The Captain's Daughter Page 11

  "How is it a …" He stopped and pointed. "Look."

  She followed where he was pointing, certain that they couldn't possibly be within view of the city. The shuttle had taken them too far, too fast. They couldn't have covered the distance that quickly. . . .

  Then she saw it.

  "An oasis," she said.

  "At first I thought it might be a mirage."

  "Not at night. Come on."

  There were some ninety large oases throughout the Sahara, and many smaller ones. This was definitely one of the smaller ones, too small to support any sort of large settlement. But the vegetation, while not copious, was still lush, and the water was flowing from an underground spring. They drank of it greedily, for although they were nowhere near as dehydrated as they would have been had it been daytime, their thirst was nevertheless a very real thing.

  Sulu let the water run over his parched lips, splashing it in his face, closing his eyes and letting it run over his head. He wavered slightly and realized that closing his eyes wasn't the best of ideas; he was that fatigued. He forced them open and looked at Ling Sui.

  She had removed her shirt, revealing a black halter top beneath. Her arms were muscular, even more so than Sulu would have surmised. He could see the curve of her breasts beneath the halter, they looked small and firm. If she was aware of his gaze moving across her, she gave no indication of it. She soaked the shirt in the small spring and then draped it over herself.

  "You didn't need me," he said after a time.

  She looked up at him questioningly. "Pardon?"

  "You seem familiar with the Sahara. From the bottoms of your feet it's clear that you've done a ton of walking. I'd wager you'd have no trouble looking at the stars and figuring out which way to go."

  She smiled and looked down. "If you wagered it, your money would be safe."

  "Then why … ?"

  "Why?" She feigned surprise. "Why, don't you remember? I'm your mystery woman now."

  He laughed softly.

  "Oh, now you scoff," she said. "Obviously you don't really know anything about it."

  "I don't?"

  "No, you don't." She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around them. And she sounded very sincere as she said, "Every man—particularly every man of adventure—should have one mystery woman in his life, Sulu. That woman who enters his sphere like a comet. Who creates her own reality around him and swallows him up in it. Who 'gets' to him, inflaming his senses, heightening the sheer experience of living so that from then on, when he wakes up each morning ever after, the world seems a little different to him because he knows that she's somewhere out there in it.

  "That woman whom he thinks about, wonders about … wonders if, sooner or later, she'll pop back into his life just as abruptly as she entered it before. With some new adventure in tow, some new villains seeking to do her in. It doesn't happen, of course, because such things never happen more than once, really. You can't have a string of mystery women; it's unfair to all those pathetic wretches who, in fact, never do get a mystery woman. And years into the future, when he murmurs her name in his sleep, his wife asks him about it in the morning and he shrugs and says, 'It was just a dream, honey. It's not supposed to make sense.'"

  "You've got my entire life planned out for me, then? You come into it, you disappear from it, and I marry someone else and think of you now and then in fleeting moments?"

  She looked at him sadly. "I hope not."

  They were silent for a time, and then Ling Sui glanced around and said, "Do you think we should start walking again?" But she didn't sound tremendously enthused by the notion.

  Nor was Sulu for that matter. He shook his head. "I don't know about you, but I've had a rather long day," he said wryly. "I don't think it'll be all that long until sunrise. And I doubt that we'd luck into another oasis right when the sun's coming up. But if we stay here …"

  "Then we rest, recuperate, and start walking again tomorrow night." She nodded. "You're right, that's probably the way to go."

  He nodded, then removed his jacket, rolling it up into a makeshift pillow that he positioned beneath his head. Ling Sui didn't seem to need any such contrivance, merely lying back with her head resting on the vegetation, her hands interlaced behind her head.

  "Are you married, mystery woman?" he asked. "Or affianced, or in some way connected to someone else at the moment?"

  "Oh, come on, Sulu," she chided. "Do I seem like that kind of woman?"

  "I don't know what kind of woman you seem like. You're a mystery woman, remember."

  "Right. That's right. Forgive me … this rarefied status is still new to me." Then, her voice soft and devoid of her cockiness, she said, "No. No husband. No fiancé. No one. You?"

  "No one," he echoed.

  "Ever feel lonely?"

  "I have my friends. And I have the stars. We live in a galaxy so teeming with life … and I look up at the stars, knowing there are planets out there with alien life-forms that are likely looking right back at me. With all that, how can one ever be lonely."

  "Oh, I feel exactly the same way. I've done my share of starhopping. Not on par with yours, of course, but I've gotten around. Seen a lot of things. Been up to my neck in one thing or another. Frankly, I don't even have time to be lonely."

  "Same here."

  "Ditto."

  "Couldn't agree more."

  She paused. "Ever feel lonely?" she asked again.

  "Yes. A lot. You?"

  "The same."

  "Any regrets?"

  He paused a moment, considering. "Do you want to wade through the same unconvincing rationalizations, or should we go straight for the truth."

  "Oh, let's chance it."

  "Regrets, yes."

  "Same here. Although … it's not too late, you know. You're relatively young. So am I. We could each decide that's there more to life than running around and adventuring."

  "Not too late?"

  "No."

  He gave it some thought and then sighed. "No, you're wrong. It's too late."

  "I was afraid of that," she said.

  They were quiet for a time more. It was so still, so silent around them, and Sulu became very aware of her breathing … and, curiously, he thought he could hear the steady rhythm of his own heart. . . .

  "Why'd you switch?" she asked.

  "Pardon?"

  She rolled over, propping her head up on one hand. "Why did you switch?" she asked again. "From physics to helm. Aren't you just a … a chauffeur with delusions of grandeur?"

  He chuckled softly at the metaphor. "Well, I'm in charge of weapons and tactical as well … plus, helming a starship is a bit more complicated than steering a vehicle."

  "But that's not why."

  "No, it's not." He hadn't stopped looking at the stars. "It's because, as I spent time in the lab, I suddenly came to the realization that, in that part of the service, I'd continue to spend my time in labs. Labs on a science vessel, labs on a starship … didn't matter. I'd be down in the bowels of the ship somewhere doing reports, making studies, passing answers on to the captain, who'd be up on the bridge doing whatever was necessary for the survival of the ship and crew.

  "And I was talking with my mother one day, and I told her what I was learning at the Academy. And maybe she sensed somehow that I wasn't entirely happy with it. Part of what had drawn me to physics was that my father was a physicist, and so I just felt the inclination to follow in his footsteps. And she said to me—I suspect in hopes of prompting me to stay Earthbound—'I don't understand why you have to be out in space to be a physicist.' And I tried to have an answer for that … I think I even muttered something, although it was something clever such as 'You wouldn't understand.' But the fact was that she was right. There was no reason. Not really. Oh, there were experiments certainly that could only be conducted in space, but … was that sufficient reason? And I realized to me, at least, it wasn't.

  "But helmsman … steering the ship … looking straight ahead and
seeing the stars clustered in front of you … that's what I was really going out there for, Ling. For the stars. To go out and there lose myself in them."

  "A helmsman who wants to lose himself? Doesn't sound promising."

  He yawned and said, "There's no problem with losing yourself … as long as you can always find your way back."

  "I suppose you're right," she said. "I suppose that—"

  But the rest of what she said began to haze out to him and, almost before he realized it, he was asleep.

  He was in that place where waking and dreaming intersect. . . . Stars seemed to float about him, and he was unsure of whether he was at the helm of the Enterprise or staring up into the night skies above the Sahara. It was an odd sensation, because usually one isn't aware that one is dreaming, and yet here he was, feeling as if the stars were rushing past him as he sped toward some odd destiny.

  Star clusters were swirling in front of him, surrounded by blackness, and then they seemed to regroup and form the outline of a face …

  Her face …

  "Your mystery woman," she said to him, and she brought her lips to his. She tasted so sweet … she tasted like wild abandon, and youth, and adventure, and for bidden fruit that he could not resist here in the garden, and he told her all this, and she laughed. "Tasted all that before, have you, so you could compare?" she said teasingly. … And her hands were everywhere, she was everywhere in the dream, in the reality, the stars surrounding them and he had no idea if he was sleeping or awake or both. . . .

  "Let this ease both our loneliness, at least for a little while," she whispered, her breath warm in his ear, and whether he was sleeping or awake he didn't care because it felt too good, what she was doing to him, too good, the muscular body moving against his and the heat, God, the heat was …

  … pounding on him.

  He sat up, blinking against the sun, suddenly aware that he was baking in it.

  It was high above him, so high that he thought it might be around noon or so. The growth around him had protected him for a time, but the sun had moved into position so that it was shining down on him now.

  He rolled over, his joints stiff, and he splashed water on his face from the stream.

  "Ling Sui," he started to say, and looked up.

  She wasn't there.

  At first it didn't register on him that she was gone. He thought he was just looking in the wrong direction, but when he rolled over he saw that he was, in fact, alone.

  He got to his feet, his legs wavering slightly. "Ling Sui!" he called again, his voice sounding hoarse.

  No reply came except the echo of his own voice.

  No sound except the nothingness of the desert … and the cries of Sulu shouting a name over and over.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE MAN WHO WAS KNOWN in the city of Demora as Mr. Molo, designated the Magistrate (and who was known to the creators of the city of Demora as Arnold Brinkman, and was designated on-site manager) let smoke curl lazily from the (fake) cigarette he held delicately between his large fingers. His suit was white, his fez was red, and his ceiling fan was broken.

  He was staring across the spotless surface of his desk at the disheveled Asian gentleman seated directly across from him. He had an associate who was a bit younger and not remotely disheveled.

  Staying consistent with the ambience of Demora as a whole, Mr. Molo was taking notes on a notepad with a scratchy pencil. "So let's see if I understand this," he said softly, looking over what he'd written. "You were chatting with a young woman, Lieutenant Commander Sulu … and suddenly people began shooting … you panicked, leaped into a nearby vehicle, and fled, eventually crashing the vehicle in the desert. You walked for a time with the young lady, found an oasis … the young lady disappeared during the night …" He turned his attention to Chekov. "And then you found him?"

  "I vas concerned," said Chekov. "He vas out all night." He looked at Sulu with a deadpan. "You know how I vorry."

  Sulu's face was inscrutable. With no comment, Mr. Molo continued, "You rented out a shuttle, began combing the desert, and stumbled over him? That was fairly lucky."

  "Lucky?" Chekov looked indignant. "I'll have you know, Meester Molo, that I've piloted shuttlecrafts through ion storms searching for lost landing parties on a planet of active wolcanoes. Spotting Meester Sulu vas child's play."

  Mr. Molo took a long drag on his cigarette, then turned his swivel chair in preparation to heft his bulk to a standing position. His back was momentarily to the Starfleet officers, and Sulu took the opportunity to turn to Chekov and mouth, Active volcanoes?

  Chekov shrugged. Damn, but it had sounded impressive.

  "But you were less successful finding the young woman."

  "Ve continued the search in an expanding radius. We searched for several hours. There was no sign of her."

  "Where do you think she went?"

  Chekov gave him a slightly patronizing look. "If I had an idea of vere she vent, ve vould have gone there and gotten her. Yes?"

  Apparently unfazed, Molo turned his attention back to Sulu. "What were you doing in the Thieves Quarter?"

  "Being shot at. I told you."

  "Were they shooting at you? Or at the young woman?"

  "I didn't stop to ask them. They didn't seem the type to be generous with providing information."

  "And you never saw the woman before that?"

  "Never."

  "And did the young woman tell you her name?"

  Sulu seemed to hesitate a moment, and then said, "Yes."

  His pencil poised over his notepad, Mr. Molo prompted, "And that name would be?"

  "Moo."

  Mr. Molo blinked. "Would that be a first name or last name?"

  "First."

  "Most unusual."

  "I believe she said she grew up on a farm."

  "All right," said Mr. Molo, and he carefully wrote the name, Moo. "Last name?"

  "Shu pork."

  Chekov cleared his throat loudly, giving him the opportunity to put his hand carefully over his mouth to cover his smile. Sulu remained expressionless.

  Mr. Molo allowed the pencil point to hover over the notepad for a moment before he laid the pencil down gently. He steepled his fingers. "Do you think you're funny, Lieutenant Commander? Do you think that a complaint to Starfleet over your questionable conduct in our city would be as amusing as you?"

  Slowly Sulu leaned forward, his eyes unblinking. "What I think, Mr. Molo, is that I'm hot. I'm tired. I'm parched. What I think"—and then his voice became low and hoarse, and there was an edge to it that could have carved diamond—"what I think is that you're dirty. Filthy, in fact. I think there are things that go on in this town that are illegal and immoral, and payoffs are made, all of which go into your pocket. I think this lovely little fantasy city has developed its own dark underbelly, just like the cities it was created to imitate. I think you provide information to whoever wants it for the right price. That you don't give a damn about anyone or anything except lining your own pocket. Or maybe it goes higher, to your employer's organization. And if you want to start investigations in Starfleet of me, then you'd better be ready to withstand some heavyduty investigating directed right back at you. Take your best shot, and I'll take mine, and we'll see who's left standing."

  There was a long, deathly silence.

  Then, very slowly, Mr. Molo slid open his desk drawer and placed his notepad into it. His pencil went into a pencil holder.

  "I apologize for the inconveniences you've encountered, Lieutenant Commander," he said. "I've already sent word to your hotel that all charges are to be considered compliments of management."

  Sulu made no motion. Not a nod, or even a blink of an eyebrow. He might as well have been carved from marble.

  Chekov rose from his chair and said levelly, "Ve appreciate the gesture."

  They started for the door, and as they approached it Mr. Molo said, "Oh, and gentlemen …"

  They turned to him and waited.

&n
bsp; "… your business is so joyous to have, that I think it would be criminal to keep it all to ourselves. I think you should consider bringing future business to as many other places as possible. Share the wealth, as it were."

  "Other places besides here," said Chekov.

  "Actually, I was thinking any place but here."

  Sulu nodded slowly. "So was I." And they walked out.

  Their bags sat on the bed, packed and waiting for the bellman to come upstairs. Sulu stood on the porch, watching the sun halfway up in the sky.

  They had stayed one more night, made one more sweep of the desert. But there had been no sign of her. They had also gone exploring in the Thieves Quarter, this time quietly armed with phasers that Chekov had acquired through means that he didn't volunteer and Sulu didn't inquire about. Still no sign. The mention of her name drew blank stares.

  Sulu found where her apartment had been. It was vacant. He found the warehouse where he'd been imprisoned. Empty.

  "I swear to you, I didn't arrange it," Chekov had said to him. He didn't have to work hard to convince Sulu of that; Sulu was already a believer.

  Now, on the veranda, Sulu let out a sigh. Chekov was doing one of his usual last-minute checks of drawers to make sure nothing had been overlooked. He paused and glanced over at his friend. "If you like, ve can stay longer. See if …"

  Sulu shook his head. "No. She's gone because she wants to be gone. No trace of her footprints in the sand. No trace of her. Gone. All gone."

  "As if none of it mattered."

  "Oh," Sulu said, "it mattered. It mattered to me. Whatever happens with her now … it's out of my control. That's always a difficult thing for a helmsman to admit: that he's not steering the vessel."

  "It's not like you to give up."

  "Give up?" Sulu looked at him in surprise. "It has nothing to do with giving up, Chekov. It's simply the end, that's all."

  "The end?"

  "Of course. Someone once said … I don't remember who … that the entire trick to ending a story is to know where to end it. Saying 'They lived happily ever after' only works because you've ended the story at a high point. If you continue it beyond that point, eventually the hero and heroine grow old and die. Every story really has an unhappy ending. It's all in the timing. Ling Sui … she knew the timing called for her to mysteriously disappear. What else was she supposed to do? Stick with me, marry me, grow old and die with me? No no, Pav … that would be all wrong. All wrong. This story ends where it has to: on a note of mystery. Anything else would be … inappropriate."