Текст книги "Serpents Among the Ruins "

Автор книги: David George

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

“What?” came the irritated response.

Anticipating that the quarters would not be locked, Kage pressed another control. The door glided open, revealing Ditagh standing at an open food synthesizer across the room. In his hand, he held a tall glass half-filled with a dark, red liquid. Bloodwine,Kage guessed, and he shuddered to think what a Romulan version of the hearty Klingon potable might taste like.

“Ambassador,” Ditagh said, his employment of the title clearly not intended as a sign of respect, but as an epithet.

Kage stepped inside, the door easing closed behind him. “Ditagh, we must talk,” he said.

“Talk,” Ditagh said with unveiled contempt. “I am tired of talk. I’ve had months of it, and I’ve had enough.” He brought the glass up to his mouth and upended it, imbibing the remaining liquid in two massive gulps.

Kage took another step forward, quickly glancing around the room. Though smaller, Ditagh’s quarters mirrored his own. A rectangular front room, conspicuously devoid of decoration, contained only a sitting area—a quartet of chairs surrounding a low circular table—a food synthesizer, and a comm system. An open doorway in the far wall led to a simple bedroom. Good,Kage thought. No surprises.

“If you’ve had enough, then I can have you reassigned,” he said, an offer he knew Ditagh would not accept. Several months ago, the volatile aide had replaced one of Kage’s most trusted lieutenants, Roneg. The appointment had been officially handed down by Azetbur, but Kage understood now that other members of the High Council had maneuvered Ditagh into the position. The circumstances of Roneg’s departure from the negotiating team—his father had been killed in an industrial accident, requiring that Roneg return to Qo’noS to lead their House—had at first seemed unambiguous. But Kage’s vigilance in protecting the needs of the Empire had driven him to have the accident quietly investigated, and the results, while inconclusive, had at least seemed suspicious. Roneg’s father had been killed in an area of the shipyards nobody could recall him ever having visited, at a time when he normally would have been off. All of which had led Kage to believe that Ditagh had been installed in the delegation for a purpose counter to Kage’s own—and counter to Azetbur’s. And as time had passed, Ditagh’s tongue had loosened, speaking up during negotiations—as he had today—in ways seemingly designed to slow, or even derail, the peace process.

“I do not need to be reassigned,” Ditagh said. “I will endure my lot for the good of the Empire.”

“Then you will conduct yourself in accordance with my direction,” Kage said, dropping his voice low for emphasis, “rather than that of your…sponsor.” Kage had chosen the last word carefully, intending it as a disparagement of Ditagh’s manhood.

Ditagh laughed, a guttural, confident sound that Kage hoped also contained the taint of fear. “I am youraide, no one else’s,” Ditagh claimed, then slammed his empty glass down on the shelf of the food synthesizer. He pushed the tips of his thick fingers against the device’s control panel, and a door dropped into place in front of the shelf. Kage saw menus and submenus flash up onto the panel, and Ditagh navigated through them until he stopped at a particular entry—Klingon bloodwine, Kage assumed, though he could not read the words from where he stood. Ditagh selected the beverage, and the buzz of the device filled the small room. A moment later, the door of the food synthesizer slid upward, revealing a full glass of what appeared to be bloodwine on the shelf. As Ditagh grabbed it up, Kage crossed the rest of the short distance between them.

“If you are my aide, then listen to me,” he said, staring up into Ditagh’s face. “I will brook no more interruptions in the negotiating sessions, no more disruptions.” Kage paused, seeking the words that would enrage his aide. “You will speak only when I so deem.”

Ditagh’s face went through a rapid succession of transformations, from anger, to acceptance, to confidence, and finally to amusement, a smirk emerging from beneath his beard. “As you wish,” he said, lifting the bloodwine to his lips.

Kage moved without hesitation, swinging his open hand up and batting the glass from Ditagh’s grasp. Kage did not look away, but he heard the glass strike the wall, then fall to the floor and shatter. “I’m not toying with you, Ditagh,” he said. “Do not test me.”

Ditagh turned his head toward where the glass had broken, then glared back down at Kage. “Test you,old man?” he said. “What possible glory could I find in doing battle with a broken-down peace-lover?” Ditagh moved even closer to Kage, standing over him and obviously trying to intimidate him with his sheer size.

Kage did not flinch. “Isn’t that why you’re here?” he asked. “To fight me? To prevent me from completing my mission?”

“I am here as your aide,” Ditagh maintained, evidently unwilling to take Kage’s bait.

“And to act on behalf of the High Council,” Kage ventured. “Or at least some of those on the Council.” He had not intended to be so straightforward with his accusations, but Ditagh was perhaps not as foolish as he seemed. Even though Kage had wanted to learn the identity of the power behind Ditagh surreptitiously, he would settle right now simply for knowing.

“I am youraide,” Ditagh repeated.

Kage returned Ditagh’s cold stare, at the same time searching for the tactic that would tell him what he wanted—what he needed—to know. Finally, he smiled up into Ditagh’s face, then turned and headed for the door. “It is a weak man who works in the dark for another,” he said as he went.

“It is youwho are weak,” Ditagh called after him, and Kage stopped just as the door swept open before him. “And you make the Empire weak as well.”

Now Kage turned back around and stepped away from the door, which he heard close again behind him. “I am attempting to strengthen the Empire,” he said. “There is no dishonor in not fighting. There is only dishonor in not fighting well.”

“You avoid fighting,” Ditagh told him. “You seek peace at any cost. You are willing to give up anything for it, including the will of your own people.”

“Klingons do not want war with the Romulans and the Federation unless we can win such a war,” Kage said. “And right now, we can’t. We still need to strengthen our infrastructure and fully resupply our military.”

“What Klingons want,” Ditagh pronounced, “is their birthright. We are warriors.” He paused, then added derisively, “At least, most of us are.”

“Say what you want to say,” Kage told him.

Ditagh apparently needed no further invitation. “You are a lackey for peace,” he accused. “Qo’noS should withdraw from these talks and let the Romulans and the Federation destroy each other for us.”

“Is that what you really want?” Kage asked. “To sit back and allow our adversaries to decimate themselves, then for us to march in and defeat the battle-weary? Would you also kick a three-legged targ?”

“A three-legged targdoes not possess a weapon capable of laying waste to much of the Klingon Empire,” Ditagh argued.

“Nor does the Federation,” Kage said, and at last, he thought he saw a direct path to the information he needed. “The general is wrong or misguided,” he said, then hurried on, trying to avoid drawing attention to the statement. “Such stupidity and shortsightedness were what weakened the Empire twenty years ago. You were only a child, Ditagh, but surely you remember the destruction of Praxis.” The Klingon moon had housed the Empire’s primary energy facility, which had been taxed beyond its capacity in order to prepare for war with the Federation. A massive explosion had resulted, blowing half of the moon out into space and raining destructive fallout on Qo’noS. “The accident left us crippled and unable to provide enough energy for everyday life, let alone to take us into battle. If we move too quickly toward war again, we will once more be left weakened.”

“The Klingon people grow tired of accepting Federation handouts,” Ditagh said, “and of begging for peace with the hypocritical Federation and the disloyal Romulans.”

“But Ditagh,” Kage implored, “there is no honor in fighting a battle you cannot win.”

“There is no honor in believing your own people are unable to win battles,” Ditagh countered.

“We canwin battles,” Kage avowed. “But we don’t need starships and disruptor banks to do so. The Romulans and the Federation are on the brink of war between themselves, but neither dare attack without an alliance with us. As far from full strength as the Klingon Defense Force is right now, our ships would be the difference in any war, whichever side we choose to fight with. So we can wield our political might, reestablish our power that way, and at the same time, prevent the devastation war would bring upon us, even in victory.”

“Political power,” Ditagh said, an expression of disgust on his face. “You are an old man, filled with the cowardice of a little girl…or a big girl. Azetbur is a plague on the Klingon people.”

“ChancellorAzetbur is the leader of the High Council,” Kage said seriously, “and deserving of your respect.” He paused, then decided to try again: “The general would lead no better.” It was a gamble; although numerous generals sat on the Klingon High Council, the name Kage was looking for might not have belonged to one of them.

But Ditagh finally bit. “General Gorak is a great man,” he said indignantly. “He would return honor to the Council, to all of Qo’noS. And he would end this pathetic peace conference.”

Kage charged the few steps back across the room, wanting both to deflect attention from the information just divulged, and to deal with Ditagh’s outburst in today’s session. As he reached Ditagh, Kage threw his hands out and straight-armed the larger man. Caught off guard, the younger Klingon did not have time to brace himself, and he sailed backward into the wall. Kage lunged after him, thrusting a forearm up into his neck and applying pressure. Ditagh gasped for air, his eyes wide with surprise. “You will speak no more of ending this peace conference,” Kage hissed through gritted teeth. “If you interfere anymore with what I’m trying to accomplish here, with what Chancellor Azetbur wants me to accomplish, I’ll snap your neck.” To underscore his words, Kage pushed his arm forward. Ditagh’s face darkened, his eyes bulged.

Finally, Kage pulled back. Ditagh doubled over, dropping to his knees as he choked and coughed. Kage watched him for a moment, then leaned in next to his ear and said, “Do not underestimate this old man.” Then he straightened and headed for the door.

As Kage passed back into the corridor, he heard Ditagh sputter, “Azetbur is a pretender. She will fall.” Kage did not stop or look back. He already had what he’d come here to get: the name of the power behind Ditagh. General Gorak was the traitor on the Klingon High Council.

Minus Eight: Universe

Sasine stood before John at an open airlock on Space Station KR-3, the two of them in their Starfleet uniforms. An Enterprisecorridor stretched away beyond the airlock, the great vessel waiting to take him away once more. She supposed she could have resented the ship because of that—perhaps shouldhave resented it—but why waste such emotional effort on something so foolish? She loved John, and she would miss him terribly once he had gone, but captaining a starship contributed to who he was as a person, and was therefore something that she loved about him. She never once entertained the notion of wanting him to give that up. She would support whatever choices he made for his life, as long as they fulfilled him and did not deny the man he was.

“I’ll miss you,” John told her.

“And I’ll miss you,” she replied. As she gazed into his blue-gray eyes, she thought she saw a mix of emotions there. She knew that he did not want to say goodbye—neither of them ever did—but they both carried greater burdens than that. In the days since they had arrived here at KR-3, they’d been able to continue their time together, but they’d also been required to prepare for their next assignments. John would be leaving on Enterprisein just a few minutes on a classified mission, and tomorrow she would be leaving for her new posting, Helaspont Station, near the Tzenkethi border.

“I love you, Amina,” he said.

“I love you.” She glanced in each direction down the corridor on KR-3, and then past John into Enterprise.Seeing nobody, she leaned forward and kissed him, softly, romantically.

When she pulled back, he said something that neither of them ever said: “Be careful.”

Sasine had always assumed that the risks inherent in their positions prevented them not only from saying such things, but even from thinking too much about them. She knew that if she focused for any length of time on the danger John faced as a matter of course—and even more so in the current political climate—she would be unable to function at her best. She simply had to accept the nature of his duties and trust in his abilities, just as he did with her. Admonitions to “be careful” or “stay safe” were unnecessary, and even potentially dangerous; as experienced Starfleet officers, neither would act recklessly, but if, at the wrong moment, thoughts of their commitment to each other intruded into their minds, it could undermine their decisions and thus pose a threat to themselves and others.

And so John’s comment surprised her. Rather than reproving him for it, though, she simply said, “I’ll be careful. I always am.” Then, playfully swatting him on the shoulder, she said, “You know that.”

“I know,” he said. “I do. I just…” He shrugged. “I just love you, and I don’t trust the Tzenkethi.”

“You’re a wise man, John Jason Harriman,” she said. “I mean, I don’t know about the Tzenkethi, but as far as women are concerned, you have exceptional taste.”

John smiled, and she was happy to see that. In the past few days with him, she’d seen it a great deal. And John rarely smiled in a small way; when happy or amused, his mouth widened broadly, his joy apparent. She had always loved that about him: he enjoyed being happy. It seemed an odd thing to consider, but Sasine had known many people who could not exist within a moment, could not live for the simple but important pleasures life could offer. But John loved life as he loved her: fully. That did not mean that he didn’t suffer difficulties or doubts—life always provided such obstacles—but John never appeared to take for granted the things that brought him happiness.

“Yes, I do have great taste in women,” he joked, “but I have to wonder about your taste in men.”

“I do too,” Sasine said with a smile. “I mean, a merestarship captain? You’d think I’d rate a commander in chief.”

John playfully wrinkled his nose. “Admiral Sinclair-Alexander isn’t really your type, though, is she?”

Sasine shook her head. “No. A little too severe for me,” she said. “Which means I suppose I’m stuck with you.” She leaned forward and whispered into his ear, “So will you marry me?” Then she stepped back and looked at him, allowing him to answer.

“Yes, of course,” he said.

“When?” she asked, just as he had when she’d first seen him back on Foxtrot XIII.

“Every day,” he said.

Sasine smiled, perfectly content with the vitality of their commitment to each other. “I’ll contact you once I’m settled in at Helaspont,” she said.

John nodded, and then turned and boarded Enterprise.She watched him go, and when he turned a corner and disappeared from sight, she headed for the nearest turbolift. She would go to an observation lounge with a view of Enterpriseand watch as the ship departed the station. It would allow her to feel connected to John for just a little bit longer. And even after the time they’d just had together, she wanted to continue to experience that connection, even if for just a few more seconds.

As Harriman watched the image of Space Station KR-3 start to recede on the bridge’s main viewscreen, he decided that he detested farewells. He pictured Amina back on KR-3, where they had just parted, and imagined her standing at a viewing port, gazing out at Enterpriseas it fled into the eternal night of space. The thought saddened him. He supposed that he should have become inured to such experiences by now—after all, his relationship with Amina had strung together a long series of goodbyes over eight years—but he found each new parting more difficult to bear than the last.

“Viewer ahead,” Harriman said from the command chair, fully aware of both the irony and the denial inherent in the order. For reasons personal and professional, though, he actually wouldlook ahead to the future. But he also knew that there would be no renouncing his emotions; he might be able to bury the sadness of his separation from Amina, but it would never leave him.

“Viewer ahead,” Lieutenant Tenger echoed from his side of the tactical-and-communications console. The main screen blinked and the scene on it changed, the three-armed, honeycombed form of KR-3 disappearing in favor of an empty starscape.

“Ensign Tolek, plot a course for the Bonneville Flats,” Harriman ordered.

“That course has already been plotted, Captain,” the navigator responded. He tapped the controls on his console with the long, slender fingers common to many Vulcans, then turned and glanced over his left shoulder at Harriman. “And now it’s been laid in,” he said, and smiled.

Harriman felt momentarily startled, still not quite accustomed to Tolek’s demeanor. Harriman had served with several Vulcans during his Starfleet career, but until Ensign Tolek had come aboard Enterprise,none who’d ever smiled—or laughed, or frowned, or fraternized with the crew, or engaged in any number of other behaviors considered anathema to Vulcans. To mostVulcans, anyway; there were also the V’tosh ka’tur—Vulcans without logic—but Harriman knew that Tolek did not count himself among their number.

“The helm answers ready,” Lieutenant Commander Linojj reported.

“Take us to warp nine, then,” Harriman said.

“Warp nine, aye,” Linojj replied, her hands skipping nimbly across her station.

Around Harriman, Enterprisecame alive, an awakening more felt than heard as the warp drive engaged. After eighteen years commanding this vessel, Harriman could tell the condition of the engines simply by feel. And as the stars began their relative movement on the main viewscreen, he knew Enterprisewas not just healthy, but vigorous.

“Time to arrival at the Bonneville Flats,” Tolek said, “forty-seven hours, fifty-three minutes.”

“Thank you,” Harriman acknowledged. Tolek had been assigned to Enterpriseless than two years ago, and promoted to alpha-shift navigator just within the last six months. Despite his unusual manner, at least in terms of typical Vulcan customs, Tolek claimed to live as most Vulcans did: according to the tenets of Surak, a philosopher who, two millennia ago, espoused the employment of logic and the suppression of emotion.

When Tolek had chosen to enter Starfleet, though, and therefore to live among humans and members of other emotive species, he had concluded—by way of logic, Harriman assumed—that he and his crewmates would be best served if he could develop a means of smoothly integrating with them. With that goal in mind, he had set out to become a student of social interaction, eventually putting into practice what he learned. According to Tolek, no happiness resided behind his smiles, no humor behind his laughs, no sorrow behind his frowns; he only emulated such expressions in the appropriate contexts in order to better interrelate with his crewmates.

Except that, no matter what Tolek claimed, there seemed to be more than mere imitation behind his conduct. If there hadn’t been, then no matter how much he attempted to fit in with his crewmates, he would have been perceived as dishonest. Harriman believed that Tolek acted as he did in order to satisfy, at the very least, an intense curiosity about other species and other individuals. And so his behavior did not simply reflect his abilities to mimic others, but his genuine interest in their lives, their beliefs, and their activities.

By all accounts Harriman had heard, Tolek had succeeded well, even holding a measure of popularity among the crew. He had even been known, on occasion, to entertain them. Not long ago, Harriman had been passing by the crew mess and had heard Tolek telling a rapt group: “A Vulcan, a human, and a Klingon are stranded on an uninhabited planet.” Harriman hadn’t had time to stop, but he’d intended to ask Tolek later to share the rest of the joke.

The memory of that incident suddenly made Harriman feel alone. He peered around the bridge at his crew—at Demora Sulu and Xintal Linojj, at Tenger and Ramesh Kanchumurthi, at Borona Fenn, at Rafe Buonarotti up from engineering—but doing so failed to alter his sense of isolation. Harriman considered these people closer to him than family, but he felt disconnected from them right now.

Uncomfortable, he stood from the command chair. “Commander Sulu,” he said, unable at that moment to use her given name, “you have the bridge. I’ll be in my quarters.”

Sulu looked up from where she stood beside Ensign Fenn at the sciences console on the port side of the bridge. “Sir?” she asked, obviously surprised, but Harriman headed for the turbolift without offering an explanation. “Yes, sir,” he heard her say behind him, acknowledging and accepting the order.

He entered the turbolift and waited for the doors to close. Once they had, he stated his destination, then leaned heavily against the wall. What’s wrong with me?he thought as the lift descended. This feeling of seclusion that had washed over him, this melancholy…he didn’t understand where these emotions had originated.

Maybe itwas saying goodbye to Amina again,he speculated. Maybe he just hadn’t wanted to leave her again. The times they’d spent with each other during the last several days—first on Foxtrot XIII, then on Enterprise,and finally on KR-3—had been absolutely wonderful. Unlike their trips together, when they met in some interesting place to enjoy one activity or another—sailing the garnet seas on the Canopus Planet, donning artificial wings to soar through the low gravity of Izar’s Shroud, spelunking the bottomless ice caves on Catulla—they’d remained almost exclusively in their quarters this time. With Amina commanding Foxtrot XIII—and soon Helaspont Station—and Harriman commanding Enterprise,propriety would not have permitted them to do otherwise.

The lift slowed its descent, came briefly to a halt, then started to glide laterally. Harriman shifted his weight and straightened from where he had been leaning against the wall. Thinking of the last few days with Amina, he smiled. They’d talked and laughed, they’d danced, they’d watched some of the old films that they both loved so much: Greer Garson in Mrs. Miniverand Random Harvest,Frank Capra’s amazing It’s a Wonderful Life,the magical and powerful An Ancient Season.And more than all of that, they had simply reveled in sharing each other’s company. Parting today had been torturous, unquestionably more difficult for him than it had ever been.

But isn’t that the way it always is?Harriman asked himself. Isn’t the most recent farewell always the most difficult? That made sense; time blunted memory, assuaged emotion. That would be the case this time too, he was certain: as time passed without Amina by his side, the ache of their goodbye would fade.

Except that he was no longer sure that he wanted time to pass without Amina by his side. But then, that was one of the prices he paid to be a starship captain.

The turbolift eased to a stop and the doors opened. Harriman exited into the corridor and started for his quarters. On his way, he passed several of the crew, and he nodded automatically in their direction as he passed them, a long-standing habit of a life lived almost entirely aboard starships. Harriman had been born on U.S.S. Sea of Tranquility,and then had moved to numerous other vessels as his father—John “Blackjack” Harriman, now an admiral—had advanced through Starfleet. As a result of Blackjack’s life aboard starships—and therefore of his own such life—the first time that Harriman had spent more than a couple of weeks planetside had been when he had traveled to Earth to attend Starfleet Academy. His three years there—he’d been approved to take an accelerated course of study, in addition to receiving credits for duties he’d performed aboard his father’s ships—had been the only time in his life when he hadn’t called a Starfleet vessel home.

He reached his quarters and strode inside. He stopped for a moment, considering what to do. He eyed the arc of his desk sitting in the near left corner of the cabin, but realized that he didn’t feel up to concentrating on any work right now. The door to his bedroom stood open in the wall beyond the desk, but neither did Harriman feel like sleeping. Instead, he crossed the room to the outer bulkhead and stared out at the stars slipping by as Enterprisewarped through space. His quarters sat on the starboard side of the ship, so the stars raced from left to right across his view.

After a few minutes, his thoughts wandered back to Amina, and his emotions back to being apart from her. Frustrated, Harriman dropped onto his back on the sofa, thinking that perhaps he could rest for a while and refocus his thoughts. He attempted to blank his mind, closing his eyes to shut out the rest of the universe, but before long, he found himself staring at the ceiling.

That’s something that never changes,he joked to himself: starship overheads. They all had that same off-white color, that same beam-to-beam construction, that same pattern of lighting panels. And I should know,Harriman thought; for the vast majority of his life, such a ceiling had been his sky.

He recalled those first weeks he had spent on Earth after he had joined the Academy. He’d felt helpless, and even fearful, being outdoors and under a wide, open sky so often, a condition he’d self-diagnosed as mild agoraphobia. He had never revealed that experience to anybody but Amina—and certainly notto his father. At the time, he had chosen to suffer through the unhealthy emotions, convinced that he could help himself past the problem. He’d read psychological texts regarding the condition, and had researched the techniques people utilized to overcome it. Within just a couple of months, he had gotten better, and by the end of his term at the Academy, he’d actually come to appreciate and take pleasure from outdoor activities.

Once he had graduated, though, Harriman’s Starfleet career had taken him back aboard ship. He had never really wanted another way of life. Truthfully, he had never even considered it.

Of course not,he thought. The admiral saw to that.

He swung his legs down to the floor and sat up on the sofa. Is that it?he wondered. Was Blackjack’s presence on the upcoming mission what had led to his own pensiveness and sense of disconnection? Other than in an official capacity, the admiral hadn’t spoken to him in seventeen years, since an incident in which Harriman had transported Blackjack from the bridge of Enterpriseand into the brig. At the time, Harriman had been under orders from Starfleet Command to track down Excelsiorand escort it back to base. He had instead helped Excelsior’s captain—Hikaru Sulu, Demora’s father—rescue her from Askalon V; Demora, Enterprise’s navigator back then, had previously been believed dead.

After the incident, Harriman had gone to his father and convinced him not to empanel a court-martial for the actions of either starship’s captain. But relations between father and son had cooled after that, and a few silent months later, it had become clear that their relationship had foundered. They had spoken during the years since, but only in their official capacities within Starfleet, including some important meetings within the last year or so. Two days from now, though, their respective roles in the Universeproject would require more interaction between them than they’d had since…well, since all those years ago.

And maybe that’s affecting me more than I’ve been willing to admit,Harriman thought. Maybe—

No.He had long ago come to terms with his estrangement from his father. For despite all of the time they had spent together on the various starships to which his father had been assigned, they had never really shared a father-son bond. Even as a boy, Harriman had been treated more like a subordinate than like a child; Blackjack seemed to have been grooming him for service in Starfleet even then.

He pushed up from the sofa, but he didn’t move from there, his feet remaining planted and his thoughts remaining in the past. By the time Harriman had graduated the Academy, his father had attained the rank of rear admiral, a position that had allowed him some influence in forwarding his son’s fledgling career. Doors of opportunity had opened early and often for Harriman, more so than his performance—as good as it had been—had merited. More so than anybody’sperformance would have merited. He had initially felt divergent emotions about this: on the one hand, he had appreciated the chance to rise rapidly through the Starfleet ranks, but on the other, his pride and personal ethic had made him want to earn his promotions solely on the basis of his accomplishments and abilities. He had also resented that his father had not apparently believed him capable of such a career on his own.

Except that his father had thought him neither capable nor incapable, Harriman had eventually realized; the admiral’s actions had been motivated not by his opinions of his son, but by his opinions of himself.Blackjack had worn his son’s career as he would have a medal, as something that reflected upon him. It had taken Harriman a long time, but on that day seventeen years ago when the admiral had essentially taken command of Enterprisefrom him and had prepared to fire on the undefended Excelsior,he—Harriman—had finally faced the depth of his father’s self-involvement. He wished it were otherwise, wished that his father were different from the man he was, but in actuality, Harriman did not really like or respect him, and so also did not miss him.