by S. D. Perry
“What I condemn is the need to always defer to the science of man,” Kent said.
“When our attempts to fix problems simply create a new set of problems—”
A man in another section suddenly rose to his feet. “Then we’ll fix the new problems,” he said. He was young but wore the braid of Starfleet commander. “It’s easy to criticize in retrospect, to point out failed chains of action-reaction, but no scientist, no engineer or researcher could possibly predict every single thing that could ever go wrong. By your logic, we should all sit perfectly still, never attempt anything for fear of the consequences.”
“Well, you and I both agree that there isn’t any way to predict what kind of unpleasant side effects are going to rear up when you toy with nature,” Kent said. “Commander ?”
The young officer lifted his chin slightly. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, sir. James T. Kirk.”
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For the wonderful men in my life—Mÿk, Cy, and Dex
—S. D. Perry
To all Zii-Catcherists everywhere
—Britta Dennison
Historian’s Note
This story is set primarily in the year 2261, Old Calendar, several years before James T. Kirk took command of the U.S.S. Enterprise.
Love is the profoundest of secrets. Divulged, even to the beloved, it is no longer Love.
—Henry David Thoreau
Prologue
TWENTY YEARS AGO
When he woke from a restless, hollow sleep next to his wife’s deathbed, Thaddeus Kent could see that she wasn’t going to live much longer. It wasn’t in the failing sensors that thumped and clicked over her head, though they told the story efficiently enough. It was in her face, in her spirit, which seemed gray and brittle, the bone-tired shadow that lay over her, sharpened her features, leached the vibrancy that he so loved in her. There would be no more weeks. No more days.
As the uncertain light of a cold morning spilled through the window, he moved closer to her, took her hand. It wasn’t—it couldn’t be—a surprise; the diagnosis had been painfully clear from the beginning. But losing her was also the most shocking, impossible thing he’d ever been forced to realize.
It will be today, he thought, watching her sleep, the lines of her face so well known to him, so loved. He made himself think it, terrified of having to face it more than once. My Jess. Dead and gone, forever.
He didn’t think he’d cry; he’d cried too much of late. But tears formed, trickled from his hot and aching eyes, slid down his stubbled cheeks. He looked away, worked to control himself, giving up in the same instant. Maybe he was wallowing in it, and so what? Chances were very good that the next time he woke, he would be alone, all alone, his best friend stolen from him by a sickness that never should have been ?
She made a sleepy sound, a soft inquisitive noise low in her throat. She was awake, watching him. Her fingers tightened in his, but her grip was weak, feverish.
He’d fought his own sorrow in the weeks that the disease had progressed, stealing her vitality, her life. He’d fought to be brave, not to let her see how much he was hurting ? Because wasn’t that what you did, when someone you loved was dying? Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do? Put on a show of strength, help her through her own pain, let her believe that you would cope, somehow? It all seemed so foolish, now, so strangely childish. She was the only one who could possibly understand.
“I love you,” he said, his voice catching. “I don’t want you to leave me.”
“I don’t want to,” she said. So quiet, so carefully medicated. She didn’t have the strength to feel much of anything anymore. A blessing, perhaps. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said. “We were doing the right thing, you know we were.”
Jess blinked, slowly. “Did we stop them?”
It wasn’t the first time she’d asked, her muddled memory one of the disease’s myriad complications.
“Yes,” he lied, also not for the first time. He kissed her hand, held it, the sudden rage a terrible burning inside. Terrible, but so much better than the pain. “We stopped them.”
She managed a hint of a smile, for which he was grateful. If she could die thinking that they’d made a difference after all, that would be something. The very least.
Jess’s limp fingers twitched, an attempt to grasp his hand tighter. “Then we’ve won,” she whispered. She met his gaze, her own bleary from exhaustion, from fighting. “You don’t have to be angry anymore, Thad. It’s over.”
The rage was tempered by his breaking heart. She was dying because she’d cared, because she’d tried to stop a group of stupid, greedy people from ruining the small oasis that had been their home, the place where they’d grown up and where they wanted to raise children of their own. If he’d known that this would be the result, that this was even a possibility ?
But what choice did we have? What else could we have done?
Thaddeus forced himself to smile for her. “That’s right. It is over. We can rest now. Rest, my love.”
She smiled back at him and closed her tired eyes. He wanted to scream, felt a million promises and regrets and plans rise into the tornado of his thoughts, the desperate need to do something, anything, sweeping over him like the sickness that had so effectively taken over their lives. Something had to be done to give meaning to this nightmare, to make this terrible, black day less so.
A moment later, she slipped into coma’s dark embrace. Within a few short hours, she was gone.
One
Alvin Repperton was a cautious man. It showed in the careful way he held himself, the stiff posture, the constant evaluation running through his bland gaze. Even when the news he had to deliver was good—and for Carol Marcus, it was very good, indeed—Repperton didn’t seem capable of relaxing into a real smile,
or even a convincing fake one.
It’s the funding, Carol thought, her own smile beaming back at her from the monitor’s surface. He can’t convince himself that spending it is a good idea, no matter the cause. She wondered absently if that mentality came with the job or to it, decided she didn’t care. Wait ’til the team heard! They hadn’t expected final word for another week.
Repperton was now referring to a data slate on his desk, scanning the information with a slight frown. Carol waited, unable to stop grinning.
“Considering your current rate of progress, we’ll be expecting weekly status reports, rather than monthly,” Repperton said, looking up from the padd. “Subject to review by our staff science personnel. Standard observations will apply concerning material procedures. Kraden also retains the option to send a team into the field to monitor your work—or, possibly, to assist—but only if you go over the projected time period without notice of forthcoming results.”
He smiled his nonsmile. “Of course, I can’t foresee any circumstance that might demand such measures. If your progress were to be so lacking, it would be just as easy to pull funding entirely.”
Carol nodded, doing her best to look properly attentive, appropriately submissive. Both her parents, university scientists, had often pointed out the necessity of being nice to the moneymen, especially when they felt the need to crack their middle-management whips. She was getting her funding, she could stand a few minutes of bowing and scraping. “Of course,” she said. The message was clear enough, and typical for a private company research “grant”—get results and get them fast, or we’ll stop the credit flow.
Eight weeks, she thought, and grinned again. With how well things had been going, she wouldn’t need half that.
Repperton gazed at her a moment longer, his natural expression mildly sour. “Well, then. Congratulations, Doctor Marcus. Please send notice of your receipt of funds as soon as possible.”
“I will,” Carol said. “And thank you. Please thank the committee for me, as well.”
“Hmm,” Repperton said, a bare acknowledgment, and he was gone.
Carol stood up immediately, too excited to sit still. The small lab was empty, J.C. and Tam gone for the night, as were the handful of graduate students that came and went daily. She stepped away from her desk, paced in a circle, her thoughts racing. Tam had the list of immediate supplies they needed. They should reserve the nitrilin right away. Where would they set the final stage? Kraden Interplanetary Research had several new labs on Earth and Mars, and one or two in orbit—though Glassman was using the company’s main station, she was pretty sure, and really, it would be simpler if they didn’t have to transport and prep the soil. So, Mars. In spite of dome restrictions and all the current hoorah over the new land licensing, there was less red tape to get through for the type of field testing they’d be conducting; it was still frontier country out there, compared to Earth. She had to get an extended team together, ASAP. She’d already been kicking around names, mostly postgrads who were willing to work for the experience, which was best, considering the pay. They’d need a geologist, and another particle physicist, maybe one of Kessner’s better “miracle” workers, if she was willing to loan one out. She wanted Dachmes for stats and mainframe prep, if she could get him; Leila Kalomi for lead on botany, assuming she hadn’t already been grabbed up. And she had to call everyone, the rest of the team, her mother, Jim—
Jim. Carol stopped pacing, felt her thoughts snag. His leave was coming up, would certainly coincide with setting up a new lab. Should she tell him not to come?
No. He’ll just have to be patient, that’s all. I certainly have been.
That long, delicious weekend in the Cascades had been their last face-to-face, almost a month ago. He’d been busy since, getting promoted—she was actually dating a Starfleet commander, who’d have thought?—and was currently playing war games (“practicing tactical maneuvers,” as he so charmingly corrected her) at some undisclosed location a few days away. He was due back in another ten days for the annual Federation Agenda Summit, set this year in Boston. He had three weeks of leave immediately following, and then he’d be gone again, probably for several months this time. They’d been dating only since November. Four months, and though they talked a few times a week, they’d probably spent less than two weeks together all told, most of that spread out over transporter one-nights and short weekend passes.
Knock it off. You both knew it didn’t have long-term applications. Not like Inception.
Carol let it go, refusing to lose momentum. Jim would understand, he’d be happy for her, and if they weren’t slated to last, she’d survive. They both would. She had a million things to do to get Inception up and running. Daydreaming about Jim Kirk could certainly wait.
Leila waited for Adam, excited and anxious as she sipped at her glass of wine, restlessly fingered the fine tablecloth. It was early for dinner, the small restaurant mostly empty. La Fresco, one of Adam’s off-campus favorites. The wine she’d chosen was sweet and kind of oaky, a taste like gently decaying leaves and honey. She was on her second glass, and still she felt that low beat of anxiety, a small, heavy knot in her gut.
It’s fine, she told herself. We’re fine.
Of course they were. And he’d be pleased by her news. He’d recently commented that she needed to expand her boundaries, to start looking for something more meaningful than some prof’s drudge work. Doctor Marcus’s experiment would be intensive, might even mean leaving Earth for a while, but she was sure that he would approve. That he’d be proud of her.
And maybe a few weeks’ absence will make his heart grow fonder, as it were. He’d been so distant lately. She tipped more wine into her glass, feeling like some character in an old movie. The nervous lover waits ?
“Hey.”
Adam sat down across from her, slightly out of breath. Leila glanced at her timepiece, saw that he was half an hour late. His pale, handsome features were the picture of apology.
“Sorry,” he said, half standing to lean across the table and kiss her cheek. “Lost track of time.”
“Still reworking the strings?” she asked, smiling. His thesis—a full symphonic opera—was going brilliantly, though he didn’t seem to think so. He was too critical.
Adam hesitated before answering. “Right. So ? What’s the big deal? You look nice.”
She sat up a bit straighter, glad she’d worn the blue dress. It was the most feminine thing she owned, light and low cut, and it was one of his favorites. She’d worn her hair down too instead of in the perpetual ponytail. “Thank you.”
“Are you going to tell me, or make me guess?” he asked.
She had contemplated some clever way to slip her news into their conversation, but now that he was here, she couldn’t hold back. “I got a call from Carol Marcus today. She’s been doing her postdoc at the Ell U labs. She just got funding from Kraden. And she wants me on her team.”
“Really? What’s she doing?” Adam poured himself a glass of wine.
“Agricultural terraforming, but accelerated. She’s been working on a process that will turn nonviable regolith—ah, dirt—production-ready in a very short time. And she needs a botanist with a general agronomy background.”
“Sounds interesting. Are you going to take it?” He sipped his wine, made a face.
“Yes, I think so. Whether it works out or not, I can use it as the final study for my doctorate. But I wanted to talk it over with you first.”
Adam sat back in his chair. That softly irritated look she’d come to know and hate passed over his face. “Why? If you want it, you should take it.”
She felt the weight in her stomach get a little heavier. “Because we’re together,” she said. “Because what you want matters to me.”
Adam sighed. “Right,” he said, but he seemed entirely unhappy with her answer.
Leila took a deep breath, decided to pursue the conversation. She’d been shying away from it for weeks, allowing her tentative
inquiries to be brushed off in the hope that he would make it through whatever it was that was occupying him, but she couldn’t put if off forever.
“What is it, Adam? What’s bothering you?”
His smile seemed forced. “The music, that’s all. Don’t worry about it.”
“That’s what you keep telling me.”
“You don’t believe me?”
She swallowed, shook her head. “You’ve been more than distant. You say it’s the symphony, but I’ve seen you under stress before, it’s never been like this. I feel that you’re angry with me about something.”
At his pained expression, she reached for his hand across the table, touched his still fingers. “Just talk to me. If we can’t even talk about it . . .”