by S. D. Perry
“That’s all very well and good, Commander, but if we continue to act recklessly, believing that technology will come to our rescue when we make disastrous mistakes, then what will we do when technology can’t solve the problem? What will we do when technology causes the problem?” Kent’s voice was beginning to sound strained, and he hesitated briefly, drew a deep breath of air, pushed Jess’s face from his mind. He began again, choosing his words carefully. “Just visualize, if you will, a precariously balanced sculpture. Or piece of machinery. A house of cards, if you like.”
Kirk folded his arms, wearing an expression of infinite patience. The look was infuriating; it was all Kent could do not to start shouting.
“Now just imagine what happens if you snatch an object from the center of that pile,” he said.
Kirk smiled with his mouth only, his gaze betraying his disdain. “It all comes tumbling down around us, the sky rains fire, and it’s the end of the universe as we know it.”
Many in the crowd laughed as Kirk went on. “I understand the metaphor, Mister Kent, I’m just not convinced that it applies in this case, or in any of the cases that your organization argues for. I believe that progress is the correct—the better—path to take. We should always try to learn from our mistakes, but looking backward isn’t the way to evolve.”
There was a spontaneous eruption of applause.
“I’m not suggesting that we look backward,” Kent snapped, the cordiality leaking from his tone as he fought to be heard over the crowd. “I’m merely suggesting that we exercise a healthy and responsible restraint. It’s important to get a complete picture of what the outcome is going to be before we just ? just dump a shipful of chemicals into the atmosphere.”
“That’s the kind of language that’s going to get you in trouble,” Kirk said. “We are talking about scientists here, not trash collectors. Nobody is going to ‘dump’ anything anywhere.”
More applause, louder this time, and Kent had had enough. He felt himself going cold, the fury an icy thing. “Those were scientists who upended that load of chemicals off the African coast!” he shouted over the sharp, swelling sound of handclaps. “How very scientific of them!”
There were hoots of approval from a few members of Kent’s organization, but on the whole it was clear that the crowd sided with Kirk, the applause left over from his self-righteous diatribe still echoing across the room.
“Gentlemen,” the moderator broke in, “we’re running low on time. Next question, please.”
An aging woman stood and started asking the astrobiologist about some useless Federation project. Enraged, Kent clutched at his knees, trying to maintain an outward calm. He’d lost it, lost the entire debate by his derisive and childish comment. No one would remember the points he’d made, only that he’d been sarcastic and churlish at the end.
If I can enlighten even one person, even one, just one, if I can enlighten one person ?
The mantra wasn’t working. He felt the sting of humiliation, the emotional impact of the young commander’s complacent expression. He was exactly the kind of man Starfleet bred, convinced he was doing the right thing even as the universe went up in flames around him. Worse yet, able to convince others.
James Kirk, he thought, committing it to memory, his fists clenching and unclenching.
Carol sat alone before her computer, unsteadily clutching a stylus in one hand. A half-eaten pear, her dessert, rested on a plate nearby, where it had sat untouched for the better part of an hour. She had lost her appetite immediately upon receiving the message from Doctor Halley at the University Medical Clinic.
Oh, God, Carol thought, still staring at the screen, still lost. Oh.
The results of her med scan stared back at her. Everyone on the team had been required to get a clean bill of health before going offworld, one of Kraden’s contract points. Carol had not expected anything to come up, she was usually very conscientious about regular visits to the clinic. Of all the things she might have expected to appear in her test results, this was probably the last.
Fetus, the results screen told her. Approximately thirty-six days. Statistical probability of successful gestation: .988.
She was just over five weeks pregnant. That weekend they’d camped in the mountains, it would have been. Which had been about two weeks after that appointment she’d missed, the one she’d blown off as unnecessary. The one that would have double-checked her fertility levels, to be sure that the new implant was working.
Like it always has before, she thought, wishing she could be angry with someone else for the failure that was so obviously her own. Why this time? Why, after five years of no problems at all, had this particular implant not taken?
Doesn’t exactly matter now, does it?
No. No, it didn’t matter.
Separate links could be explored to tell her the likelihood of various heritable traits, her expected due date, information about genetic markers. At the bottom of the screen was a link titled gender. She raised the stylus, then lowered it again, as she already had any number of times already. To know the sex of the baby ? She wasn’t sure if she was ready for it to be real yet.
But it was real. She and Jim had made a child together, the very thing she had occasionally daydreamed about but had always eventually forced herself to quash when she reminded herself how impossible it would be.
Impossible. She almost smiled. Obviously, it wasn’t—but it was too, in spite of the fact. Impossible to believe.
Unless I highlight that link, she thought, make it real.
Gender.
She looked back to the top of the screen, read aloud: “Your physician recommends a daily prenatal supplement.” She touched the link, placed her order. Real or not, she had to do what needed to be done, had to make some decisions right away. Doctor Halley could recommend a good OB. She should probably get a reference for one on Mars too, just to be safe.
There were other options. The fetus could be removed, given to a couple unable to conceive on their own or stored for future implantation; there were developmental risks, but it was a pos sibility. Or she could carry to term, and give it up—
No, I couldn’t. She knew herself better than that. She’d always wanted children, always, had never questioned what she would do if she unexpectedly became pregnant. There was no question now, either. But that didn’t make it easier.
A child. Jim’s and mine. Her eyes filled with tears, but she wasn’t sure exactly what emotion she was experiencing; she knew only that it was making her feel light-headed. There she sat, unmoving, stuck with a stylus in one hand, but everything was actually changing. The research that she’d been born to do, the discoveries she wanted to make, the settled, happy life she would one day have after she saved a few hundred worlds ?
A child would change that. She knew it as certainly as she had ever known anything, that once this child came into her life, seeing to its happiness and well-being would become all-important. Would Jim feel the same way?
Of course he will. You know what kind of man he is. He’ll always do what he knows is right, and he does love you. He’ll love this child just as much.
Carol thought, then, of the “Starfleet widows” she had known throughout her life, their orphaned children always so proud of their missing parent. It was rough on them, she knew it. Most Starfleet marriages crumbled under the pressure of the separation, unless both husband and wife had been enlisted, unless they’d been willing to drag their children from posting to posting, taking them away from their friends, their homes.
It wasn’t what she wanted for herself, for her child, but she shouldn’t just dismiss it out of hand. Perhaps Jim would settle for a permanent post somewhere, where they could have a house, a life together.
Another almost smile. Jim wanted to explore, he wanted a ship of his own, he needed it. Starfleet wasn’t just a job for him; leading was in his blood. And she didn’t know if she could bear being cooped up on a ship for years at a time with just a few hundre
d others. Or with Jim, for that matter. She needed her independence, and so did he. Such claustrophobic familiarity would certainly spell the end of them. There had to be another way.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of an incoming call. Moving as though in a dream, she clicked it on without checking to see who it was.
“Carol.”
She recognized the voice before his image assembled itself on her view screen. Jim’s eyes were gentle, should have been a delicious comfort, but she felt only panic.
“Hi,” she said, quickly rearranged her expression. She smiled, her heart pounding.
“I’m not catching you in the middle of anything, am I?”
“No,” she said. It was automatic, and a lie. “Just getting ready for the trip.”
“You’re not busy at all, then,” he said, smiling. “Think there’s a chance of getting away? I’d like to see you again before you go.”
“Oh ? you will.” She meant to be reassuring but realized that she sounded uncertain, or as if she were trying to be coy. He wouldn’t like that, he liked people to be straightforward. She tried to think of an amendment to her listless statement, but nothing came. I can’t tell him like this, not like this—
“You seem ? distracted.” Jim’s smile faded, concern replacing it.
“Long day triple-checking results, and there’s still so much to do before Mars. I don’t actually have time to get distracted.” That, at least, was true.
Jim smiled, a playful expression. “You’re not hiding anyone in there, are you?” He craned his neck, as if to peer over her shoulder into the apartment behind her.
“Of course not, Jim.” She smiled, some of her composure returning. “The only dates I have are with my laboratory. I want to see you, too.”
“Can you make time tomorrow?”
“I ? don’t know if tomorrow’s going to be good. I’m sorry Jim, I’ll ? I’ll just have to call you, okay?”
He did not answer right away, only studied her with a slightly puzzled gaze, as though trying to read her thoughts through the view screen.
“Jim?”
“Yes. All right. Call me soon.”
“I will,” she promised.
“You’d better!” He grinned boyishly now, his charm piercing her heart. He almost looked as though he wanted to add something, but then his image abruptly flickered and vanished as he ended the call.
It was late. Carol powered down the computer, threw away the remnants of the pear. She made her way to bed and lay down, plucked restlessly at the coverlet. She needed desperately to sleep but doubted that it was going to happen anytime soon.
I can’t tell him, not with the experiment happening, with him about to leave again, she thought, she decided. But how am I going to not tell him? She couldn’t imagine spending time with him and keeping such a huge secret. She would have to avoid him for a little while, until she could get herself organized, get prepared for the conversation that would follow the announcement. The thought of it made her heartsick, but she couldn’t see any other way to keep it from him. She wasn’t the type to keep secrets, and Jim wasn’t the type she wanted to keep secrets from. She wanted to be able to share everything with him.
She got up and went to her computer. Almost without a thought she brought back the screen she had been looking at before Jim’s call. She picked up the stylus and outlined a link, watching as the screen blinked back its result.
Gender: male.
“A boy,” she whispered.
“Mister Spock!” Leila Kalomi said, opening the door and beckoning him inside. “Please come in!”
Spock gave a slight bow, offered her the data slate she had allowed him to borrow. He was a little puzzled by her tone, her manner, as if she had not been expecting him.
“It was discussed that I would return this here ? ?” he said, a half question. She had clearly indicated that he could bring the device back to her apartment, but the protocol of social interactions with humans often required some degree of uncertainty, an allowance for error. It was the polite form. And perhaps, after all, she had forgotten.
“Oh, of course,” she said, taking the slate. She gestured for him to sit, and he complied. Having been invited, it was appropriate for him to stay a short while, to engage in conversation.
The state of the apartment was drastically different now. The unruly piles of clothing and personal items were gone, a few neat stacks of traveling cases in their place.
“You are preparing for your trip,” he observed, as she sat across from him on the couch.
“Yes. And you’ll be returning to your ship soon, won’t you?”
“Yes. In approximately fifty-two hours.”
“Will you be leaving then, on another mission?”
“The improvements will not be completed for approximately another four weeks. We shall remain in orbit of Earth for the duration of the reconditioning.”
They sat for a moment in silence. It seemed their expected interaction had reached its con clusion, or would if he could find nothing further to say. He cleared his throat.
“The particulars of your impending experiment have proved to be quite fascinating,” he said. “You have my thanks for the use of the display device, and for accessing this information on my behalf.”
“It was absolutely my pleasure,” she said, and smiled.
Spock dipped his head in response. He had found that bowing seemed to constitute a kind of common ground between Terran and Vulcan custom, a signification of mutual respect.
“I was particularly interested in the section on compound chain reactions in a controlled environment,” he said.
“Yes, that was interesting. Although I must admit, I don’t understand all of it. My part in the experiment will primarily be analysis of the final effect, the components of the readied soil.”
“Particularly the level of microbial activity, I believe.”
The young woman nodded emphatically, smiled widely. “Yes, that’s right. The four key biochemical changes necessary for healthy soil—and healthy plants—are brought about
by decomposition; microbial activity plays an essential role in that process.”
“Nitrification, sulfur oxidation, nitrogen fixation, and mycorrhizal association,” Spock said.
She started to respond, then hesitated. “You know more about it than most botanists,” she said finally, the obvious hyperbole indicating pleasure with his response. “Are you ? do all Vulcans possess such a capacity for gathering knowledge?”
“The Vulcan mind does differ somewhat from that of a human,” Spock stated. “However, the potential for acquiring knowledge does not necessarily denote a willingness to do so.”
She did not speak for a moment, appearing to consider his statement.
“Mister Spock,” she said, her face coloring slightly. “I ? I must confess, I have learned something about you since our last encounter.”
“About me?”
“Yes. I wasn’t intending to pry, I only wanted to find out more about you, and ? I did.”
Spock said nothing, curious as to what data she meant to disclose.
“I found some things about your father on the net, that he is a Federation ambassador ?”
“That is correct.” Spock wondered if she perhaps had learned something about his father that he himself didn’t know. It had been a very long time since the two had spoken.
“And I saw a picture of your mother, Mister Spock. I found out that she is ? she is like me.”
Spock experienced the slightest pinprick of regret before he carefully manipulated it back to where it belonged. Perhaps it had been a mistake to fraternize with anyone on Earth while on leave.
“My mother is of Terran heritage,” he acknowledged. Obviously, she did not mean to say that his mother was a botanist, as she was not. He could not surmise what this young lady’s motives could possibly be in trying to learn the details of his personal life, unless ? If she was uncertain of his character, had conc
erns about having shared her project information with him, it was logical that she might seek out references of some sort. He felt compelled to affirm to her that he had no motive beyond curiosity, beyond a desire to further his own awareness of developments in terraformation.
“Miss Kalomi, if you are apprehensive about having revealed the data of your experiment, let me assure you that I have no intent to use the information for any ill means.”
She smiled again, but her smile seemed different now—how, he could not precisely say. “Of course you won’t,” she said. “You aren’t that kind of man.”
Confused and unable to interpret her tone, he studied her eyes, her strange, luminous eyes the color of Earth’s oceans and sky. He knew that Terran eyes could sometimes reveal the feelings they were experiencing, but he was not adept at the reading. Something in her expression unsettled him. A memory surfaced, a memory that served no useful purpose whatsoever—of himself as a child, surrounded by other Vulcan children.
