Star Trek - TNG - Generations

by Generations

  Sulu glanced down at her, and knew; a jolt of emotion passed down the length of his spine like pure, cold electricity. He gripped the edge of Rand's console and whispered, "The captain..." The thought seemed impossible. He could imagine hearing such news about Scotty, or the doctor, even Chekov, but Kirk--Kirk was larger than life. A legend.

  Immortal. Kirk could not die.

  "Scott is notifying Uhura and Kirk's nephew," Chekov said awkwardly--as if searching for the appro- priate words and finding them elusive. "And I will notify Mr. Spock. Starfleet is arranging a memorial service." He hesitated. "I'm sorry, Hikaru. I don't know what else to say. I can't believe this has happened.... " "Pavel." Sulu touched the edge of the screen. "Pavel, my friend. Thank you for being the one to tell me. Take care.

  Chekov's stricken face wavered and was gone.

  Suluplaced a hand on Rand's shoulder, then turned to face his crew. "Cancel red alert." He spoke quietly, but there was a hardness in his voice that allowed it to carry over the screaming klaxon.

  "Sir?" Valtane directed a questioning stare at his captain; Lojur and Docksey followed suit.

  "Cancel red alert." Sulu stepped down from Rand's station and retook his chair, then hit a control on the console arm. "All hands: The drill is over." He drew an unsteady breath. "James T. Kirk died today aboard the Enterprise-B. I'd like to observe a moment of silence in his honor." The klaxon ceased abruptly; the bridge went utterly still as all motion, all sound, ceased.

  Along with his crew, Sulu sat and stared out at the stars, and the dark, silent future.

  Leonard McCoy slipped quietly inside the interfaith chapel on the outer grounds of Starfleet's San Francisco headquarters and took a seat near the back, where sunlight filtered through tall stained-glass windows, painting the chairs, the carpet, the backs of McCoy'sl hands, blue, red, violet. The room was small, free ofI adornments, save for the large spray of fragrant calla lilies near the podium. Most importantly, it was silent, empty. The doctor had intentionally come forty-five minutes early, to have some private moments alone with his friend.

  Not that Jim was here. It was a memorial service, not a funeral; Kirk had left behind no corpse, which seemed somehow fitting. The captain had simply dissolved into space, neat and clean.

  McCoy settled back against the chair and released a sigh. He had slept little the night before; when he had, he had dreamt of Jim, returning to the long-distant time and place when the captain had disappeared while on the ghost ship Reliant. They had all thought he was dead then, too; but he wasn't, merely trapped in interstitial space.

  In McCoy's dream, Kirk was there again, floating eerily in his space suit, waving his armsmjust as he had done when, during spatial interphase, his wraithlike form had appeared on the bridge.

  Only in the dream, Kirk wasn't gesturing for help, but waving in greeting. Smiling, his face split by a broad, euphoric grin. Inviting the doctor to join him. McCoy had wept with joy to see his friend happy and at peace, and had wakened with tears coursing down his cheeks.

  There were times when the realization that Jim was truly gone filled him with bitter grief; yet those moments were fewer than those in which his pain was tempered by the knowledge that Jim had led a good life, an amazing life, and had accomplished more, enjoyed more, experi- enced more than most ever would.

  The door opened softly; McCoy turned at the sound, and caught a quick flash of Spock's face in the crack. The Vulcan saw the doctor and retreated, began to close the door.

  McCoy rose and stepped out into the aisle.

  "No... Don't go, Spock. Please. Come in.... " Spock hesitated in the doorway. "I do not wish to disturb you, Doctor." "If it were anyone else, Spock, I'd want to be alone.

  And I'd hoped never to meet you under these circumstances... but I'm glad you're here." The sight of the Vulcan brought a surge of fresh grief, as McCoy realized that they could never again be a trio; Jim would never be with them again. Tears stung the back of McCoy's eyes; he cleared his throat and gathered him- self. He had thought he had grieved enough in private to be past suddenly welling up--and he'd promised him- self firmly that he would not embarrass the Vulcan by crying in public. But he found himself fighting the urge to fall, weeping, on Spock's shoulder.

  He managed an uncertain smile as Spock strode over, the rainbow colors reflected from the stained glass shifting over his solemn face. To the doctor's utter astonishment, the Vulcan paused in front of him, then intentionally offered his hand. "Doctor. I, too, regret the circumstance. But it is good to see you again." McCoy gaped at the proffered hand a moment-- Vulcans, touch telepaths, found physical contact with chaotically minded humans distressing~then gazed up at his friend and gratefully took it. Spock's grip was firm, feverishly warm, and seemed to McCoy to emanate such calm, compassionate strength that he found himself misting up again.

  "I can't believe it," the doctor said, with sudden anguish. "Three days, and I just can't get used to it. l can't believe Jim is gone." "He is gone." Spock's tone was flat, with a faint trace of bitterness. "Whether we believe it or not." He slowly released McCoy's grip, and nodded at the chairs. "Shall we sit?" ~ "Oh. Yes." McCoy retook his seat; the Vulcan settled I beside him. For a moment, the two sat in comfortable silence, their gazes directed ahead, at the lilies beside the podium. And then McCoy said, "Spock... do you remember when we were in Yosemite, with Jim? When he said that he always knew he'd die alone?" "Yes," Spock answered evenly.

  "I can't help thinking I should have been there with him. I mean, I know you couldn't bernyou were in- volved in a mission with your father~~but I was simply off with Joanna watching my grandchild's graduation. I guess I could have gone to the Enterprise-B's christening if I had really wanted to. But... I didn't. I was tired of Starfleet, and, frankly, didn't want to have to waste my time aboard a ship where we weren't needed. I resented being put on display." The doctor hesitated. "I just can't stop thinking: If I'd gone with him, maybe he wouldn't have--" "Doctor," Spock interrupted firmly, "your presence there would have made no difference. The captain would have sent you to sickbay, and he would still have gone to the deflector room. Even had you been with him in the deflector room--" He paused; the barely perceptible glimmer of sorrow in his eyes told McCoy that the Vulcan had shared the same guilt, and had logically reasoned it through. "--it would have only made things more difficult for him. He would have been concerned for your safety." McCoy digested this a moment. "Maybe you're right... I guess if he had to leave us, he went the way he wanted: saving the Enterprise." Spock angled his long face toward the doctor and somehow managed to convey the notion of a smile without moving the comers of his lips a fraction of a millimeter--though, McCoy noticed, the comers of his eyes crinkled almost imperceptibly. "It is not such a bad way to die." McCoy turned his head sharply at that. "That's right,.. you should know, shouldn't you?" The memo- ry of Spock's agonizing death from radiation exposure was almost too horrible to bear, and still sent a shudder through him. Yet there was some comfort knowing that Jim's end had been less painful, more mercifully swift.

  "You know something?" The Vulcan faced him silently, waiting.

  "I feel sorry for you, Spock." He said it kindly, sincerely, without any of the acerbity he had directed at the Vulcan in the past. "Because you're gonna outlive all of us. And you're going to have to experience the loss of a dear friend over and over again." He paused, trying to keep his tone light and jesting, to keep the huskiness from his voice, and failed. "That's what you get for hanging around us humans. No katras to preserve for posterity, no last-minute trips to Mount Seleya to bring us back..."

  Sudden tears filled his eyes, turning Spock's stoic countenance into a blur. "Damn," McCoy said, as they spilled hot onto his cheeks, then swore again at the sound of his shaking voice. "Damn. I'm sorry, Spock." He quickly wiped them away with the outer edge of an index finger, and riffled through his pockets for a hand- kerchief. "I promised myself I wouldn't do this to you.... " "It's all right," the Vulcan said softly. "I have served with
humans for many years. I am therefore quite accustomed to emotional displays." McCoy smiled apologetically through his tears as he continued to search his pockets. No handkerchief, but he pulled out something that made his smile grow sincere.

  "Look at this, Spock--I bet you thought I'd tucked this away in some drawer and forgotten about it." He held up the Vulcan mandala, its coppery finish turned green from countless fingerprints. "I carry it around with me.

  Call it my Vulcan good-luck charm." He managed a feeble imitation of a chuckle. "I think maybe I ought to contemplate it a bit before the others get here. My logic's not doing so good these days." He hesitated, remembering, rubbing the metal be- tween his fingers. "Remember the day you gave this to me?" "Of course, Doctor." "And Jim gave me that clock. Seems like only yesterday--but here it is already a year. I was up all last night, listening to Jim's clock strike the hours, from midnight to dawn. He gave it to me to remember the good times, he said--but all I could think about was how quickly they pass. Time just keeps moving past us, and we're helpless to stop it. You, me, even this"--he held up the mandala--"will someday be gone." "'Time,'" Spock quoted quietly, "'the devourer of all things.'" "Yes, time..." McCoy looked up swiftly, sudden anger in his voice. "I can't stop thinking about time.... "

  Part Two

  Seventy-eight Years Later

  SIX

  On the main deck of the Enterprise, Captain Jean-Luc Picard stared up at the fluttering blue-and-white banner of the United Federation of Planets and drew in a deep lungful of brine-scented air. Beneath his feet, creaking timber rocked softly to the rhythm of lapping waves; above, wind whistled through the rigging.

  More than anything, he wanted to throw back his head and laugh, to revel in the perfection of the moment. Fate seemed unutterably sweet; he felt blessed to be a man who had found what he most wanted to do, what he was born to do, with his life. Yet, as he looked over his assembled bridge crew--appropriately costumed for the historical period--he kept his expression somber.

  The task proved challenging, especially when he met his second-in-command's mischievous gaze. Will Riker looked amazingly at home in white breeches and dark blue waistcoat with gold epaulettes on the shoulders; but the beard and rakish tilt to his plumed hat spoke more of a buccaneer than a nineteenth-century naval officer.

  With a macaw on his shoulder, say, and a peg leg...

  Picard signaled Riker with a curt nod, then looked away swiftly before his own smile gravitated from his eyes to his lips.

  "Bring out the prisoner!" Riker bellowed with obvious relish.

  A nearby hatch opened. Crouching to avoid losing her tricornered hat on a low-hanging beam, Deanna Troi emerged, followed by Geordi La Forge--looking dis- tinctly un-nineteenth-century in his VISOR--and the prisoner: Worf, hatless and in shirtsleeves. Prodded by his two escorts, the Klingon moved slowly to the clank of iron chains binding his wrists and ankles.

  "Mr. Worf," Picard intoned with what he hoped was convincing severity, "I always knew this day would come. Are you prepared to face the charges?" Worf blinked and took in his strange surroundings, seemingly overwhelmed.

  With mock ferocity, Troi jabbed him in the ribs.

  "Answer him!" The Klingon gave her a glance at once puzzled and bemused, then gathered himself with dignity. "I am prepared." Picard directed another nod at Riker, who produced a large scroll of parchment from beneath his waistcoat. He cleared his throat and began to read as Geordi removed the prisoner's shackles: "We, the officers and crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise, being of sound mind and judgment, hereby make the following charges against Lieutenant Worf: One. That he did knowingly and willfully perform above and beyond the call of duty on countless occasions. Two. That he has been a good and solid officer on this ship for one score less twelve years. And three. Most seriously... that he

  has earned the respect and admiration of the entire crew." As the last of the prisoner's chains clattered to the wooden deck, Riker rewound the scroll.

  "There can be only one judgment for such crimes," Picard proclaimed, working hard to maintain his stern visage. "I hereby promote you to the rank of Lieutenant Commander, with all the rights and privileges thereto.

  And may God have mercy on your soul." The crew roared its approval. Picard at last permitted himself to smile, and leaned forward to shake Worf's hand. "Congratulations, Commander." Worf could not quite restrain a small smile himself.

  "Thank you, sir." The captain continued to remain in the Klingon's strong, warm grip until Riker stepped between them, his eyes bright with merriment. "Extend the plank!" The crew swarmed in to surround Worf and pushed him toward the ship's flank, where a long, narrow plank appeared over the lapping sea.

  "Lower the badge of office!" Riker shouted.

  Above him, a crewman who had shimmied up a yardarm lowered a rope, at the end of which hung a naval officer's three-cornered hat, complete with flutter- ing plume. The hat descended slowly until it dangled some ten feet above the end of the plank.

  "You can do it, Worfl" Troi called, waving her own hat. "Don't look down!" The others chimed in: "Good luck!....Don't fall in..." Picard watched with open amusement. Riker sidled up to him and said confidently, "He'll never make it. No one has."

  Worf clearly needed no encouragement. With consum- mate determination and grace, he stepped onto the plank and inched toward the dangling trophy.

  Geordi cupped his hands around his mouth and called, "That's a looong drop to the water!" Riker grinned and added, in a loud stage voice, "I bet that water's freezing!" Valiantly, the Klingon ignored his crew members' taunts, but continued his slow progress along the plank, which grew narrower with each step.

  Picard watched as, nearby, a slight crease formed between Beverly Crusher's auburn brows. "Geordi." She turned to the engineer with concern. "Did you remem- ber to engage the holodeck safety program? I don't know if Klingons can swim.... " Geordi's lips curved upward in a playful half-moon as he kept his gaze on the Klingon. "I'm not sure." The bridge grew quiet as Worf reached the end of the plank, then gazed up at the plumed hat, which dangled mere feet above his reach. The Klingon drew a breath, then gathered his muscular bulk and leapt.

  Picard grinned in amazement; beside him, Riker gasped as Worf completed an impossible jet~, snatched the hat with one hand, and landed hard on the board.

  For an instant, disaster seemed imminent. The wood- en plank flexed, groaning mightily as Worf waved his arms in an effort to keep his balance.

  And then he faced the spellbound audience, his coun- tenance proud and defiant, and set the hat on his head.

  The crew cheered. Picard smiled over at his second-in- command, who was applauding with less-than-sincere enthusiasm. "If there's one thing I've learned over the

  years," the captain said, "it's never underestimate a Klingon." Riker did not respond. His expression remained neu- tral, but Picard caught a glint of humor in his eyes before Will's lids lowered subtly.

  "Computer," the commander ordered. "Remove plank." The board beneath the conquering Klingon's feet suddenly vanished; flailing arms and legs, Worf fell with a resounding splash into the turquoise sea.

  Amid the renewed cheering, Picard turned to his second-in-command and said dryly, "Number One. it's retract plank, not remove plank." "Oh." Riker's blue eyes widened with mock inno- cence. "Of course, sir. Sorry." Nearby, Data tilted his head in confusion as he peered over the side rail at Worf, who was thrashing through the water toward a proffered rope ladder. He straightened and turned toward Beverly. "Doctor... I must confess I am uncertain as to why someone falling into the freezing water is amusing." She looked up from the water with a toothy grin. "It's all in good fun, Data." The android studied her blankly for an instant. "I do not understand." "Try to get into the spirit of things." She gestured enthusiastically at the surroundings. "Learn to be a little more... spontaneous." Data drew his head back and lowered his chin, pro- cessing this new information... then reached forward and, with only the precise amount of force necessary, pushe
d Beverly over the rail. He watched with a clinical air as she plummeted into the water with a shriek, then straightened to judge the reactions of his colleagues.

  No one was laughing--including Picard, who had witnessed the entire exchange. However, the captain's mood was so cheerful, so expansive, that he had to force himself to repress a chuckle. He dared a peek at Riker whose own carefully controlled expression beneath amused eyes once again forced Picard to quickly look away.

  Geordi immediately hurried over to the rail, peered down, then looked up at his confused friend.

  "Data... that wasn't funny." "I was attempting to be spontaneous," Data replied, his tone one of mild puzzlement. "I obviously do not understand what constitutes 'getting into the spirit of things.' Why is it that Commander Worf's fall into the water is 'good fun,' yet Dr. Crusher's is not?" "It's... well..." Geordi sighed. "It's hard to ex- plain, Data." He leaned forward to offer a hand to Worf, who had made it to the top of the ladder. Dripping but with soggy officer's hat proudly in hand, the Klingon stepped over the railing onto the deck. He was followed soon after by a very wet--and very unamused--Beverly Crusher.