“I’m sorry to wake you,” Harriman said as the doors closed behind him. “I just needed to talk.”

“Of course,” Sulu said, walking with him over to the sofa that sat against the outer bulkhead. Here too, she had shuttered the viewing ports for Enterprise’s simulated night. Harriman sat down, and Sulu took a seat in an easy chair across a low table from him. It occurred to her to ask him if something had happened to upset him, but of course something had: Universehad exploded in a soundless flash in the middle of deep space, ending the lives of fifty-one members of Starfleet, and threatening the life of Harriman’s father.

He leaned forward, his forearms resting atop his knees, and looked over at her. “I don’t know where to begin, Demora,” he said. He looked not just tired, but exhausted. She suspected that he’d barely slept since the accident.

“You don’t have to know where to begin,” she told him. “The last couple of days have been painful for all of us. I know you feel that, and that you also carry the crew’s wounds in addition to your own. That’s an awful lot to bear.”

Harriman sat up and leaned against the back of the sofa. “I do feel terrible about the crew, about the loss they must feel,” he said. “But it’s also more than that.”

“Your father,” Sulu said, her tone sympathetic. Even though she knew that Harriman had not had much of a relationship with Blackjack for many years, she also understood that the threat of losing a parent changed things.

“My father, yeah,” Harriman allowed. “But I’m not even sure that’s it. I’ve been feeling like this, feeling…disconnected…for a while.”

Sulu had actually noticed a difference in Harriman during the past few months: he hadn’t been as quick to laugh or to socialize, and he’d been sterner and more formal with the crew than she’d previously known him to be. The alteration in his behavior had not been drastic, though, and nothing she hadn’t ascribed to some of the same pressures and concerns she’d been feeling herself. For too long, the crew of Enterprisehad been involved less with the exploration of space and more with interstellar politics. Word had spread from Qo’noS that many Klingons had begun to clamor for Chancellor Azetbur to jettison the “embarrassment” of accepting Federation aid, while the Romulans continued to make noises and take actions that promised a coming conflict. All of which had taken a toll on her, and she’d assumed, on the captain as well. And ever since the Romulans had forcibly occupied the world of the Koltaari, Harriman had been involved in numerous high-level Starfleet meetings about how to address the mounting threat, a process that she guessed had worn him down further.

“I think it must be easier now than ever to feel disconnected,” Sulu said. “The galaxy doesn’t seem to be a very friendly place these days, does it?”

Harriman raised his eyebrows, the left side of his mouth curling into a humorless half-smile. “No,” he agreed, “it sure doesn’t.”

“Well, why don’t we do something about that?” she said, slapping her hands down on the tops of her knees. She knew that Harriman wanted to talk, but she thought that a change of tone might help him. “How about something to drink?” she asked, not waiting for an answer before getting up and crossing the room toward the food synthesizer.

“Sure,” Harriman said behind her. “Why not?”

Rather than selecting something from the ship’s menu, Sulu touched a control away from the food synthesizer. A different door slid open in the bulkhead, revealing a large compartment, about a meter square and half as deep. Inside stood a frame containing several dozen bottles of wine lying on their sides, their corks facing outward. An oenophile, Sulu had requested the special modification to her quarters a decade ago, when she had been promoted to be the ship’s executive officer. Wine appreciation had been among her father’s many leisure pursuits, one she had taken to during the course of her travels in Starfleet. “How about some port?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder.

Harriman shrugged. “Fine,” he said, but this time he smiled with some apparent good humor. He knew of her passion for wines, and he had always professed an appreciation for people with passions; a “philophile,” he liked to call himself.

Sulu peered into the compartment and found a Late Bottled Vintage port, 2289, from Argelius II. She reached into the climate-controlled environment—twelve degrees, with high humidity—and pulled out the bottle. She closed the compartment, then retrieved a stylish metal rack from a nearby shelf. After placing the port in the center of the rack, where it sat between a pair of hanging, stemmed glasses, she carried it over and set it down on the low table in front of the sofa.

“I think you’ll like this,” Sulu said, recalling which wines Harriman had enjoyed in the past. She used her thumbnail to break the seal at the top of the bottle. “It’s dense, with a rich, full-fruit nose. Full-bodied, but it’s got finesse and a great style.” She circled her hand around the cap of the cork stopper and pulled, twisting it back and forth until it came free.

“At this point,” Harriman said, “I’d settle for anything short of a phaser blast to the chest.” He paused, then added, “Then again…” Sulu was pleased to hear him joke.

“Trust me,” she said, pouring the fortified wine. “This will knock you off your feet better than a phaser blast.” The port came out of the bottle opaque, so deeply purple that it almost appeared black. When she finished pouring, she set the bottle down and handed a glass across the table to him. “What shall we drink to?” she asked, sitting back down and lifting her own glass.

“To peace,” Harriman suggested, leaning forward, a telling remark as to his state of mind, Sulu thought.

“To peace,” she said, but then another toast came to mind. She quickly tried to assess whether or not she should offer it. After a moment, she did: “To Admiral Blackjack Harriman.”

The captain looked at her for a few seconds without saying anything, his expression frozen, and she worried that she had upset him or hurt him by saying the wrong thing. But then he reached forward and touched his glass to hers. “To Blackjack,” he said. He raised his glass toward his mouth, but then hesitated, apparently waiting for Sulu to drink first. She did, sipping the grape nectar. It tasted as good as she’d expected, and even better than when she’d first sampled it on Argelius a few years back. She only wished the occasion could have been celebratory, rather than mournful.

“I’m very sorry about your father, John,” she said.

Harriman nodded his head. “I’m sorry too,” he said, “even though I’m not entirely sure why. I mean, I don’t want him to die, of course, but it’s also not as though he and I were close. Except for admiral-to-captain discussions, we haven’t even talked in years.” He seemed to consider his statement for a moment, and then said, “Maybe we’ve never even reallytalked.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sulu said. “He’s your father. He’s a part of you— literallya part of you—and a part of your life. Whether you’re close or not, you’re connected to each other.”

“By genetics?” Harriman asked. “By blood?” He set his glass of port down on the table. “Is that enough?”

“It’s certainly enough for some things,” Sulu said, hoping that she could offer her friend some words to bring him to an acceptance of his feelings. He had just toasted to galactic peace, but she thought that what he might benefit most from right now would be peace of mind. “It’s enough to make you feel sad that his life’s been put in jeopardy.”

“I feel like a hypocrite,” Harriman said. He stood up, moved out from behind the table, and paced across the room. “I’ve had no personal relationship with the man for years, and I think he’s arrogant and self-involved. He’s strict and unyielding, and he sees the universe in black and white and nothing in between.” Harriman stopped and turned to face Sulu from near the food synthesizer. “The universe just isn’t like that,” he said.