The Good That Men Do - Andy Mangels [159]
Archer extended his right hand, and Charles shook it numbly as Phlox began making introductions all around. Then Charles tried to make the Vulcan hand sign for T’Pol in lieu of a handshake- he was proud that he understood at least that much about Vulcan culture- but gave up when he realized that the gesture was slightly beyond his ability.
“Thank you for your letter, Captain,” Elaine said, shaking the captain’s hand and offering an almost courtly nod to T’Pol. “I guess I really wasn’t expecting something so uplifting after you called us with… the news about Trip.”
A distraught expression very much like the one he’d seen Phlox display crossed Archer’s face like a bank of dark storm clouds. “I’m so sorry about this, Gracie. It’s not the kind of letter a captain ever wants to have to write. But I felt I owed it to you both, as Trip’s commanding officer. And as his friend. You both deserve to know how heroically your son died.”
A sudden upwelling of tears rose, poised on the edge of Charles’s lower lids, like a dam about to break. Archer’s face looked distorted, viewed through a prism of grief. Charles closed his eyes so that all he could see was Trip’s smile. Trip as an infant, an eight-year-old, a teen, a young man. All he could hear was Trip’s laugh. All he could think was that it was good to know that his son had made so many wonderful, loyal friends during his far too brief life.
Realizing that he was no longer in any condition to speak, Charles felt enormous gratitude toward both Archer and T’Pol when they seemed to wish to do the bulk of the talking.
“Within a few minutes, you both will be conducted to seats in the VIP section,” T’Pol said.
Archer nodded. “I wanted to be sure both of you got to see and hear as much of today’s ceremonies and speeches as you wanted. I know that Trip…” He paused for a moment to compose himself. “He would have wanted you to see the future that his sacrifice will help the rest of us build.”
The Vulcan woman raised the small suitcase she carried, then set it down almost reverently on a nearby conference table.
“I have gathered Commander Tucker’s personal effects,” she said.
Charles walked to the table. Like a man dreaming, and therefore not entirely in control of events, he laid the case flat and thumbed the simple latch mechanism, popping the lid open.
Atop a neat blue pile of folded Starfleet uniforms sat a small articulated toy replica of Doctor Frankenstein’s monster, patterned after Boris Karloff from the ancient flatscreen movies. Karloff had been a favorite of Trip’s from about the age of seven, even though those grainy old black-and-white movies sometimes gave him nightmares. Charles smiled as he picked up the figure and held it up to see it more closely. For nearly four years, this little prop had accompanied his son across countless light-years. What had it represented to Trip? His ability to face without flinching the things that scared him the most? Charles looked to Elaine, saw the tears streaming down her face while his own remained poised at the brink.
Placing the action figure to one side of the case, he saw that directly atop the uniforms lay a framed photograph of a triumphantly grinning Trip. Trip was holding one of Charles’s own heavy-duty, duranium-reinforced fishing rods, along with a glistening marlin that had to have weighed nearly as much as a man. Elaine had taken that photo when they’d gone deep-sea fishing off the Gulf Coast not long before Trip had accepted his assignment to Enterprise. That entire day came back to him in a flash: the smell of spray and sunblock as they’d fished, the taste of the hush puppies and fried catfish and beer they’d had for dinner that night.
The sight of Trip’s wide smile.
Charles felt Elaine take his hand and squeeze it tightly, as though she were gripping a lifeline. He recalled how hard he’d always tried to surround Trip with laughter rather than tears. Despite that, more tears rose,