STAR TREK - TNG - Generations

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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 disconnectedness, 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.
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 grateful 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
摘要：

StarTrek-TNG-GenerationsPartOneSPACEDOCK,EARTH2293OldEarthDateONEInthecaptain'squartersaboardtheEnterprise-Athenauticalclockchimed,breakingthesilencetosoftlymarkthepassageoftime.JamesKirkpausedoverthesuitcaseopenonhisbunk,neatlyfoldedciviliantunicinhand,andstraightenedtolisten.Ashedid,asecondclock--...

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