Sulu made a quick check of his private screens, then relaxed on his bed. He missed the presence of Ruth and Jilla in his cabin. The emotion was acknowledged, then quickly locked into its designated compartment within his mind. The next phase with them would have to wait. He had other things he needed to concentrate on. The Don. Noel DelMonde. “Do you know him?” Which, of course, meant ‘do you know how to destroy him?’ Sulu’s smile was both wistful and ironic. Do you?
Where had it started? The needle race? No, before that. He could clearly remember the first time he’d heard the acid-tinged voice:
“Amateur sadists shouldn’t practice in public.”
What had he been doing? He closed his eyes, remembering. The girl had done something displeasing, he couldn’t remember what, but he remembered her; a leggy, red-haired, green-eyed minx. He’d been taught very well to punish such behavior as quickly as he rewarded that which did please him. He knew it wouldn’t have been anything so crude as a simple blow. There would have been no reason for the Rigelian Prince to comment on such an everyday occurrence in the Terran Court. Ah, yes, I held her by the throat, bared her breast, and twisted her nipple until she begged me to allow her to apologize. She did so, on her knees, rubbing that sore nipple against my thigh. He smiled, re-living the feel of her degradation. But Noel DelMonde, the Rigellian Prince, a spoiled, royal brat of eighteen, decided that such a crude display from a member of a Terran military family was an offense to his delicate sensibilities.
DelMonde was tall even then; fair, almost pale skin, with the inexplicable charisma of his father, and magnetic, piercing eyes. He had the regal, superior bearing and good looks Sulu had learned to hate. And there he was, graciously accepting the laughter of his entourage at Sulu’s expense. Sulu was angry and humiliated, but DelMonde had sauntered off before he’d had a chance to reply or react.
He could smile at the memory now, but then it had been a very different story. Then, he was a brash, reckless almost-seventeen, and his pride had been stung. It had often been said of him, though only, of course, when it was thought he wouldn’t hear, that he was on a collision course with himself, the kind of boy who, if he lived to be a man, would be hellishly dangerous. At the time, most of his acquaintances weren’t worried.
The reason they weren’t worried was something Sulu never allowed himself to think about.
It had been the Summer Holidays. The Rigellian Court had been visiting for the Imperial celebrations, as was usual. Sulu himself had almost completed his martial training for the Warrior Elite, the samurai who were the guards of the Imperial Palace in Londinium. He had one final test to master before being awarded his katana and wakasashi. He knew it was only a formality, he had trained hard for the honor of his family. The Holidays were the necessary calm prior to his accepting his life of service to the Imperial Family. But they were marred by one galling encounter after another with DelMonde.
An insult here, a snub there, mockery, disdain, veiled and not-so-veiled reference to -- that of which no thoughts were allowed. As the weeks wore on, all of Sulu’s other wishes were replaced with the desire for a chance to kill Noel DelMonde. He began to openly return the scorn, wanting to make DelMonde angry enough to drop the bored charade, angry enough to attack so that he, as samurai had the right to defend himself. He could feel that it was working, but always something or someone interfered and defused the princeling’s rage before DelMonde acted. Sulu could see it still smoldering in the black eyes, but could never seem to push it over the edge.
So what happened? How did we manage to get to the catalyst?
Sulu sighed, knowing he had to allow the memories to come uncensored. He forced absolute quiet into his body, deepening his breathing, preparing to deal with what had to be.
He had just come from Cal, which hadn’t exactly left him in the best of moods. They had argued, again, over his taking his swords. He had earned them, after all, why shouldn’t he accept them? Cal had insisted, again, that he was not meant for service to the Empire.“But service to you is acceptable?” he’d sneered. Cal had smiled his unperturbable, superior smile.
“Service to your true nature, my pet,” was the answer.
“I’m not your pet.”
“True. It is but an affectionate nickname.
“Not one I like.”
“What then would you prefer? Jewel? Precious? God?”
“Warrior.”
“You are meant for better things, Sulu; things only I can give you.”
“Things I didn’t ask for.”
Cal had chuckled. “Ah, but things which you do not refuse.”
Sulu had left him before the Ducé had a chance to make any offer, but he was irritable and singularly unwilling to put up with anything from anyone. When a minor noble’s son bumped against him, he lashed out with all of a samurai’s inborn disdain. The boy, dignity injured, did the unthinkable: He drew his sword against one of the Warrior Elite.
That, then had been the catalyst. He had been fighting, playing, really, with the inept swordsmanship of the noble’s son. He allowed the rest of the recollection to burn his soul, as was its due, then slipped it neatly behind its door of oblivion.
DelMonde and his retinue had come by, stopping to see why a crowd had gathered in the Great Hall. When DelMonde saw what was going on, he pushed to the front of the crowd, trying to make it appear as though he was just trying to push through it. His caustic voice sailed over the sound of the blades:
“I see the apprentice fiend is entertaining again.”
That had been too much. Sulu whirled, enraged, his quarrel with his opponent completely forgotten. The blade in his hand moved with vicious deadliness, slicing more than the air; one of DelMonde’s people hadn’t quite gotten out of the way. A several-hundred-credit tunic neatly ruined. A hair’s breadth closer and it would have been blood-soaked as well.
Hasim always did dress well, Sulu reflected, then returned to his memory.
DelMonde had stepped back, but he wasn’t running. There was enough fear in his eyes to have made him run, but the handsome jaw was set in Imperial pride. He knew very well that Sulu couldn’t strike down a noble in cold blood. To so blatantly break the code of the Warrior Elite would have necessitated the act of seppeku. DelMonde knew it. So did Sulu. At the time, Noel DelMonde was not something Sulu considered worth dying for. But the rage had to go somewhere.
Sulu remembered the words he’d snapped at DelMonde: they were branded into his soul, after all. He had intended them to push DelMonde to attack. They were anything but standard samurai philosophy, and he had meant every word.
“You can’t stand to see a man behaving like one, can you, DelMonde? Doing, not being done for. Taking what he wants instead of waiting for it to be handed to him. You get what you want, all nobles do. You get everything you desire, your parasites can’t wait to do for you. But they’re using you, princeling. They don’t give a damn about you. If you lose your Imperial status, your prestige, they’ll desert you faster than last month’s fashion. You’re a pawn, that’s all royalty ever is. You’re moved and cajoled and flattered into exactly the positions they want you in, so they can use you. Well, let a man tell you something: Men aren’t used. Men use!”
The speech had an effect, but not one Sulu had expected. The arrogance, the mockery - and the fear - all disappeared from Del’s face. He stood rock still, black eyes riveted on Sulu, really aware of him for the first time, completely unmindful of the blade Sulu still held at ready. Then anger grew in those eyes, and a hard curiosity. Without a word, DelMonde turned and strode away, leaving Sulu with enough unused adrenaline to power a starship.
He had decided then that DelMonde’s existence was an affront to the universe which was not going to be allowed to continue. He had recognized the look, and would not conscience the presence of two of that kind. Again recollection came, again it seared him, again he allowed it ...
He had learned that so-very-un-samurai philosophy from Cal: on his knees, on his belly, drugs and hedonism burning through him, at Cal’s feet, in Cal’s bed, at Cal’s whim, feeling the hard curiosity, dreading the anger.
... before forcing it back.
The needle race offered the perfect opportunity to dispatch the Rigellian Prince. Accidents were common in races. And if he had to ram the Prince’s needle with his own and cause an accident, even if it meant killing them both, he was prepared to do it.
The needles were beautiful, sleek, one-man craft made for incredible speeds over short distances. They were the perfect racing vehicle; dangerous, unpredictable, easy to learn, difficult to master. Sulu had been racing for nearly three years, and once out of the training circuit, had never lost a race. But this time, he wasn’t after a win. This time, he was after Noel DelMonde. He’d taken a back position at the post, as was usual for him, but he kept his sights locked on the princeling’s ship. Once they were underway, he stayed seconds behind DelMonde, waiting for the right moment to force an encounter. The best time would be just into the turnaround; most accidents happened when an inexperienced racer turned his ship right into another.
But they never reached the turnaround.
Sulu took a deep breath, preparing himself for the flood of memory. How long had it been since he’d thought of these moments? From the strength of his reactions, he knew why it had been as long as it had, and he laughed at his own emotionalism. Del, you can still do it to me.
DelMonde had suddenly veered off course. Perplexed, but even more determined to be done with it, Sulu had followed. The princeling’s needle flew to a large asteroid, and Sulu saw the beacons of a port. He waited in the atmosphere until DelMonde was docked, then landed his own craft just outside the beacons. DelMonde walked briskly but unconcernedly towards a large castle, and Sulu followed him into Tarkus.
Tarkus was a giant’s fortress, built into the very rock of a larger asteroid. It had been catalogued for a hundred years. The Terrans who found it had named it, used it, but no one knew who had built it, or why. Its defensive capabilities were legend, but no one had ever discovered what it was supposed to defend. Everything had worked perfectly; gravity and atmosphere generators, equipment, weaponry. But as far as Sulu knew, no one had ever been able to turn it into a weapon. It defended itself, but would not attack anything else. It was the perfect place for political meetings, if one had the resources to ‘rent’ it from the Imperium. No one could approach Tarkus unless they were expected. Which meant, of course, that DelMonde had been. Sulu had, at the time, considered it mere fortune that he had been so closely behind the princeling as to slip in behind him without being detected. He had since learned differently - but that matter had been settled years ago. There was no need to think of that now.
It had been perfect for Sulu’s purposes. DelMonde, alone, with no procession of toadies. He’d have to face Sulu’s anger, he’d have to defend himself, or be cut down - with no one to report who had drawn first. Sulu entered a large, empty hall, steel and glass, immense in its size and vast silence. DelMonde was approaching a doorway on the opposite side of the enclosure, his footsteps sounding hollowly. Sulu stopped, ready for the battle.
“DelMonde!” he called. His deep, harsh voice echoed and re-echoed through the emptiness of the hall, reverberating with brash disregard for the awakened walls.
DelMonde turned in surprised anger, then snapped back at the crackling sound and unmistakable smell of an activated laser shield.
Sulu didn’t have time to attack; the room did. Bolts of energy began flaring from the walls; irregular, random, apparently non-directional. Sulu was dodging them, saw DelMonde doing the same. One caught his arm, sending searing pain through him. He rolled quickly, getting back to his feet. His gaze darted swiftly, his body ready to move with a second’s notice. The last thing he saw before his brain exploded into unbearable pain was a blast hitting DelMonde squarely in the back, and the Rigellian falling.
The next memory was awful, terrifying. Sulu forced it to coalesce in his mind, firmly keeping reign on the similar memories it threatened to bring with it. He had come to consciousness - if consciousness it could be called - in a sensory deprivation cell. He had used such cells since, but had never completely gotten over his loathing of them. It was a horrible, mind-crushing thing to be absolutely alone, to face oneself with no sensual defenses, to have nothing to place between one’s soul and one’s knowledge. Tartarus, and the only victim was yourself. He hadn’t known how long he’d been in it. To this day, he didn’t really know. It might have been only a matter of minutes, and should have been his first clue as to who was ultimately responsible for the whole experience. But at the time, the icy chill, the maddening emptiness of total loneliness was all he had. Not even the thought that DelMonde could well be dead afforded him any comfort. He knew he’d screamed, cursed, wept. He knew he had turned inward for being, and he had hated what he’d found. Had he always hated what the SD cells showed him? He couldn’t remember the first time. And it didn’t matter anymore. Whatever had been there that first time was long gone. All that was left was the monstrous, deformed thing which he had to inflict on himself. A hungry cancer, eating its own soul for sustenance, devouring down to the core, through it, until there was nothing left to feed on and still the beast needed. How could any man face himself and stay sane? Yet, how could any man not turn inward, how could any man survive the emptiness if he didn’t? Then, of course, the problem was surviving yourself. How many men had he forced to face themselves? How many had survived like he had?
He pushed the thoughts away. They weren’t important for the task at hand. But Del’s reactions were.
How DelMonde got to him, Sulu didn’t know. Why he’d pulled him out of the cell was a bigger mystery. But he had, he did, and then he stood back, watching, perhaps, but letting Sulu find his own way back from the brink of madness. Why? Sulu had managed to ask, and to his surprise, DelMonde had told him. “Because I need a hawk, and you’ll make a good one,” he’d said with an enigmatic smile. Why, then, hadn’t he broken the hawk to his glove then, when it would have been so easy? The answer to that came later. Del had been afraid that being would return too violently to handle. He had waited, knowing he could lose his opportunity altogether, but knowing if another came along, it would have a much better chance of success. DelMonde, like all nobles, was a gambler.
Sulu recalled the slow climb back to sanity, back to himself. Again, he didn’t know how long Del had watched him, waiting. But he had finally been able to meet DelMonde’s eyes. He could see his own gratitude reflected in the hard, black surface. I should have known I was lost right there and then, Sulu mused. But youth is stubborn, and I had yet to understand the nature of choice. He had forced the feelings of relief and thankfulness away, and called the princeling a voyeuristic bastard.
DelMonde told him it had been a trap designed to kill him. He was supposed to be attending a political meeting, he said, but the outcome had obviously already been decided. He said that since Sulu had had the bad sense to follow him, he was caught in the trap as well. And that if there were any way out, they were both going to find it - or neither would. Sulu knew it would be a while before his mental state would allow him to kill the man who had released him from the SD cell, so getting out of Tarkus first made perfect sense. The kill would be so much sweeter when DelMonde wasn’t expecting it. And, of course, it would insure that Sulu himself would stay alive. It occurred to him that using Tarkus as a trap was a tactic meant to appear reckless. One didn’t try to have fun with an assassination - unless one was certain there was no chance of ever getting caught. He didn’t dwell on the possibilities of who was rich and powerful enough to have no fear of reprisal, and well-connected enough to use Tarkus in the first place, but he noted it. Clue number two. And he agreed to work with DelMonde to try and get out of it.
DelMonde had said he had studied the schematics of Tarkus in preparation for his meeting, and was fairly certain he could direct them out from the detention area, which was obviously where they were. Sulu had asked him how they had gotten there, and was given a sour smile. “How the fuck do I know?” Del had replied. “I woke up in a corner about fifty feet from here.”
He had been right about being able to navigate his way through Tarkus, but that was where the easy part ended. The first leg of the journey took them through a succession of corridors and doorways. There had been a barrier across the first, as thin and transparent as a soap bubble. Sulu hadn’t known what it was, neither had DelMonde. Sulu decided it didn’t look too dangerous, and took a step through it. He’d been very wrong. It let him pass, but it didn’t break; it simply wrapped itself around him, then pulled away from his back to release him as he took the second step. But the whole time it touched him, his skin felt bathed in acid. The shriek of pain tore from his throat in shock. Even after he was out of the film, the burning stayed for several seconds. He was breathing hard, shaking, when it faded.
Slowly, he turned to face the doorway and the man still on the other side. Del stared at him, his face pale. It was a safe bet the Rigellian had never felt pain like that. Sulu’s smile was contemptuous and daring. Come on, princeling, he’d taunted silently, come through that.
Del had accepted the challenge, not because of him, Sulu knew, but because there was nothing else to be done. But the way he accepted it...
No defiance, no need to vindicate himself. He locked his eyes onto Sulu’s, not even bothering to hide the fear, and took a deep breath. There was no display of royal arrogance or Imperial pride; he screamed, and once through the doorway, fell. But there was no shame at it, and no satisfaction once it was finished. He had simply done what had to be done.
Sulu smiled warmly. He hadn’t understood then. He did now. Simple courage, one of the Don’s greatest traits. But Kirk knows that, he reminded himself. What he needs to know is how deep it really goes. He went back to his memory for the answer.
There were several more traps and barriers to get through, and it wasn’t a leisurely stroll. They ran. They had to. Something pursued them. They hadn’t discussed it, but Sulu remembered the feeling of being hunted, a prickling just under the skin that had made him run. Sonics, of course, and the third clue to their tormentor’s identity. But there was no time to ponder that. He reacted, not trying to analyze the cause of his certainty. He met every ordeal with the reckless determination to get through, and get out. He fought with the gratitude and the necessity that kept him with DelMonde, then found that he was learning to use it: to promote patience, because he wanted more than a quick death for the Rigellian, however painful those seconds might be; to keep DelMonde off his guard, making the anticipated death more of a certainty; to learn how DelMonde handled the traps and barriers, to find out what would be the most effective method of execution. He found that Del, too, was always thinking, watching him as he watched the Prince.
The corridors seemed to be getting longer, the air hotter, thicker. Soon it was apparent that the walls were hot, and getting hotter. It didn’t help his temperament or the terrible sense of pursuit that drove them on. Another doorway appeared before them, a wide, arched opening of a type they hadn’t seen before. The archway itself glowed white hot, and their eyes met in unbidden, unspoken agreement. They stepped into the doorway together.
Pain, and worse than pain. A stifling, suffocating helplessness. The feeling almost paralyzed Sulu, the sobs that were memory even then rising in his throat. Clue number four, Sulu thought grimly.
It was like being caught in a web of molten threads. He could move, but the threads constricted around him, redoubling heat and pain. He struggled, and it became unbearable, tearing screams from his burning lungs. He could barely breathe, a movement as slight as the blink of an eyelid brought fiery agony. The bands of fire closed, tightening...
“Sulu.” DelMonde’s voice, a hoarse rasp. The effort to form one word forced a scream from him.
Sulu made an answering sound, bravado conquering the fear of the pain. He couldn’t bear the thought that the princeling was stronger than he. He made himself turn his head and paid dearly for his recklessness. The shriek seared his throat, the burning, invisible net wrapping more tightly around him, draining him of any will other than to scream the pain away.
DelMonde waited, and Sulu cursed him through pain-wracked fury. Damned patient bastard! But he found those hated black eyes and held onto their steadiness, using them to climb back under control. He wanted the Rigellian’s life more now than before.
Del began speaking, slowly, every word laced with agony. Sulu gradually realized that Del was using his eyes and their audacity as much as he had used Del’s resolve. “Anti-theta. Inset panels. Press together.” Sulu understood. This was an anti-theta net. There should be panels inset on either side of the archway. Simultaneous pressure at those panels would disrupt the field. The movement of their arms in the net would sear them to their very bones, but it was the only way out. One couldn’t stay conscious long enough to move out of the field.
The words cost DelMonde everything. Sulu watched the pain slashing him, saw all the terror and concern and hatred mixing and revealing and falling away in gasps. It was fascinating to see the man’s skin glisten and hiss with sweat, to calmly view the flashing of agony through him. It soothed the bitter rage, the pleasure of it mollifying and easing him, yet relentlessly exciting. He wasn’t causing the pain; in fact, he was sharing it, and that was both disappointment and stimulation. He was forced to disregard the impetuousness that always ended his pleasures too quickly. He could neither hasten nor lengthen DelMonde’s torment, so he watched it, devouring not the pain, but Del’s responses. For the first time, he used pain to know. And that felt better than he had ever known possible. Knowledge is power, and men use. He knew he didn’t want it to end, but he agreed to try.
A brief flash of another memory crept past Sulu’s careful barriers: All that Cal spent years trying to teach you, Del accomplished in minutes; the difference between information and experience. Sulu acknowledged the thought, sent it back to its hiding place, and returned to the final leg of his journey.
They had to watch each other, to time the movements correctly. Tears of pain blurred his vision, and he longed to stop and scream until his heart burst. Only hearing DelMonde’s horrible gasps, seeing the princeling’s own pain sliding down the handsome cheeks, kept him moving. As long as DelMonde was burning, nothing else mattered.
The panels were as hot as the walls. His palm was burning as he touched it. When contact came, a bolt of fresh agony from DelMonde told him their timing had been accurate. The net released them, and he passed out.
When he came to, Del was just climbing to his feet. The Rigellian stood, arms crossed, the look on his face contemptuous and amused. He stared at the walls, turning slowly, glaring at something neither he nor Sulu could see. Then his gaze shifted to Sulu. He grinned wolfishly and waved his hand back at the doorway. “It needed two. It was too wide for one person. Someone’s finding us very amusing.”
Clue five, and Sulu knew who was responsible. The desire to kill DelMonde was joined with a new, equally strong need: He would make Calvario pay.
Sulu grinned himself. That memory he wouldn’t bury. He would simply put it aside, to savor some other day. He didn’t know then why Cal had been interested in DelMonde, other than the obvious; that Del was a young, good-looking, powerful noble. And to be honest, he hadn’t given the bastard much of an opportunity to tell him before giving his newly earned katana its first blooding. But none of that mattered now, as it hadn’t really mattered then.
Sulu told DelMonde he was only interested in getting the fuck out of there alive. Del nodded, and they set off again, but Sulu watched him, wanting a chance to recapture the feelings of the net. Soon, even that dropped away as the panic began building. It got stronger as they approached a doorway, rising to screaming heights, only to drop when they crashed through to the next corridor. Again and again came the build-up, the peak, then the crash and a moment’s respite before it began again. He didn’t know how many doors there were, he stopped counting. Lunge through, take a deep breath, run like mad and crash through the next. Then there came one they almost didn’t make it through, and Del stopped, his breathing short and ragged. Many more, and they would simply give up.
Suddenly, Sulu felt flooded with confidence as though the nagging threat of pursuit had been turned off. He felt nothing but contempt for DelMonde’s weakness, and decided to show the Rigellian that he had the strength to go on, even if the danger was past. Something inside him screamed caution and a warning that this was too pat, too easy, but the release from the constant panic overwhelmed it. He gazed down at DelMonde, who was kneeling, catching his breath. “Once more, princeling,” he whispered, not caring if DelMonde heard him, “then I’ll have you all to myself.”
He turned, took a deep breath, and lunged.
In the second before his momentum would’ve carried him through the doorway, the warning fell into place. Beyond him was the immense hall in which this had begun. The doorway before him was the same one DelMonde had almost walked through, the one with the acrid smell of a killing laser shield. He felt no fear, only a terrible, bitter irony that his body would interrupt the shield and allow DelMonde to escape.
But in that same second came a cry, a warning that his warrior-trained body instinctively responded to, throwing him into a spin that used up the lethal momentum: Del’s voice, a sound of horror and deep, abiding fear.
“Sulu, NO!”
Sulu fell from the spin, landing inches from DelMonde’s kneeling figure. Their eyes met, black upon black. Sulu saw that Del had known his death would interrupt the shield. Del had heard his whispered threat. Del knew getting out of Tarkus was only a deferment of his own death sentence. And still, he had called, he had warned. There was quick relief, now, and... joy? He’d saved his hawk from destruction, but not for usefulness. This time it was out of something else, something deeper, something... caring. This time it was out of love, and it shone from the black eyes. Sulu’s smile was immediate and chilling. He knew now all he would ever need to know, more than the net could have ever told him. He knew everything he needed to destroy the Rigellian. DelMonde’s soul was his for the taking.
“You care!” he hissed. Accusation, revelation and triumph, and the sweet fear filled DelMonde’s eyes, giving him confirmation. He knew it. And he knew Sulu knew. Fear faded to resignation, then came the second revelation. Acceptance. Del grinned wryly and countered:
“So do you.”
He hadn’t bothered to deny Del’s words. There was no need. It didn’t matter if Del knew, Del was his for the taking. The only other person who knew would soon die for it, die for creating it. Would I have destroyed you, Del, then and there, if there had been time? Sulu wondered, even while knowing he would never know the answer. For there hadn’t been time. Through the doorway, they both saw the hall being stampeded by angry and determined Rigellian and Warrior officials. When neither he nor the Prince had returned with the rest of the racers, all Tartarus had broken loose. Their animosity had been well-observed, so their needles’ signatures were traced and panicked troops dispatched to retrieve them. Everyone was quite surprised, and some were even relieved, to find both of them still alive. There was a great deal of arguing over just what had been going on, but Sulu had no need to listen to any of it. He already knew who had set up this trap, and he knew why. But before they left Tarkus, an interesting thing happened.
He had been seated against a wall, contemplating how his vengeance would best be served, when Del had come over to him. The Rigellian crouched down so that their eyes were level. Sulu knew he had looked up with assured hatred, but in Del’s eyes there had been only calm, and something very close to pride.
“I wanted to thank you, Sulu,” he said softly, “for telling me off the way you did. You were right, and I’m indebted to you.” He laughed just as softly. “I know how that galls you. You gave me the strength to stop being used, and that means you can’t use me either. I can’t repay that debt. I gave you your life, your sanity, I’ve decided not to try to use you, but that still doesn’t cancel it.” He took a deep breath, fear beginning to glimmer in his eyes, but resolve - the same cursed resolve - remained. “So I’m offering you a gift. Not restitution, I can’t give you that, but a reward.” A slight grin pulled at the handsome features. “For service rendered from a warrior to a prince.” Utter seriousness returned to his gaze. “I said you can’t use me, and you can’t - unless I let you. You already know how to break me, you know my vulnerability. It’s all the weapon you need.” Another, final, deep breath. “Take it. It’s yours. I’ll give you all the time you need to drain me. I’ll make a good feast, hawk.”
Tears he would never shed made Sulu’s eyes shine. Yes, Del, I knew. And in that moment, I knew I didn’t want to devour you. I knew I never would. You accepted more than yourself, you accepted me. It was a marvelous gift. Sulu’s fingers gently touched the golden hawk at his throat. It still is. So much I would have never learned if not for that day. I never would have made it to twenty-one. Hell, I wouldn’t have made it to seventeen. And I thank you.
And Kirk?
He’ll never know.
Sulu got up from his bed, ready, now, to write his simple, misleading, but most assuredly honest report on Don Noel DelMonde. He noted the time, then again checked his private security screens.