by S. D. Perry
“I do not currently have access to my personal computer,” Spock said.
Of course not, his was on his ship. Leila hesitated again. She couldn’t just copy off the slate, the data was encrypted against it, and she needed to keep her own copy of the exact specs ?
? But I could download it, she thought. Access and copy the appropriate university files ?
“My apartment is nearby,” she said, her heart speeding up a few beats as she said it. Had she just invited him to her apartment? To her and Adam’s apartment? The place was in a terrible state of disarray, he was still hauling his things out, to move in with her, presumably ?
She forced that thought, those regrets, into a secure package, to be reopened at another time. She was being ridiculous. A Vulcan wouldn’t care about something as irrelevant as a messy apartment; neither should she.
“We can use my computer,” she added and stood up. “It shouldn’t take long.”
Spock gave a quick bow of his head, presumably in agreement. Aware that she was blushing a little, Leila quickly rose and started for the embassy transporters. Spock followed her without a word.
Five
Leila Kalomi scanned a triadium card, about five centimeters square, in front of a tiny panel beneath the door lever. Spock noted that the security system on her living unit was quite rudimentary. The key card would be simple enough to duplicate, could certainly be formulated in a very basic laboratory environment.
“I’m sorry for the mess you’re about to see,” she said, pushing down the door lever.
“There is no need for apology,” Spock said. Organizing one’s possessions reflective of mem-sha’rup was a Vulcan tradition. It was logical to expect some degree of chaos in a dwelling inhabited by humans.
Miss Kalomi roughly wiggled the door. The automatic rollers seemed to be jammed. Spock hypothesized that the air-controlled caliper was malfunctioning, had seized in an open position, perhaps as a result of oxidation, or, possibly, an accumulation of matter over time. The building was quite old and didn’t appear to be particularly well maintained. The caliper would need to be removed and cleaned, possibly replaced entirely. He grasped the door just above the young lady’s head and pushed it back.
“Thank you,” she said. She seemed out of breath; strange, as her struggle with the door had not been prolonged, and she appeared to be in good physical condition. Appropriate to a human female, certainly.
“You are welcome,” Spock said.
They moved inside, and Spock assessed the small apartment. Nearly every surface in the room they had entered was piled high with objects—boxes, cases, articles of clothing and old-fashioned books. The apartment appeared to be in the midst of some kind of transition.
“It’s a wreck,” Miss Kalomi said, her face suddenly changing color. Spock noted the physiological change, interested; she seemed prone to such flushes. He understood that visible dermis changes of this sort suggested strong emotion in humans—as in several other humanoid species—but could not imagine why Miss Kalomi would currently be experiencing such a change. Anger? Embarrassment? If she had been unaware that her apartment would be in such a state, it could be surmised that someone else was responsible for it—an intruder? Possible, considering the lack of sufficient security in the building. But Miss Kalomi was not exhibiting any of the traits he would have associated with fear in a human, and she had apologized for the disarray before they had entered the dwelling, which made anger—or, at least, anger borne of surprise—seem unlikely.
Miss Kalomi hastily gathered a few items of clothing from a chair, setting them aside before moving toward a cluttered computer console. “Please sit down, Mister Spock.”
He did so, his attention drawn to a shining musical instrument in an open case near his feet. He recognized it.
“A French horn. Does this instrument belong to you, Miss Kalomi?”
The color in her face seemed to intensify, and Spock briefly speculated that perhaps she was angry with him, although he could think of no logical reason for it.
“No. That belongs to Adam, he’s ? he was a friend. He used to live here, but he’s moving out.”
Spock considered this information, along with what he’d already observed of her demeanor, and made the logical deduction. Intimate human relationships were generally based on mutual affection between two participants, the relationship ending if one or both parties in volved no longer wished to pursue it. It seemed likely that Miss Kalomi had recently ended such a relationship.
Spock looked around the room again, saw several other instruments—brass-wind, woodwind, something that looked like a violoncello. “And the other instruments? Do they belong to Adam as well?”
“He’s studied music for a very long time,” she said, her voice distant, her gaze fixed upon her computer’s screen. “A few are borrowed from the university, but most are his.”
“Music is a noble pursuit.” Spock was uncertain of what else to say. He did not wish to make her uncomfortable. He decided not to inquire any further about the instruments.
Miss Kalomi nodded but made no response, apparently distracted by the task at hand. She typed in several commands, then leaned forward, undergoing the retinal scan necessary to access her university’s informational database.
“The downloads will be completed shortly,” she said. “Less than a minute, if there isn’t a disruption in the channel. I get a lot of those.”
“That is to be expected, considering the age of this building,” Spock said.
“Really?”
“The relative positioning of field circuits has changed in the past three decades, at least on this continent. Previous relay systems required a much shorter jump gap than what is necessary for more modern equipment. The higher frequency of the systems now in place will often experience disruption during times of particularly high use, when they encounter the shorter jump gap.”
She watched him for a few seconds, then spoke in a soft tone. “Mister Spock, is there anything you don’t know?”
The question was almost certainly rhetorical—Captain Pike had asked that very question on more than one occasion and had made it clear that no response was expected—but Miss Kalomi seemed to be waiting for an answer, her gaze lingering upon his own. Spock attempted to comply.
“There are many boundaries to my knowledge,” he said. “It happens that I recently read an article on this particular subject.”
She smiled, in a way that suggested pleasure rather than scorn. “I just meant that you possess an impressive recall.”
He bowed his head. “I am”—he searched for the right words—“pleased to inform you of anything you might find useful to know.”
She was silent for a moment, her gaze still steady upon his. He studied her eyes in turn, interested in the color. Statistically, such light eyes were a genetic anomaly on Vulcan. Finally, she returned her attention to the console.
“There is disruption,” she said. “I’m afraid the download is starting over. I’m sorry, I hope I’m not keeping you from anything.”
“It does not inconvenience me in any way to wait,” he said.
Miss Kalomi sat on the end of a padded bench, nearly hidden by the array of items strewn across it. They did not speak for a moment. Spock looked about the room, noticed that there were, in fact, several instrument cases stamped with the initials of the university. There were six in all, and four other cases that appeared unmarked. The borrowed instruments bore proximity locks, of a more sophisticated design than that of the latch on the apartment door. The larger instruments were fitted with gravity devices. Spock was curious about the collection, about the owner and his particular avenue of interest, but refrained from asking any questions in view of his prior decision.
“Vulcans get married, don’t they?” Miss Kalomi asked, rather abruptly.
The lack of segue made it a startling question, but it was one he’d answered before. “Vulcans of the opposite gender are betrothed to one another in pairs fo
r reproductive purposes,”
he said.
Miss Kalomi nodded. “And that ? works out?”
“Please clarify, Miss Kalomi. Do you mean to ask if this practice successfully bears offspring?”
“No, I just mean ? well, is that how it was in your family? With your parents?”
Spock hesitated. “My parents were atypical,” he said, and hesitated again. It was an extremely personal question and a subject he preferred not to speak about. However, there was no logical reason to avoid speaking of it, either. He was a Vulcan. His heritage was fact. It was fortuitous that the computer signaled its readiness before he felt compelled to answer further.
“The download appears to be complete,” he said.
“So it is.” Leila stood, retrieved the data slate from the downloading dock. “Here, Mister Spock. You may take this.”
Spock received the device. “Thank you, Miss Kalomi. Shall I return it here, when I’ve finished?”
“You’re certainly welcome to keep it, if you’d like to have the information for future reference.”
“There is no need,” he informed her. “My memory is eidetic.”
Miss Kalomi seemed to catch her breath, very slightly. “Then yes, you can bring it back to me,” she said. “I’m in most evenings.”
She walked with him the few steps to the door, then held out her hand, smiling. When he didn’t immediately grasp it—even after all his years around humans, the gesture had not become reflexive—she lowered her hand, smile faltering only slightly.
“I look forward to seeing you again, Mister Spock.”
“I thank you for your assistance,” he said, aware that his reply wasn’t quite apt to her statement but unsure once again of what else to say. He found her company interesting and informative, as he found time spent with most beings, but quite suddenly believed that it would be improper to tell her so. Why, he could not rightly say, but decided that it would certainly bear further analysis at another time.
The nitrilin solution had been added to the small plot of soil by means of pinpoint electron transportation, linked through the lab’s mainframe, the meter-deep container of prepared regolith enclosed in a tightly controlled force field. It was their first live experiment, and as the minutes ticked past, Carol found herself unable to sit still. She paced as the other members of the team talked quietly, as Dachmes transported the initial samples into their respective containers, as they all waited. The feeling in the lab was expectant, tense; even Troy Verne seemed somewhat interested. At least he had ceased bothering the team members with his unsought opinions about terraforming.
Carol watched as Mac carefully grasped a transparent aluminum test tube between his gloved thumb and forefinger, holding it up for Tam’s tricorder reading. A half dozen additional test tubes, filled with varying levels of soil, appeared to be suspended in midair behind the two physicists. They were perched on a delicate stand that was wirelessly linked to the laboratory mainframe. The tricorder reading was a calibration test measure, and Tam and Mac both nodded at the data they were getting, suggesting that the equipment, at least, was working the way it was supposed to. Nearby screens blinked with pathways of rapidly changing numbers and characters, casting winking lights across the faces of those seated in front of them—J.C. and Leila Kalomi were also in attendance, as well as Carol’s trio of grad students, the ones who would be coming to Mars with them. Alison Simhbib, the Martian geologist, hadn’t been required for the first phase; she was the only team member not present.
Richard Dachmes briefly glanced away from his screen. “It will be another ? twenty-two minutes before the final results.”
Carol nodded, perfectly aware of how long it would take. She wished there was something she could be doing, anything, but the work—her work—had been completed. She could only wait. Dachmes shifted in his seat at his workstation, his nose centimeters away from a screen flickering with numbers, crunching and blinking as his fingers danced across the keypad.
Verne spoke up, stretching his arms behind his head, his tone impatient. “Why so long?”
Mac answered, much to Carol’s relief. Troy Verne had worn out her patience about ten minutes after their initial meeting.
“We need to give it sufficient time to adjust to the atmospheric changes that will occur naturally after a chemical reaction like this one,” Mac said. “Those changes will beget our second reaction, between the nitrilin compound and the newly formed atmospheric gases. There’s always a chance that the process won’t stabilize as we expect—”
“Right,” Verne said, and yawned. “Well, be sure to let me know when something happens. I’m already late with today’s report.”
No one answered, all of them perfectly aware of the pull that Verne had with Kraden. Carol avoided looking at him as the time crawled by. She had no doubt that Kraden would be quick to yank funding if even the slightest thing went wrong at this point in the testing phase. She knew that she had the capacity to be perfectly professional about failure, it was just so unpleasant to actually have to do it.
Not relevant. We won’t fail.
“It’s slowing,” Dachmes called.
“That was fast,” Leila said.
“Too fast,” Mac said, shaking his head.
“What’s that mean?” Verne asked and was summarily ignored.
“Not necessarily,” J.C. said. “One of the simulations showed a result that was nearly this quick. We chalked it up as an anomaly.”
Dachmes’s fingers continued to walk along the keypad with a steady, rhythmic tap. “And,” he announced slowly, “there you have it.”
“Stable?” Carol asked. She was amazed at how calm she sounded.
“We have stability,” Dachmes confirmed. “The samples are totally viable, and—” His announcement was cut short by J.C. letting out a whoop.
“Success!” shouted Mac, and Carol felt herself being hugged amid a cacophony of cheers and squealing. Her team members clapped, laughed, jumped up and down. Even Tam was smiling broadly, hugging herself, and Leila, who had seemed so miserable only a few days earlier, was practically glowing.
The results were checked and double-checked, the results coming back the same. Inception would work. Inception had worked.
“We have to celebrate,” J.C. said, grinning. “Come on, Doc! Let’s get out of here! First bottle of wine’s on me!”
Carol shook her head. “There’s still so much to do—”
“—And we can do it tomorrow, can’t we?” Leila said. She stepped closer to Carol, lowering her voice slightly. “What’s the saying, about making music while the sun shines?”
Carol smiled. “I don’t think that’s quite it, Leila ?”
“But the sentiment’s right.” Leila touched Carol’s hand, gave it a squeeze. “You deserve a few moments for yourself.”
Carol glanced around at the happy faces of her team, torn for a moment. As a student, she had always disliked working with the profs who didn’t know when to ease up, to let their teams take a breath. She had promised herself never to become one of them.
But we still have to go over the analysis and then break down this experiment, get it packed, and we haven’t even started loading the backup transport assemblies ?
Perhaps she should stay behind; the rest of them could go out, should, in fact. She started to suggest that they do just that and was hit with a sudden sense of vertigo, a light-headed rush that made her rethink her decision. She couldn’t remember when she’d eaten last, she’d just been so excited all day—and Leila was right, she deserved a moment or two, to celebrate, to relax, to enjoy the awareness that everything was on track.
To eat.
“You talked me into it,” she told Leila, who smiled prettily. Carol was pleased by the change in the girl, by the light in her eyes. The botanist had seemed so much happier over the past few days, Carol was starting to rethink her initial assessment, that Leila was going through a breakup. She certainly doubted that she would look so c
heerful within a month of saying good-bye to Jim.
The thought was a sobering one, and she discarded it in a blink. Today, of all days, was not the time to be thinking about that. Maybe a glass of wine or two would be just the thing, after all.
“And I’m buying,” Carol said, raising her voice so the rest of them could hear. A cheer went up, and even Troy Verne had the sense to look pleased. Carol imagined that his next report to Kraden was going to go a long way toward making him at least slightly more tolerable.
Leila fumbled with her key card, and had to push at the sliding door with all her might. She’d had too much to drink.
But it feels wonderful, she thought, tapping a light panel and dropping her card on the table, wobbling only slightly as she took off her jacket. She hung it on the empty peg by the door, where Adam had always kept his, a tattered old thing that had been his father’s. She wondered where it was hanging now, dismissing the thought in the same instant, feeling both melancholy and somewhat brave at once. Freedom. She was free.
