Last Full Measure - Michael A. Martin [116]
Still looking out for me, the old man thought. Even after all these years. Not for the first time, he wondered how differently the past century might have turned out for him had Selma Guitierrez, Larry’s great-grandmother, opted back in ’54 not to give birth to her unexpected child—a little girl whom the old man had helped raise during the years after the Xindi crisis. If little Elena had not been born, would he have been able to rely on the Kemper, Guitierrez, and Marvick families to help guard his secrets from that first Federation Day right down to the present?
The old man now believed that child to have been the work of destiny. Like Laurence Marvick, her grandson. And that great ship now being built in the skies above San Francisco, preparing to explore the unknown and extend the Federation’s olive branch of friendship across the galaxy. Without Marvick’s input as an engineering designer—the indirect result of Selma Guitierrez’s fateful decision more than eight decades ago—would that graceful new Constitution-class vessel’s stated purpose have been such a noble and benign one?
“Pleased to meet you both,” the boy said to both men as his little brother ran past the monument and part of the way up the hillside beyond it before looping back the way he came; as he passed, the child made more “whooshing” noises, sounds that made the old man think of centuries-old fighter jets.
“And happy Federation Day,” the older boy added.
“Likewise,” the old man said, smiling.
“But it’s not just Federation Day today,” said young George Kirk, beaming. “It’s also my eighth birthday.”
“Born on the Fourth of July, eh?” the old man said. “Well, happy birthday, George.”
“I don’t know if these gentlemen signed up for a history lecture, son,” said a cheerful male voice. The old man turned and saw that it belonged to the redheaded, red-uniformed young Starfleet officer he had seen a few moments earlier accompanying his family on their walk across the gently sloping lawn toward the monument spire. He was slender but strong-looking, though he seemed impossibly young. Despite his apparent youth, he seemed remarkably self-possessed and fairly exuded optimism. The old man glanced at the man’s sleeves, which bore a lieutenant’s single strand of gold braid.
“He can talk your ears off, if you let him,” said the attractive, extremely bright-looking brunette woman who stood beside the lieutenant. George, Jr. rolled his eyes, evidently having heard the same exchange many times before. “I’m sorry if he’s bothering you.”
“Not at all,” the old man said, extending his hand to the boy’s father, who stood nearest to him. “You must be George Kirk, Senior.”
As they shook hands, Marvick interposed himself yet again, offering a handshake of his own and making introductions for both of them to Lieutenant Kirk and the woman, whom George Senior introduced as Winona Kirk, his wife and the mother of both boys.
This was the second time today that the young engineer had jumped in to cover for the old man during an unanticipated social situation. As Marvick chatted about nothing in particular with the Kirks, the old man watched the engineer’s blandly pleasant expression for clues to his thoughts. Is he just spooked by the idea of letting me speak to somebody who’s wearing a Starfleet uniform? he thought. Or maybe he’s worried that I’m finally going plain old senile. Maybe he thinks I might accidentally blurt out my real name.
For perhaps the ten thousandth time during the seventy-seven years since he had agreed to allow history to pronounce him dead, he wondered if coming clean now would be such a bad thing after all. Would his real name, a footnote at best in Federation history, really be any more recognizable than his face was? After all, he really wasn’t all that comfortable with the prospect of going to his grave known only as “Larry Marvick’s ancient grand-uncle Carl.”
The smaller boy’s sudden entrance interrupted the old