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The telescope stood on a pedestal in the science lab in front of the window, ready to watch the stars, even though it was surrounded by state-of-the-art 32nd-century equipment that could have technically done a better job. There was a certain dignity to the ancient instrument that caught T’Rina’s attention. She sensed a story waiting to be told.
“This looks like an antique,” she murmured. “Where does it come from?”
“It was an antique nine hundred years ago, if you can believe it,” said Saru, who had been escorting her on a tour of the ship while it was docked for recreation at Headquarters. “It originates on pre-warp Earth.”
And yet as far as her unscientific eyes could tell, it was in perfect condition, the metal polished to a shine; when Saru gently reached down to adjust the height so he could look through it, it moved easily and soundlessly, with no sign of rust. The dedication it must take to keep such an ancient artifact in good repair reminded her of temples back home on Ni’Var.
“How did it get here?” she asked.
Reflected starlight glittered in Saru’s blue eyes. “It was a legacy from Captain Georgiou.”
T’Rina caught her breath. No wonder she had been reminded of a temple; they really were standing in a sacred space. This was where he went to remember the dead. Since her first encounter with Discovery, she had studied all the twenty-third century Federation history she could get her hands on, but research could only tell her so much.
“She was your mentor?”
“She saved me.” Saru’s voice was very low. “When I was a boy on Kaminar, I scavenged Ba’ul technology to send a distress call. I was desperate to find someone, anyone, who existed outside of our predator-prey cycle, and she answered.”
He told her the full story, so vividly T’Rina could almost see it: a frightened young Saru peering out from the trees, a Human woman speaking calmly and courteously through her translation device. It would have had a time delay, back in the twenty-third century; he would have heard it working, turning alien words into his own language. For someone who had been used to aliens keeping his people as livestock, meeting one who treated him as an equal - who called him “Mr. Saru”, offered him an escape, and warned him upfront about the consequences - must have been a revelation.
As a politician, T’Rina could help considering the risk that Georgiou must have taken, to bend the Prime Directive this far. As a person, though, she could only hope she would have done the same thing in her place.
“When I asked for asylum, she spoke up for me, even when her superiors - she was a lieutenant at the time - wanted to send me back. When I applied to Starfleet Academy, she was my sponsor. Later, aboard the Shenzhou, she showed Michael and me every day what it means to be in command. We owe Philippa Georgiou our lives in more ways than we can name.”
“Is that why you and Captain Burnham are so close?” asked T’Rina. “Because of Captain Georgiou?”
Saru ducked his head and let out an uncomfortable laugh, which confused her. She held very still and waited for him to explain.
“Yes, actually,” he said. “But it all came about in the most convoluted way you can imagine. When we first served together, I found Burnham intimidating - she could set off my threat responses just by walking into the room, and I’d hide it by arguing with her. Captain Georgiou used to joke that if we ever agreed on something, it was a rare phenomenon worthy of entry in the ship’s log.”
T’Rina found this difficult to imagine; then again, there had been a time she never would have thought she would become allied with President Rillak.
“I remember how, one time, the Captain called me into her ready room to reprimand me for doing something … particularly foolish. Never mind what it was - that’s a story for another time - but I had put two crews in danger, ours and the one we were assisting. She asked me why. I told her I was only trying to be as brave as Burnham. I will never forget what the Captain said to me in response.”
“What was it?”
“”I don’t need two Burnhams,”” Saru quoted. “”I need a Burnham and a Saru.” Then she sent me back to make amends for what I had done. That, you see, was the kind of captain she was.”
“I see.” The kind of captain, T’Rina inferred, who valued every member of her crew for being exactly who they were. “She was correct. You and Captain Burnham do make a formidable team.”
“I suppose we do.” Saru smiled.
“So what changed?”
It was remarkable how quickly the smile died out of his eyes.
“How much do you know,” he asked, “About the Battle of the Binary Stars?”
T’Rina hesitated. It was one thing to read about it, or even play a holoprogram that could be paused and turned off; quite another to realize that Saru had actually lived it. The scholar in her had a dozen questions and opinions, but none of them were worth causing him unnecessary pain.
“I know it was the first battle of the Federation-Klingon War of 2256. I know that the Shenzhou encountered a Klingon ship at the border, and that there was … disagreement on the bridge about how to react.”
“My dear Madame President, that was very diplomatic,” said Saru, with a sardonic tilt of his head. “If by ‘disagreement’ you mean that then-Commander Burnham nerve-pinched our Captain unconscious and gave orders to open fire, then yes, we disagreed.”
“That sounds … most unlike her,” T’Rina faltered, though her research had already told her the same thing. “Captain Burnham is more committed to peace than anyone I know.”
“In her defense,” said Saru, though the words came out rather stiffly, as if they hurt him, “She was convinced that a warning shot would make the Klingons respect us enough to listen. Klingons killed her family when she was a child; she was not thinking clearly, and Captain Georgiou had compassion. The last decision she ever made was to give her first officer a second chance. The Klingon ship returned fire, we fought, Georgiou and Burnham beamed over to capture its commander … The next thing I heard was Burnham over comms, screaming at me to lock on to the Captain’s badge and recover her body. And I failed.”
“Surely you cannot blame - ”
“I failed,” he repeated. “It was that - how do I say it? - that desecration I still find hardest to endure. It was easier to forgive Michael than myself.”
It took T’Rina a moment to figure out what he meant by desecration, until she remembered that the cult of T’Kuvma had been known to eat their enemies. Saru, who had fled Kaminar because he could not bear to witness his loved ones being preyed upon, blinked and swallowed heavily as if he might cry, or be sick.
“Saru … dear Saru … please listen.” She reached for his hands, which were clenched into fists at his sides to smooth them out. His nails had left marks in his palms. His pain surged up against her mental shields like a sandstorm against a force field; it didn’t overwhelm her, but she could still track its currents. “She was not there, do you hear me? Whatever they did to her body, Philippa Georgiou was beyond their reach. Her katra is at one with the universe, and therefore everywhere around you. Do you not sense her every time you look at the stars?”
Saru peered down at her as if her voice were coming from far away, and she almost regretted saying anything. Her faith was something deeply held, but rarely spoken; would it mean anything to him at all?
He laced their fingers together, leaned down and touched his forehead to hers, which she knew was one of a gesture of deepest love and respect among his people.
“I do,” he said. “At least … sometimes I can. Usually when I’m least expecting it. When I put on my badge in the morning, when Tilly gets excited about something new to learn, when Reno bursts a bubble in someone’s ego, when Dr. Culber says something gently insightful when it’s needed most, when Detmer grins over her shoulder after one of her wild maneuvers … I sense her around Michael most of all.”
A breath of clear air flowed through the sandstorm of his mind, then another, then more, until one could see the sky.
“Because you both remember?”
“That … and because I have watched her shed blood, sweat and tears to once again become someone Captain Georgiou could be proud of. I, too, am prouder of her than words can express.”
There was a fierce note to his pride, and no wonder, considering the suffering that had forged it. She did not rate the chances of anyone or anything that would get between him and his captain.
“Then this telescope is not her only legacy.”
“What do you mean?”
“You both are … and there can be no greater.”
“Oh.” Saru blinked.
“May I try it?” She gestured at the instrument.
“Oh, of course - here. Like this.”
He adjusted the height down to her level, standing rather closer than was strictly necessary; not that she minded. His sleeve brushed her cheek as he reached past her. His breath stirred her hair.
She peered through the lens and out at the universe.
Thank you for him, she whispered to the stars.