Tales from the Captain’s Table (34 page)

In the shuttle, I prepared the helm to speed us off the planet. I waited while the captain and the other crew member recovered Mike’s body, loading it into the aft section of the shuttle and raising a stasis field about it. Then I worked the controls, and the shuttle rose, crashed through the jungle canopy, flew up through the atmosphere, and headed us for home.

All the way back to Federation space, sitting at the primary console, all I could think about was Mike’s family, and how much they had lost that day.

Back on Sentik IV, I sat at the primary console of the
Armstrong
, the memory of what had happened on that mission as fresh as an open wound. I could not deny the value and importance of what our small crew had accomplished there. I believed then, and still believe now, that our actions, our retrieval of that critical intelligence, subsequently resulted in the saving of uncounted Federation lives—and ultimately, in the saving of renegade lives as well.

But Mike hadn’t survived. I’d gone to him, had tried to minister to his mangled body, but had instead looked on as he’d drawn his last breath. He’d saved my life at the cost of his own, and I’ve carried that burden ever since. It went beyond survivor’s guilt, beyond the unanswerable question of why I had lived through our shared experience and he had not. What haunted me was the family to which Mike had never returned: parents who would have to wade through the misery of a memorial service for their child; a young boy who would grow up with ever-fading recollections of a father he’d barely known; an infant son who would spend all of his days with no father at all; and a wife whose lips would never again touch those of the man she loved.

As I sat in the shuttle on Sentik, I told myself what I’d repeated in my head so many times before: Mike had understood the risks of the mission, and despite how much he had to lose, he’d chosen to participate in it anyway. I believed that, paradoxically, he’d done it
for
his family…for
all
the families. He’d given up his life so that the knowledge I’d learned at the renegade base could be used to prevent the deaths of others. I’d never entirely learned how to live with that, but as I considered what to do about Hana’s situation, one truth kept playing over and over in my mind: Mike had paid the ultimate price in order to help secure the continued safety of his family. Sitting in the shuttle on Sentik IV, I had to ask myself if I was strong enough to pay a much smaller price for the good of my own family.

“What are you waiting for, Demora?” I said. My voice sounded strange in the empty shuttle.

I reached forward to the communications panel, pressed a control surface there, and then turned to the starboard monitor so that my image would be recorded along with my words. “To Admiral Mahesh Bapu Ratnaswamy, Starfleet Headquarters, Earth. Admiral, this is Captain Demora Sulu of the
U.S.S. Enterprise
. As of today—” I peered at the chronometer on the console, then recited the time and stardate. “—I am requesting an indefinite absence from my duties, and I’m stepping down from my captaincy. Due to the needs of—” I paused, unaccustomed to the words I was about to utter. “—of my family, I cannot negotiate for this leave. If Starfleet Command is unwilling to accommodate my request—an action I can fully understand—then I withdraw my request, and instead immediately resign my commission.”

I toggled the control on the panel, halting the recording. I then reached for the transmission key, but hesitated before activating it. I found that I needed to say one more thing, and I restarted the recording. “Admiral Ratnaswamy, this is not a decision I’ve made lightly,” I said. “My grandmother is dying. She might have a day left, or a month, or even a year. However long it turns out to be, she needs help, and I’m the only member of our family who can provide it for her.” I paused the recording, and thought about saying more. Instead, I reached again for the transmit control.

This time, I didn’t hesitate.

By the time I heard back from Starfleet Command, the
Enterprise
had already departed Starbase Magellan and begun its yearlong exploratory mission. A veteran captain had been assigned to the ship, a man I knew and respected, and who I thought a good choice for my crew. I’d hoped that my first officer would be given the position, but Command had apparently believed her not quite ready for the promotion.

In his response to me, Admiral Ratnaswamy graciously expressed his concern and best wishes for Hana. Starfleet Command understood my situation, he said, and had elected to approve my request for an indefinite furlough from my duties. Aware of the conditions on Sentik IV, and taking into consideration that the
Enterprise
had left on its mission without the
Armstrong
aboard, the admirals had also chosen to allow me to retain custody of the shuttle until the
Enterprise
completed its current assignment.

Finally, at the conclusion of the message, Admiral Ratnaswamy emphasized that, when I was ready, Command wanted me back on the bridge of a starship. He also pointed out that he could offer no guarantee that circumstances would permit me to return to command of the
Enterprise
. He signed off by wishing me well.

I felt more than a twinge of regret. I’d been aboard the
Enterprise
during its test runs and maiden voyage, assigned there directly out of the Academy. I’d served on the ship for more than two decades, and during that time, had worked my way up from ensign to captain, from the helm to the center seat.

Still, I knew that I’d made the right decision to stay with Hana. I didn’t
want
to do it, but I had no choice in the matter. Quite simply, it was the right thing to do.

The weeks I’d already spent with Hana turned into months, and with each month that passed, her physical condition deteriorated. On the day I’d chosen to stay on Sentik, she began staying in bed most of the time, taking almost all of her meals there, rising only to have me help her visit the outhouse. She also stopped changing out of her nightclothes, which I washed for her every couple of days.

After a time, she could no longer walk, even with my assistance. I fashioned an antigrav chair from components I pirated from the shuttle, and while I’d steeled myself for Hana’s protest at my use of technology, she was either too weak or just didn’t care enough to say anything. I began to wonder how aware of her surroundings she actually was.

Eventually, Hana couldn’t even make it out of her bed and onto the antigrav unit, and I had to employ the
Armstrong
’s transporter to get her to the outhouse. When even that proved too much for her, I was forced to improvise a means for her to relieve herself in her room. In effect, I’d become her nurse, seeing to all of her needs. I felt humiliated for her. No matter the quality of my relationship with her, no matter her lack of interest in my life, no matter her hard, unemotional manner, she had always seemed a strong, proud, independent person. It saddened me terribly to see her in such a desperate situation, so completely reliant on me for her very existence. I recalled my Great-Aunt Nori’s illness and incapacity, and how on my one visit to New Tokyo, Hana had appeared to pity her at the same time that she had cared for her.

As the months marched on, Hana’s mind seemed to follow her body downward. As little as she had ever spoken to me, she began to do so even less. Once she’d become fully bedridden, her ability to enunciate diminished. Where once she might have offered a word to me here or there, she stopped speaking at all, apparently capable of producing only indistinct, guttural noises.

For my part, though, I spoke to Hana more than ever. As I spent more and more time with her, I found the silences intolerable. And so as I served Hana her meals, helped her with her purgation, cleaned her, repositioned and massaged her failing body to avoid bedsores, as I did all of those things, I began to tell her about my life. She never gave me any indication that she heard my words, let alone understood them, but I talked to her anyway.

I told her about my mother, a vital, enigmatic woman I’d loved and idolized, and who I’d watched die in an infirmary bed of Sakuro’s disease when I was seven years old. I told Hana about those first turbulent years with my father, and finally coming to accept and love him. I told her about following my father’s path, joining Starfleet Academy, graduating to a helm position, and then working my way up to starship command. I told her about various adventures and experiences I’d had while on board the
Enterprise
: my capture and apparent death at Alaskon V; my parts in the famed Coronado Mystery, both in the beginning and at the end; the ridiculous turn of events that had left me, for seven hours, as Absolute Ruler of the Universe; my fascinating and difficult first mission as captain of the
Enterprise
, when the ship had traveled to the Röntgen Wall. I even told her about Mike, and those horrible days on our mission to the renegade base.

In the end, it didn’t matter whether Hana could hear me or not. I hoped that she did, but simply talking to her, telling her some of the story of my life, turned out to be something I needed to do for myself. At the same time, I wished I could have learned about her. I’d never really known her, and I realized at some point that I never would. But despite that, I decided to treasure as best I could those last few months with her.

In the springtime, I woke early one morning to bright sunshine. I rubbed my eyes and yawned, then rolled onto my side and squinted toward the right-hand wall of the cabin. The blanket that I affixed over the window every night had slipped down on one side, allowing in the rays of the dawn sun.

Knowing I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep even if I rehung the blanket, I got up, put on my boots, and headed in my nightclothes to the outhouse. Outside, the temperature was surprisingly comfortable so early in the day. On the way back to the house, I filled the water containers at the well, then hauled them inside. I then dressed, did my daily chores, and went out to the fields.

I spent the rest of the morning digging furrows. During the fall and winter, I’d reaped some of the crops, but then had ended up plowing most of them under. The work, even with the animals Hana kept, had been exhausting, but the break from tending to Hana’s continual needs helped me get through that time.

By late morning, I estimated that I’d covered half a hectare, perhaps more. I looked back over the neat rows I’d dug into the ground, and felt satisfied with the accomplishment. I removed the plow from Hana’s beast and boarded the animal back in its stall in the barn, then headed for the house. From the position of the sun almost directly overhead, I could tell that it was time for a meal, both for Hana and for me.

After I’d washed up, I opened Hana’s bedroom door and looked in to check on her. She was still asleep, I saw. I started to leave, but then something caught my attention. I peered back over at Hana, and then stared as I saw something I couldn’t explain. Hana lay on her back, with her hands atop the bedclothes, resting at her sides. Beneath one hand, she held what appeared to be a small book.

I’d seen the cloth-covered volume from time to time since I’d been there, but not for a long while. I hadn’t thought about it in months, probably not since the last occasion I’d seen Hana sitting on the chest below the back window, the book at her side. I wondered now where it had been, and assumed that she’d kept it in one of the chests, neither of which I’d had much call to open.

What I really wanted to know, though, was how Hana had retrieved it. She hadn’t been ambulatory for many months. I gazed at her tiny, weakened form, and found it impossible to believe that she’d somehow gotten out of bed that day.

As I regarded Hana’s tranquil visage, I realized something else: the bedclothes were not rising and falling with her respiration. Stunned in spite of the inevitability of the moment, I walked to the side of the bed and gingerly reached two fingers to the side of Hana’s neck.

She had passed away.

Carefully, I lifted Hana’s hands and folded them together across her midsection. I regarded her still features, and thought she looked more at peace than I’d ever seen her. I felt relief on her behalf that her plight of infirmity had ended. I also felt an unexpected melancholy.

My gaze drifted back to the book still lying by her side. I picked it up and examined it. It was perhaps ten centimeters wide and half again as tall, and covered in a soft, floral fabric. It had no title or writing of any kind on the exterior.

Curious, I opened it to the first page. There, several symbols marched across the white page in a handwritten scrawl put down in black ink. I recognized them as Japanese kanji, though I could not read them. Below these was a single word—
Magomusume
—presumably a transliteration of the symbols into romaji, which I could read.

The word meant
granddaughter
.

I gasped, realizing that Hana had left this for me.

I turned to the next page, which was filled with paragraphs penned in the same jagged handwriting. The words were written in Federation Standard. I quickly flipped through more of the book, and saw page after page crammed with writing. I then went back to the first page of text, and read the first line.

I was born in 2200 on Earth, on the cusp of the centuries, on the island of Shikoku
.