Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [91]
“No, I’m not.” Kirk’s eyes flashed to him with a hint of the fire that had been buried. “Where did you get that idea?”
“Well … I think it’s obvious.”
“And I think you’re crazy. I’m more expendable than any of my crew. I’m the least important person aboard. The most junior technician on my ship is more important than I am. I’ll let myself be killed before I’ll hand over any of them. And they all know it. They know I’ll fight for their lives. So they’re willing to give them. And you are too,” Kirk said, giving Picard that dangerous look, as if he could see through his skin into his heart. “That’s why within a month of taking command, you started beaming down and breaking that rule. The admirals sit back in starbases and say, ‘You folks go risk your lives.’ They’ve forgotten the need for junior officers to see their captains willing to take the same risks.”
The room fell silent for a few long moments as the two simply gazed at each other in a weird kind of mutual understanding, and Picard felt as if he were being dissected—but by his own hand.
“Could that be why,” Picard began slowly, thinking hard, “could it be why you disliked the admiralty? You didn’t want to stop going in front?”
“Yes,” Kirk said instantly. “It’s that part of us that makes us say, ‘No more.’ “
In a jolt of his old self, he slammed the table with the flat of his palm.
Picard stood up. “So the crew, the ship—they’re more important to you than your own life? I never knew that about you. Only the bravado has come through history. But the crew and the ship were what you really cared about.”
Kirk paused, touched the table, ran his hand along the grain of the imitation wood. “The ship … if you ask a designer, it’s just a mass of metal and circuits. A gathering of electrons. But ask someone who sails her … she’s much more. She’s the physical manifestation of our ideals. Work, exploration, protection—all the great things intelligent beings can be and do when we get together. The ship is our home, our commonality. It’s our meeting place.”
Picard started to say something, then decided to listen. He wanted to hear this part.
Waving a finger toward the ceiling, Kirk glanced around. “It’s important. At a time of crisis, the ship gives us all a single goal. Stand fast for the ship, and we’ll survive. That’s the connection between the people and the symbol. A ship is more than a symbol. She’s our island of survival.”
Now Picard suddenly felt the bubbling of his own sentiments, and took a breath that made Kirk look at him, and wait.
“When I lost the Stargazer,” Picard said, “the loss almost crushed me. That was my first command. I was one of the youngest captains ever to command a Starfleet vessel. It hurt so much that I started pushing back. I changed the way I thought about ships. I convinced myself that only the people mattered. When the EnterpriseD was wrecked, I was too cavalier about it. I’d conditioned myself not to care … after all, it’s just a hunk of metal, isn’t it? That’s what I trained myself to believe all these years, but I’m troubled now. Now that I’ve actually lost her, it’s different. It’s months later, and she’s still gone—somehow I didn’t expect that. Somehow I didn’t think she was truly gone. I’m afraid the crew took my example and didn’t bother to care about the ship either. And so she really is truly gone. And not only gone for us, the crew … but everyone else in the Federation. I lost their flagship. I didn’t remember to care about the ship until it was too late. I forgot that the ship is important.”
James Kirk was watching him, in a most disturbing and real-blooded way. “That’s how it is. The ship is your reason to stick together. She defends you time after time, and you defend her. You keep each other alive until the last possible moment. Then one of you makes the ultimate sacrifice. It’s natural. We’re not the captains of ships. We’re the captains of ideals.”
Feeling a warm ball of understanding rise from deep in his chest, Picard watched the young Kirk and both hurt