Last Full Measure - Michael A. Martin [115]
“But you hate crowds.”
The old man scowled. “Who the hell told you that?”
“You did,” Marvick said, suppressing a grin. “Maybe we ought to get moving before too many more people arrive.”
“You afraid somebody might recognize me? After all these years?” Not to mention all the surgeries, he thought, running his hand across a wrinkled cheek that still felt unnaturally smooth and taut after the many reconstructions it had undergone.
Marvick’s response was cut off by the approach of the two boys. The younger of the pair reached the monument’s steps first, or rather ran right past them, accelerating back onto the neatly manicured lawn after making a close, almost grazing approach, like an old-style interplanetary spacecraft using Jupiter’s gravity well to gain momentum. The boy was a dynamo, his tousled brown hair curling toward determined hazel eyes as he passed within perhaps a meter of the old man, shouting “WHOOOOSH!” as he headed out again for adventures that only he could see and hear.
“I’m a shuttle captain!” the little boy shouted, already well under way on his new outbound trajectory.
The other boy, who couldn’t have been any older than nine or so, was more sedate, approaching the monument with a purposeful stride, a notepad tucked under his arm, his dark blond hair combed and tidy. After nodding politely toward Marvick and the old man, the boy placed a piece of paper against the monument’s large, duranium-silver dedication plaque and began rubbing the page with the edge of an old-fashioned graphite pencil.
Smiling, the old man rose from where he had been kneeling beside his duffel, his knees cracking loudly. “What are you doing there, son?”
“Making a rubbing of the inscriptions,” the boy said without looking up from his work. “For a school report.”
“That’s pretty industrious of you. But it’s August. Isn’t school out yet?”
“A lot of schoolkids are in class all year round now,” Marvick said, rising to his feet as well and brushing some dust from his pants.
The old man’s eyes widened in surprise. “No summer vacation? I’ll be damned. Guess I stopped paying close attention to things like that a hundred or so years ago.” He took a step toward the boy and gestured toward the rubbing he was making. “So which conflict are you focusing on? Romulus? Qo’noS? The Blagee? The Suliban?”
The boy paused in his work and fixed his lively hazel eyes on the old man, shaking his head. “None of those. I’m doing the history of the Starfleet War Memorial itself. Did you know it wasn’t always called that?”
The old man liked the boy’s open, sincere manner, and decided to play along. “I had no idea.”
The boy looked pleased to have edified one of his elders. “It’s true. They finished building it in 2156, and it was supposed to be just for the people who died in the Xindi sneak attack of 2153.”
Seven million dead, the old man thought, nodding. A cloud of sadness passed behind his eyes, though he struggled manfully not to show it. Nevertheless, the face of his baby sister appeared in his mind’s eye yet again.
“But the Romulan War started just as they were unveiling it,” the boy continued. “A lot of Starfleet people were getting killed by then, and they needed a monument, too. So it sort of got shared between the Xindi War and the Romulan War. And with all the stuff that’s happened since then.”
The old man offered the boy an indulgent smile. Let’s hope your generation never has to negotiate its own share of space on this thing, he thought.
“What’s your name, son?” the old man asked.
The boy grinned, tucked his art supplies away under his left arm, and extended his right hand politely. “George. George Kirk, Junior.”
The old man shook the boy’s hand and started to reply, only to be interrupted by Marvick, who stepped forward to shake the boy’s hand next.
“Larry Marvick,”