Last Full Measure - Michael A. Martin [117]
As the little boy barnstormed past, his surprisingly solid shoulder clipped the old man on the hip, spoiling his balance; the centenarian would almost certainly have toppled over onto the hard granite steps had Marvick not been there to catch him.
“Whoa!” Marvick shouted as he steadied the old man, who quickly regained his footing, if not his dignity.
“Looks like I nearly lived up to my old nickname just then,” the old man said with a bemused chuckle as he watched the child, apparently unaware of the collision his hotdog imaginary piloting had caused, started to make another wide, elliptical loop across the lawn surrounding the monument.
“Watch it, Jimmy!” the older boy cried, his partially completed rubbing and his other drawing materials lying scattered at his feet across the moist stone.
“Who the heck is Sam?” the old man wanted to know.
“My middle name is Samuel, just like my dad,” the older boy said, his furrowed brow giving him an air of seriousness far beyond his years. “Jimmy’s the only one who calls me that.”
Winona Kirk and her husband were rushing to the old man’s side; her face was a portrait of concern, while the little boy’s father exhibited durable if strained patience. “Jimmy!” shouted Lieutenant Kirk, who then turned to face the old man and Marvick. “I’m really sorry about this. That boy can be a real force of nature sometimes.”
“Must be because his birthday is on March 22,” observed the younger George, while recovering his fallen pencil and papers.
The date of the Xindi attack, the old man thought, briefly wondering whether that fact augured well or ill for the boy’s future before dismissing the whole idea as silly.
“James Tiberius Kirk!” Winona cried. “You get back here this instant!”
The old man speculated momentarily on which omen was worse for the child: his notorious birth date, or having a middle name derived from a particularly bloodthirsty Roman emperor. This kid’s got to be a hell-raiser for life. It’s practically written in his stars.
He grinned at the Kirks, hoping to diffuse their vexation toward the child. “The boy didn’t mean any harm. He’s just a high-spirited kid. Pretty much the same as I was at about that age, or so I’ve been told. ’Cept I was daydreaming about building and hot-rodding shuttlecraft instead of flyin’ ’em.”
Though both parents were clearly pleased to see that no permanent harm had been done, the elder George Kirk nevertheless dutifully collected his errant child and frog-marched him back into the presence of the old man, to whom the little boy offered a pouting, reluctant apology before being released back into the wild blue yonder of his imagination.
Afterward, the elder Kirks bid the old man and Marvick farewell. The old man watched quietly as the Kirk family walked away, headed across the lawn in the direction of the quiet Starfleet Academy grounds. Little Jimmy Kirk was way out in front of the pack, bound yet again for parts unknown.
“You never answered my question,” Marvick said as the overcast sky released several more fat raindrops onto the old man’s head and shoulders. Although several other families and individuals, tourists and joggers, had appeared on the grounds surrounding the Starfleet War Memorial, the old man and Marvick were essentially alone.
“Hmmm? What question?” the old man said.
“Why you never visited the Starfleet War Memorial before now.”
The old man sighed, still not at all sure how to answer, though he’d been giving the matter a great deal of thought. Squinting upward toward the tip of the stone spire that towered some six meters over his head, he tried to recall the many past occasions when he might have come here but had instead found some excuse to be elsewhere. One of those times had come seventy-seven years ago, shortly after Jonathan Archer, Nathan Samuels,