by S. D. Perry
He did his best to mask his disappointment. “Oh?”
Carol nodded, and if she was disappointed, she was hiding it well. “We got our approval this morning for the outside acreage.” She grinned. “I thought we would, but there was a chance it wouldn’t go through. Anyway, we’ll be leaving on the twenty-third, which gives us only nine days to get ready. Can you believe it?”
“Carol, that’s wonderful,” he said, and meant it—but something of his feelings had to be showing, by the way she lost her smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you wanted to spend at least some of your leave with me, but we’ll still have a few days. And once we get things set up at the dome, I may have some free time ? Maybe I can arrange to meet you ?”
“Really?” Kirk’s spirits lifted. “Because the Mizuki is going in for two weeks at Utopia Planitia, for a panel refit. I was planning on staying here, but if you think you’ll have time, I could stay with the ship ?”
“I will,” she said.
“I don’t want to impose,” he said, which was as close to a lie as he’d ever told her. He wouldn’t have another extended leave for six months, at least, and had planned to spend all of his R & R with Carol. “It’s your first project as director. You’ll be busy and probably won’t be in the mood for candlelit dinners and long walks in the starlight—”
Carol leaned in and touched his face, ran a finger across his lips to still them.
“I’ll be in the mood for you. We’ll make time. After all, who knows when we’ll meet again?”
She said it lightly, but both their smiles faded after a beat. They generally avoided talking about the future, but there it was—he was career Starfleet, looking toward a command of his own, and she wanted to put down roots, run her own lab. There was no future.
Carol stood up, breaking the awkward moment. “So, I know this great place just off campus. There’s wine, cheese, coffee ? leftover barbecue too, I’m pretty sure. If not, we can always order in.”
She gave him that particular Carol smile again, coaxing him to his suddenly somewhat shaky legs as he realized the very place she meant.
“There may not be much of a menu, but the desserts are excellent,” she said, her voice low, that smile telling all.
“Sounds perfect.” They started away, Kirk wondering how he’d gotten so very lucky, wondering if perhaps the lack of future need necessarily be set in stone.
Lieutenant Commander Spock stood at the edge of the Katra-Ut-Bala, studying the rows of plantings in their gentle, ancient design. The attractive garden arrangement, a representation of the many facets of self-achieving oneness, dated back to Surak’s time. Spock appreciated the historical component, as well as the philosophical symbolism of many becoming one. It appealed to him in a way that some of the other embassy exhibits did not. The painted depictions of the Voroth Sea, for example, struck him as overly colorful, not at all like his own memories of that body of water. He recalled it as stark and monochrome. Of course, he had been a child then, and his visit to the sea had been for only a few days; perhaps a change in season wrought changes with the light of which he was unaware. Or perhaps the artist’s perception was simply unlike his own. Art was an entirely subjective field, after all.
Spock moved toward one of the flat stone benches that flanked the garden. He had no reason to hurry, and the day was mild, cool but not overly so for this time of year on Earth. He would sit, observe the garden, reflect on the artistry of the gardener. A human, one George Iles, had long ago stated that art was “a handicraft in flower,” a poetic sentiment but one that seemed appropriate to the particulars of ornamental gardens.
A young human woman was sitting on the bench next to the one he’d chosen. She too seemed quite taken with the Katra-Ut-Bala, or so he might assume, if he were one to do so; she’d been at the garden when he had arrived. At the moment, they were the only two visitors. As he sat, she smiled at him, nodding her head pleasantly. He nodded in turn, then resumed his study.
After a few moments, the young female stood and stepped over to his bench. “Excuse me. I’m very sorry to bother you, but may I ask a question?”
Spock looked up. The woman wore an expression of apology, a frown, a hesitant smile. Her hair was a very light blond, her face pale and evenly featured. He was uncertain as to how to respond to her opening statement, but her query was simple enough. “You may.”
She sat next to him. “Is there some significance to the number of rows, do you know?” She looked back at the garden. “I ask because I noticed that there were also seventeen rocks in a line across the Kir-Bala.”
She referred to the Garden of Perception, on the other side of the embassy. Spock had visited it often.
“It’s a reference in Vulcan mythology,” he said.
She nodded, apparently expecting more. Ever mindful of his position as an ambassador—for all Vulcans on Earth were that—he accommodated.
“Traditional fiction tells that there were seventeen paths to the Pa Ut’ra, a fabled monastery. Literally, Place of Insight. The number is common in Vulcan art, particularly with themes of self-awareness.”
“Was there such a place?” she asked. “A basis for the myth?”
“Unknown,” he said. “Definitive research is not possible.”
“Why’s that?”
“The myth is several thousands of years old and suggested that Pa Ut’ra was in a place that no longer exists. On a mountain, in fact, where there is now a vast desert. There would no longer be any empirical evidence to uncover, if there ever was.
“There is a kiosk inside the embassy that offers a historical overview of Vulcan, if you wish to pursue the topic in more depth,” he contin ued. “Reference cultural mythology, prior to the Time of Awakening.”
She smiled again, again that hesitant, faltering smile. “Oh. Thank you.”
There was silence between them, but the human girl stayed seated. She looked at him, then away, then opened her mouth as if to speak again, and closed it. Although Spock didn’t generally find emotion easy to read, her actions strongly suggested indecisiveness.
“You have another question?” he asked.
She smiled. “I have a lot of questions, actually. I’m sorry, am I keeping you ? ?”
Spock briefly considered her statement and its implications. She wished to speak further and was exhibiting apology for the intrusion on his time. If he chose not to converse, the appropriate response would be for him to explain that he was, in fact, occupied. If he was willing to undergo additional questioning, he should—
“I’m bothering you.” She stood. “Excuse me, please. And thank you for your time.”
“I am not bothered,” Spock said, aware that he had hesitated for too long. In spite of the fact that the majority of his interactions had been with humans for 13.62 years, he had yet to master any of the subtleties of “casual” conversation. Including, it seemed, the need to respond in a timely fashion.
The woman continued to stand but was smiling again. “Well, I’m glad to hear that,” she said. She had a slight accent that he had not heard before, a certain crispness to her words, though her voice was light, mellisonant in tone. “I didn’t come here to bother anyone.”
“As is expected,” he responded, determined to hold his end of their interaction but not sure what else to say. Why would anyone travel to the Embassy Gardens in order to harry visitors? As had been pointed out to him in other instances, he was, perhaps, taking the statement too literally.
She laughed, a soft sound. “My name is Leila Kalomi,” she said, sitting again.
“I am Spock.” He considered stating his rank and post, but that seemed overly formal under the circumstances.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mister Spock. I’m very curious about the gardens here. And you’re the first person I’ve had the courage to talk with all day. I’m a bit shy, I suppose.”
She looked down and away. “If you have other plans, I wouldn’t ? I mean, if you’re
not too busy, would you mind walking with me through a few of the exhibitions?”
Her manner—expression, words, the “shrug”—was self-deprecating, Spock decided. She approached their interaction as though afraid to approach, as though unworthy of his consideration, yet if she truly believed that to be so, why had she approached? It was illogical but representative of an interesting duality he’d noted before in his interactions with humans, particularly in social dealings—the expression of regret for daring to discourse. He had theorized that his Vulcan ancestry was the cause. For as many racial slights as he’d experienced among humans—not nearly so many as he’d endured throughout his childhood on Vulcan—he’d also encountered those who seemed to feel concern that their own ancestry might somehow be an affront to his. They could not know that his heritage was mixed, of course, as this young woman would not. But by her own admission, she had been reluctant to speak to another. Considering the environment, it was probable that she meant another Vulcan, which lent credence to his hypothesis.
Aware that she was waiting for his response, he put the thoughts aside, refocusing on the more immediate. In fact, he had nothing to do that could not be postponed. His plans for the day had included the gardens, a meal—there were a number of fine vegetarian restaurants near the embassy—and perhaps a visit to a museum of science and industry, this one in Paris. He’d seen four such museums over the past six days, had been visiting them by number of points of interest. The Parisian museum allegedly had an excellent film archive, historical documentation of Earth’s first industrial revolution, as well as several working mechanical specimens from the era, including a loom and a number of steam-driven engines. Earth history was a current hobby of his, one he’d been extrinsically motivated to indulge; had he been given a choice, he would be aboard the Enterprise, overseeing the Starfleet Corps of Engineers’ modifications to the warp drive. The starship was in dock for another month, after which it would return again under Captain Pike. But after he had learned that Spock meant to remain aboard throughout the ship’s lengthy reconditioning, the captain had ordered him to stay away for “at least” two weeks. And since he was not planning to attend the Starfleet summit, that left eight days—minimum—to fill with seeing “the sights,” as the captain suggested.
The woman had expressed interest, and as his homeworld’s mythology was quite intricate, and a subject in which he felt himself conversant, it seemed logical that he should tour the gardens with her. He had visited them every day of his exile and knew them well.
“I would not mind,” he said, and the brilliance of her smile, the look of happiness that crossed her face, pleased him more than he would ever admit, even to himself.
Four
Carol waited for the courier, Mac and Tam at her side. The university’s bland transporter room was empty except for the two techs standing at the control console, talking in low tones about some recent sporting event. Both physicists were silent, Tam’s aversion to conversation having finally thwarted Mac’s numerous attempts to get one started. The gregarious MacCready had already tried with Carol, but she was too preoccupied to muster much of a response. She was tired, scattered, and something she’d eaten for breakfast was definitely not agreeing with her stomach; too much coffee, perhaps. In all, it wasn’t shaping up to be much of a day. Yesterday had been better.
Waking up to Repperton’s message should have clued me in, she thought, resting one hand on her uneasy gut. Should have just gone back to bed.
Wishful thinking. With the project so close to completion, she couldn’t afford the luxury of sleeping in.
Or sleeping, she thought, remembering her extended lunch break from the day before. She smiled slightly, wistfully. Jim would be in Boston for the next several days, the duration of the summit. While it would be easy enough for them to continue meeting, they had agreed it would be best for both of them to keep focus on their respective tasks. As important as Inception was for her, the summit was an opportunity for him, one he’d spent weeks preparing for. When it was over, they would work something out for the remainder of his leave.
Midnight trysts on Mars, I suppose. Another smile. Kisses stolen beneath a salmon sky. His presence on Mars would definitely be a distraction, but one she thought she could manage. Would manage. She wasn’t sure if she loved him, not yet, but she was leaning in that direction. And he’d made his own feelings clear. He could be so direct sometimes, so absolutely certain, it was a little frightening.
He said it, she thought, and felt her heart thump an extra beat. Looking into my eyes, no banter, no apology. No question. Simple as that.
It wasn’t simple, though. She didn’t want a long-distance relationship and didn’t think that he did, either. But she also couldn’t imagine breaking things off. She had spent all of her young adult life knowing that if it came down to romance versus career, career would win. And now that she was actually faced with such a choice, all she could think about was his clear, direct gaze, when they’d finished making love, the complete resolution in his voice when he’d told her that he loved her.
Her stomach twisted a bit, dragging her back to real time, reminding her of that extra cup of coffee and the reason she was standing around, wasting precious time. She was about to ask one of the techs to call the departure point when he spoke into his console, adjusted a few switches. He nodded to the other tech—a student, apparently—explaining what he was doing as he worked the controls. The high, rising whine of the transporter drowned out their soft conversation.
“Nice of them to be on time,” Mac grumbled. Carol silently agreed.
Two men shimmered into view, one wearing a Starfleet sciences uniform, the other, much younger, in a business suit. Carol smiled mechanically at them, barely able to pull her gaze from the lock case at their feet. The science officer picked it up, stepping off the pad, a look of polite apology on his face. The young man in the business suit followed, his expression blank.
“Doctor Marcus?” the science officer asked, and Carol reached in, shook his hand.
“Aaron Thiel,” he said. “Sorry for the delay. We had ? actually, there was a processing problem at—”
“It was my fault,” the other man interrupted, smiling a practiced, artificial, entirely unapologetic smile. He looked like a teenager. “The FSC didn’t have the forms correctly filled out, I had to insist that we get all the proper authorization codes.”
He reached for Carol’s hand, held it limply. “The Council is trustworthy, of course, but you let something like that slide, before you know it, no one wants to do the work. I’m Troy Verne. Repperton said he would remind you I was coming. He didn’t forget, did he?”
He held her hand a beat too long. Carol pulled hers away, hoping her own smile seemed more sincere. “No, he left me a message this morning. Although I hadn’t been informed prior to this that Kraden would be sending a ? representative.”
“What, you thought they’d let you work with something like nitrilin without covering all bets?” Verne chuckled. “Not going to happen. Where the nitrilin goes, I go. In this case, off to Mars, to watch you folks play with somebody else’s ecosystem. Lucky me, right?”
Was he trying to be insulting? Keep smiling. “I assure you, Mister Verne, that we’re not ‘playing’ with anything here,” Carol said as evenly as possible. “If we’re successful, our work may help alleviate famine throughout the galaxy, perhaps even prevent tragedies like Tarsus IV. The FSC has approved and endorsed our proposal, and we plan to be very, very careful.”
“Right, of course,” Verne muttered, in a tone that suggested he was dealing with a madwoman. “I’m sure. I’m just here to ? Technically, you’re an independent contractor for Kraden—not a direct employee—and they want to be certain that there are no misunderstandings. You know, in the very unlikely event that there are any, ah ? misunderstandings.”
So that if we blow up Mars, Kraden can say it’s our fault, not theirs. She should have expected as much, but hearing it fumbled
out by this arrogant young man was almost more than she could take.
She hung grimly on to her smile, introducing Mac and Tam to both men. When Mac asked Verne if he was a scientist, Verne actually laughed, explaining that his specialty was “management” but that his background was in law. It seemed he had an aunt on Kraden’s board of directors, and had just started his new job there, that this, in fact, was his very first project. Carol smiled until her teeth were dry and thanked her stars that Mac was so friendly, the physicist asking Verne any number of blandly pleasant questions while she conferred with Thiel.
Finally Thiel had her sign a data slate and print it, then handed the locked case to her, along with a key strip. He shot a distinctly sympathetic look at her, rolling his eyes toward Verne, and then was gone, leaving them with Kraden’s rep. Their new lab mascot, it seemed.
At least they could have sent a scientist, Carol thought, as the four of them started for the lab, Verne trying to engage the two physicists in a conversation about terraforming laws on Mars. It was hard to tell whether or not he approved of their experiment; he wasn’t unfriendly, exactly, but he made another offhand comment about them “playing” with habitats, as though he wanted to alienate the trio of scientists. Whoever his aunt was, she must have pulled more than a few strings. Either that, or Kraden thought so little of the project, they didn’t care whom they sent. Carol preferred the nepotism angle.
