The Captain's Daughter

by Peter David

  "Come," he called.

  The door slid open and Ensign Sulu walked in. She looked slightly tentative.

  "Yes, Ensign?"

  "Sir … permission to join the rescue party to Askalon Five, presuming there is one."

  From behind the desk he looked up at her. "Why wouldn't there be one, Ensign? There's a beacon calling for help. We're on our way to help. Once we're there, you don't actually think we're going to just stare at the place, do you?"

  "No, sir."

  "Odd choice of words, then."

  "Yes, sir. I'm sorry."

  "Landing party is hardly a 'party,' Ensign, despite the term. This would be your first one."

  "Yes, sir." Trying to sound relaxed, she offered, "I could wear white."

  He stared at her. "That would be an attempt at humor, I take it."

  Her mouth moved slightly, no words immediately forming. Finally she got out, "Yes, sir." Then, rallying, she said, "I wanted to bring it up to you now, sir, rather than just keep my fingers crossed, or discuss it with you on the bridge in front of everyone."

  "Out of consideration for your feelings, Ensign, or mine?"

  "I …" She shrugged. "I didn't think it appropriate, sir."

  "Well, you were right." He paused, and then his own shrug mirrored her own. "Very well. You'll be assigned to the landing party."

  "Thank you, sir," said Demora. "You see, I figured I would be an asset because the distress message was in Chinese …"

  "Yes, I know that."

  "Plus if there really are ruins down there, ancient civilizations are a hobby of mine. . . . I have quite a few hobbies, in fact. Actually, for a brief while there I considered a career ch—"

  "Ensign," said Harriman forcefully but gently, "there's an old expression: Once you've won your case, get out of the courtroom."

  She blinked. "Pardon, sir?"

  "You came in here to request permission to go. I've granted permission. Don't stand there telling me all the reasons I should make a decision that I already made in your favor. The only thing that's going to do is make me want to change my mind. You don't want me to do that, do you."

  "No, sir," said Demora. Reflexively, she started to open her mouth to say something else, but then she thought better of it, closed it, and got out.

  It was only after she had left his quarters that Harriman allowed himself to smile, ever so slightly. But then the smile faded.

  He tapped a button on his desktop console. "Personal log, supplemental," he said. He had made a terse and fairly standard log entry earlier in the day. But his conversation with Ensign Sulu had stirred a distant sadness within him.

  And he had no one to talk to.

  He couldn't talk to his junior officers; that wouldn't be appropriate. The ship's engineer was older than he, as was the doctor … but he didn't feel secure enough to seek out their counsel. He was, after all, the captain. He couldn't start seeking out substitute father figures. He was the one to whom everyone was supposed to be looking. It made him feel very, very isolated.

  So he did the only thing he could: He talked to himself.

  "Was I ever that young?" he mused aloud. "Well, now, that's the problem, isn't it. It seems like only yesterday I was that young. Here I am, in charge of a starship—the starship—and yet in many ways I still feel that tentative, uncertain little ensign inside me. Looking to advance, looking to try new things, but not wanting to cause problems, not wanting to stir things up.

  "Dammit, I was tentative up on the bridge. Not by much. Just the slightest bit. But the crew could tell, I know they could tell. I was asking too many questions about safety. I was being too damned careful!" He slapped his open palm on the desktop. "The moment I determined that there was a call for help, there shouldn't have been any further discussion! Someone needs our help, we help, and that's it, and that's all!

  "Every time … every time I step out on that bridge, I see Kirk sitting there. Staring at me, watching every move I make. Judging what's going on. And I'm always coming up short. Always. Every decision I make, any order of any consequence, I mentally double-check with Kirk to make sure that it's the right move. And he never tells me. He never tells me. Just … just sits there. Sits and watches.

  "They think I don't know. They think I haven't heard the nickname floating around for this ship. 'The Flying Dutchman.' Behind closed doors, behind the backs of their hands, they say I'm the captain of the death ship. The ship that killed the living legend.

  "And it's my fault. It is. They cleared me, all right. Cleared my involvement, cleared my name. All so we could keep the dirty little secret, the one that we all know. I should never have let the ship be taken out before she was ready. I was so grateful and excited for the opportunity, I let them steamroll right over any misgivings I had. Key weapons, key defense mechanisms, not on-line until Tuesday. So why the bloody hell didn't I just insist we wait until Tuesday! Oh, but no. Couldn't allow that to happen. Some high muck-a-muck arranged for all the press conferences, then found out we were going to be delayed a week and didn't want to risk looking like a fool. 'Take the ship out, Harriman. Everything will be fine, Harriman. A quick spin around the solar system, what could go wrong, Harriman. Obey orders, Harriman. Do what you're told, when you're told, and there's a good boy Harriman. Damn them! Damn them and their sanctimoniousness. Thanks to them, I wound up taking this ship into a rescue mission that we simply weren't equipped to handle, and now I get to be known as the captain whose first mission destroyed the indestructible Kirk. The man who survived a thousand dangers, until he found the one thing he couldn't overcome: the command of Captain John Harriman."

  He was silent then, staring at the computer terminal. Then he said, "Computer … delete all of today's entries in personal log."

  "Deleted," said the computer.

  Harriman tapped the desktop for a moment, and then said, "New entry. Captain's personal log: All is well."

  It was a noteworthy log entry for two reasons. First, it was commendably brief. And second, it was identical, word for word, to the last two weeks' worth of log entries. All of which had come about in much the same way.

  One week before he would be slugged by Commander Pavel Chekov, Captain John Harriman shut off his computer and headed up to the bridge.

  Chapter Two

  ASKALON V lived up to its billing of not being someplace anyone would wish to be voluntarily.

  A haze of a deep purple hue hung over the sky. The air was filled with a steady breeze that was deceptively gentle. However, after only about thirty seconds the members of the landing party realized that a deep, tingling chill to the bone was creeping through them.

  The ground was soft, almost claylike beneath their boots. Consequently walking was something of a chore. So there they were, with the ground defying them, the wind starting to freeze up their joints, and the dark sky adding to the general air of gloom. All in all, not the sort of atmosphere that lent itself to high spirits or jaunty feelings of exploration.

  Harriman himself was leading the landing party. It was a practice that had been common enough back in Kirk's time, certainly. Federation policies had begun to shift, however, when other captains followed Kirk's example. In following this practice they displayed bravery and ingenuity; what they did not display, however, was Kirk's almost supernatural luck.

  This was not to say that captains were dropping like flies; far from it. There had been, however, several hideously close calls … not to mention two cases of lost limbs, and one unfortunate and wasteful demise when a captain had unknowingly trod on a small patch of land that seemed utterly routine. He had no way of knowing—indeed, probably never even had time to realize—that it was an alien equivalent of quicksand, except ten times faster and a hundred times more corrosive. There had barely been enough left of him for DNA identification.

  Certainly no one would have been "happier" if it had been the second-in-command, or a security guard, or someone of lower rank who had met such a ghastly death. One life was
not intrinsically worth more than another. But what it boiled down to was the cold, hard realities of space, and of training for that hostile and unforgiving environment. In that respect, captains simply had to be considered in a different class.

  Plus the Daystrom Institute had produced a fascinating, if somewhat controversial, study. Thousands of landing-party assignments had been fed into a vast database, processed through positronic circuitry as perfected in the M9 computer. The computer made its own selections, which were then turned over to a Starfleet blue ribbon panel for comparison. The panel's decision, which sent something of a chill through the Fleet, was that the computer's picks made more sense. They couldn't be swayed by cronyism or other, even subliminal, human considerations.

  The most conspicuous inequity was in the selection of captains spearheading away teams. The computer dismissed the need for the ship's chief commanding officer in ninety-five percent of those cases, describing them as nonessential personnel.

  Consequently there was already word of changes filtering down through Starfleet regulations. The right of a captain to lead a landing party, previously sacrosanct, was now up for discussion and review.

  This was a hard pill to take for many captains. First and foremost, they were explorers. They had joined Starfleet to explore strange new worlds, seek out new life and new civilizations, and everything else described in the literature. Being stuck on the bridge while everyone subordinate to you was given the opportunity to do so firsthand seemed a less than stellar reward for years of dedicated service.

  What it all boiled down to was that Harriman should have been—indeed, was—aware that his presence as leader of the landing party was questionable, particularly given the current atmosphere within Starfleet.

  Harriman decided, however, that he didn't care. He was going to do what he wished to do, and if others didn't like it, then they could go to hell. He did not like the feeling of always second-guessing himself, and he was going to put a stop to it. The selection of the landing-party lineup seemed as good a time as any.

  Given all that, Harriman still couldn't help but wish that he had chosen to lead a landing party into a tropical, lush paradise, instead of this relative hellhole they were staggering around in.

  Well, maybe next time.

  Demora Sulu huffed a bit as she made her way across the uncooperative terrain. From just behind her and to the right, Lieutenant Thompson muttered, "What were you thinking?"

  "Pardon?" said Demora.

  "You wanted to come along on this detail?" said Maggie as Demora slowed down, allowing her to catch up. "Good lord, why?"

  "May I remind you it was your suggestion?" Demora pointed out to her. "You told me that the signal being in Chinese was an interesting coincidence. You said that I should approach the captain about it."

  "Nooo, I said if you were interested, then you should. I didn't really think you'd volunteer. Good lord, Demora, of all places to want to attach memories of your first landing party, and it's this place?"

  "It's exciting," said Demora with genuine enthusiasm. The ground started to incline and she braced herself as best she could before pushing herself up it. Maggie followed nimbly.

  "God protect us from newbies," Maggie Thompson commented, but she couldn't quite keep the smile off her face. "I'll tell you one thing, Sulu: Your enthusiasm is easily the best thing about this pile of … whoaaa!"

  The outcry came as a result of the ground going out from under Thompson's feet. Demora turned just in time to see Thompson fall to her belly and skid back down the short but steep hill. She left a deep groove behind her in the claylike surface.

  "Lieutenant!" called Demora. "You okay?"

  Slowly Thompson pulled herself to her feet. Her uniform was covered with the clay. It was also in her face, and she spit out a large glob of it that had gotten into her mouth during her abortive outcry.

  "Oh … fine," said Thompson, making no attempt to hide her aggravation. She brushed off the filth as best she could, but her best wasn't even close to adequate. "See, Demora? If you hadn't come along, see what you'd have missed?"

  Demora waited patiently as Thompson found another, slightly more hospitable way up.

  From behind them, they heard Harriman's voice. "Lieutenant! How close are we to the origin of the distress call?"

  Harriman, along with security officer Kris Hernandez and medtech Adrian Tobler, was bringing up the rear. He walked with easy steps, apparently not the least bit perturbed by the terrain. Both Thompson and Sulu were slightly envious. The captain was disgustingly surefooted.

  "Just ahead, sir. Over that rise, as near as I can determine," she said as she checked her tricorder.

  Harriman paused and regarded her. "Took a tumble, Lieutenant?"

  "I'm fine, sir."

  He nodded and started for the same embankment where Thompson had run into trouble. Demora started to say something in warning, but Thompson rested a restraining hand on Demora's forearm. The message was clear: Shut up.

  Then Harriman suddenly seemed to pick up speed. He took several long, sweeping strides, and then vaulted up the side of the embankment as if gravity were of only passing interest to him. He landed at the top in a crouch, next to his junior officers.

  "Nice bit of exercise you get around here, wouldn't you say?"

  "I would indeed, sir," agreed Thompson reluctantly.

  "Any signs of life-forms?"

  There had been none when they'd first gotten there. But it had been difficult to be absolutely certain, because the atmosphere was heavily enough charged that it might be interfering with the ship's sensors. Now, on the ground, Thompson checked her tricorder once more. "Nothing so far, Captain. Still a remote chance, but …"

  "But not likely." He nodded. "That's what I was afraid of. Still, we're obliged to check it out thoroughly. Let's go."

  Demora, for her part, didn't like the smell of the place. Her enthusiasm as they made their way across the surface remained undiminished. But the air had a certain staleness to it that made her lungs burn after a time. She did the best she could with it through slow, steady, controlled breathing. But it was still something of a hardship.

  And then, utterly unbidden, thoughts of her father came to her.

  He had told her so many times about the occasions when he had been standing on an alien world. He had made it sound somewhat romantic, just as he seemed to take a romantic view of most aspects of life. He regaled her with incredible stories about far-off spheres. About worlds with time portals, or run by supercomputers, or populated by white rabbits and samurai (although the latter even the gullible Demora had thought sounded somewhat farfetched).

  He had made the universe sound like an incredible place.

  So why hadn't …?

  Demora quickly shut down that avenue of thinking. There was no point to it, no way of resolving it. That way lay any number of concerns and problems that simply had no business being addressed. And she wasn't about to start now.

  "Sulu!"

  It was Harriman's voice, from farther up ahead than she had realized. "Taking your time, aren't you?" he called to her.

  "Sorry, sir," she said, chiding herself. She had to stay focused, rather than let unresolved concerns about her father cloud her thinking. The consequences of muddied concentrating, after all, could be extremely disastrous.

  She had to stay on her toes.

  Then she felt something tug at her ankle. She looked down in surprise and gasped.

  Her last fully aware thought was an echo of Maggie's words: See what you'd have missed?

  Thompson had no idea how long the distress beacon had been there, or who had placed it.

  Harriman stood several feet away as Thompson closely inspected the device. It stood approximately three feet tall, on a tripod. It looked weather-beaten and a bit corroded, but it was still resolutely sending out a signal recorded by a person or persons unknown.

  "Any idea of its pedigree, Lieutenant?" asked Harriman.

  Slowly she sa
id, "Well, that's what's odd about it, Captain. It has a general look that says late twenty-second-century Earth … but there's markings on it I've never seen before." She tapped the metal exterior. "Not only that, but if you look closely, you'll see variations."

  Harriman studied the markings. "You're right," he said. "Several different styles. It's as if it's printed in several different languages, suggesting some sort of … joint venture. Any of them Chinese? Sulu, is—?"

  He stopped and looked around.

  There was no sign of her.

  "Sulu!" he called again.

  Still no answer.

  Hernandez and Tobler glanced about them. Lieutenant Thompson straightened up, and now she looked around as well. "Sulu!" she shouted. But the only thing that came back to her was the sound of her own voice.

  She started to reach for her communicator, but Harriman had already flipped his open. "Harriman to Sulu, report." He paused a few moments and then repeated himself. There was no response from the other end.

  If Harriman was concerned, he restrained it well. "Tobler … Hernandez," he said matter-of-factly, "backtrack, would you please? See if you can locate our wandering helmswoman."

  "Aye, sir," they echoed each other and headed back.

  "Permission to aid in the search, sir," said Thompson.

  "I already have two people looking for a third, Lieutenant," Harriman said briskly. "That will be sufficient, I'm sure. Now, let's get these markings translated. They might tell us …"

  Then his voice trailed off as he saw something. There had been some cloud cover, but the clouds—swept by the winds of the planet's surface—had parted to reveal a city.

  Or the remains of one, in any event. High towers stretched along the horizon, but many of them were battered and broken, the jagged edges quite visible. It was impossible to tell from that distance what they were made from—stone or steel, or something else.

  But even from that far away, Harriman knew that the city was dead. There were no lights burning anywhere. Death and decay, in Harriman's imaginings, were draped over it like great shrouds.