boldygoing | A Lesson Learned

It's been an entire year. One year since the London bombing, the attack on Starfleet Headquarters, the crash of the USS Vengeance into the heart of San Francisco. Clusters of new skyscrapers and apartment blocks have grown up to cover the wounds left behind in the city like fresh scar tissue, slowly healing as surely as the survivors of the worst terrorist attack in recent Federation history have been.

The parade ground of Starfleet Headquarters is packed today, hundreds of officers and enlisted clad in full dress uniforms, civilians in their finest. Speeches are given, honors awarded for valor and bravery, flags ceremonially folded to honor the fallen. Until at long last, James Tiberius Kirk takes the stage, doffing his cover and placing the hat on the podium in front of him. Though his career as a starship captain has been short, a small handful of medals gleam against the gray of his uniform, the newest acknowledging the sacrifice he had made to save his crew, the true story known only to few.

Perhaps once, Jim would have wanted such accolades, an opening to boast about himself and gain the attention that he so desperately craved. Validation to make up for years of neglect and abandonment, never enough to satisfy the insecurity in the pit of his stomach. But that was before. Before he truly knew what it meant to be willing to die so that others might live, before he truly grasped how severe the consequences for his actions might be.

Now, as he looks out over the assembly, he feels no desire to receive such attention. This isn't about him. It never was. And he would not want it otherwise.

"Good afternoon," Jim says, the comms projecting his voice across the parade ground to all those present. "We gather here today to pay our respects to fallen friends and family, lost to us nearly one year ago. The scars of that day remain etched in our lives, in the empty spaces left behind in the streets of San Francisco and London, in the halls of Starfleet, and in the absence of our loved ones. Each and every one of those lost deserves more than we are able to give, and I regret that there are too many to honor them all individually today. Their absence cannot, and will not, be forgotten by those of us left behind."

"At times like these, it can be easy to seek someone to blame, some deeper meaning to why something like this would happen, maybe even seek revenge on the ones responsible. Our history is full of countless examples, stretching all the way back to the earliest civilizations. But never once has the act of retaliation ever undone a single loss, only multiplied the suffering. It's an ugly part of who we are, but it's not who we should be. It's not in violence upon violence that we can best honor those we've lost, but in reaching out to our neighbors, friends and strangers both. Seeking strength from each other, lending our support, and moving forward together. It's the nature of all things to grow, to change. We will never be exactly the same as we were before, but that doesn't mean that this is it. That this is all we are."

"The Federation is founded on this ideal, that our strength lies not in our differences, but in our love for others, no matter what species or sex or planet of origin. We are stronger together, countless shoulders to lean on, to build on each other and reach to greater heights that we could never achieve alone. A starship is nothing without the crew she carries within her. We are no different. So how, then, can we best honor those who are no longer with us? We carry them in our hearts, and take them with us as he learn and grow, and keep them in our memories forever."

"In closing, I'd like to share something with you today," Jim says, looking out across the crowd, familiar faces and strangers all intermingled together. "A poem written by a Terran named Sarah Williams, nearly four hundred years ago, called The Old Astronomer." He needs not read the poem, its words long since committed to memory, falling easily from his lips as he recites its lines to those gathered today.

Reach me down my Tycho Brahé, – I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.

Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, 'tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.

But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men's fellowship and wiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles.

You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant's fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight;
You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night.
I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known.
You "have none but me," you murmur, and I "leave you quite alone"?

Well then, kiss me, – since my mother left her blessing on my brow,
There has been a something wanting in my nature until now;
I can dimly comprehend it, – that I might have been more kind,
Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind.

I "have never failed in kindness"? No, we lived too high for strife,--
Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;
But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still
To the service of our science: you will further it? you will!

There are certain calculations I should like to make with you,
To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true;
And remember, "Patience, Patience," is the watchword of a sage,
Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.

I have sown, like Tycho Brahé, that a greater man may reap;
But if none should do my reaping, 'twill disturb me in my sleep
So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name;
See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.

I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak;
Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak:
It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars, –
God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.