command. How do you feel about that?" How the hell do you expect me to feel? he wanted to say, angered by her casualness. This ship was my life-- was everything. And now.

  Instead, he drew a breath and summoned back the frozen smile. "Just fine. I'm glad to be here to send her on her way." He tried to step past her, to join Hardman and Scott, but she angled into his path, blocking escape.

  "And what have you been doing since you retired?" "I've been... keeping busy." Trapped, he paused and tried to catch Harriman's eye, but the young captain and Scott were enthusiastically discussing the redesigned helm.

  "Excuse me, Captain," Chekov called, with sufficient command authority that the journalist backed off.

  Kirk shot him a look of gratitude.

  Chekov gave a knowing smile, then gestured with obvious pride at the officer beside him--a young Terran woman whose oddly familiar golden face and dark eyes were framed by a shoulder-length sweep of ebony hair.

  "I'd like you to meet the helmsman of the Enterprise-B." Don't I know you? Kirk was on the verge of asking, but Chekov continued: "Ensign Demora Sulu--Captain James Kirk." Kirk's lips parted in astonishment; for a moment, he just stared as the ensign offered her hand and said, with unmistakably Sulu-ish confidence and good humor, "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. My father's told me some..." Her eyes took on a faint glimmer of merri- ment. "... interesting stories about you." Jim found his voice at last. "Your father... Hikaru Sulu is your father?" He had known that Sulu had a child--a little girl, certainly not a daughter old enough to enter the Academy, much less handle the helm of a starship. Chekov had served as honorary uncle and godparent, which would certainly explain his doting demeanor now, but.

  Demora straightened proudly. "Yes, sir." Chekov leaned forward and prompted, sotto voce, "You met her once before, but she was..." Hand held

  palm down and waist high, he indicated her former height.

  Kirk shook his head in disbelief. It made sense, of course: the round cheeks beneath shining dark eyes, the gracious good nature. He could never have mistaken her for anyone else's daughter. "Yes, yes, I remember. Even then you were talking about being a helmsman, like your father. But that wasn't so long ago. It couldn't have been more than--" "Twelve years, sir," Chekov said.

  "Yes... well..." Kirk hesitated. To her credit, Demora showed not a hint of amusement or annoyance, but waited, respectful and poised, while the captain did some quick mental calculations, then sighed in acquies- cence. "Congratulations, Ensign," he said at last, and smiled genuinely. "It wouldn't be the Enterprise without a Sulu at the helm." "Thank you, sir," Demora replied, with voice and gaze that revealed she had inherited her father's forth- right sincerity and warmth. "If you'll excuse me..." She turned to Chekov. "Let me show you the new inertial system.... " Kirk imagined he could hear the words she barely managed not to say: Uncle Pavel.

  The two wandered off. Kirk watched them go, and a sudden overwhelming sadness overtook him as he thought of his own child, David, of Carol, of lost chances. Rather than easing with time, his sense of loss over David's death had deepened, as if his own ap- proaching end made him see more clearly the opportuni- ties missed in life. If he had known from the beginning that he had a son, his life might now be very different.

  Perhaps--just perhaps--he could have done things differently, and David would still be alive.

  Perhaps he would be with the two of them now, instead of trying to outrun his loneliness while Carol buried her grief with work. He had seen her only twice in the past year, and each time she had been consumed by the details of rebuilding the station on Themis. He was beginning to think that her sorrow, too, had increased; t
hat maybe the sight of him reminded Carol too much of her late son--much the way that the sight of Demora at the helm reminded him strongly of Sulu now.

  He glanced up as Scotty approached, beaming broadly.

  "Damn fine ship if you ask me," Scott said with gusto.

  "What I wouldn't give for a tour of engineering.... " Kirk made a noncommittal sound, then gazed back at Demora, who was taking her position at the helm. "You know, Scotty, it amazes me." Scott's good cheer remained undampened. "And what would that be, sir?" "Sulu. When did he find the time for a family?" Scotty followed Kirk's gaze to Demora and released a silent ah. "Sulu's given the world another fine officer, hasn't he?" "She seems like a fine young woman." "That she is." Scott faced him again. "It's like you always said. If something's important enough, you make the time." Kirk gave an absent nod. For a moment, neither spoke--until Scott said, in a voice low but keen with revelation, "So... thatg why you've been running around the galaxy like an eighteen-year-old. Finding retirement a little lonely, are we?"