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. Seated 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 here."
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.
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 fiveyear 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 righthanded. 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.
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