by S. D. Perry
he returned her feelings on any level—which she believed he did—he would never permit himself to acknowledge it. She felt a stone in her throat, in the pit of her stomach.
His frown, the tone of his voice when he spoke, suggested confusion. “Miss Kalomi, I am not aware of an appropriate response to your declaration.”
Leila looked away. “I’m sorry.”
“I would like to understand what you expect by your expressed sentiment. Please, Miss Kalomi. I do not wish to cause you any further ? discomfort.”
Leila smiled sadly. “Well, a human male, I suppose, would tell me ? how he felt. Whether or not he loved me back.”
“I see. In that case, Miss Kalomi, my response must be that I do not love you, as I am incapable of love.”
She could not speak for her tears. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t believe him, that he was not incapable of love, he had simply learned to ignore his emotions so long ago that he had forgotten what they were for. But maybe she was fooling herself. It was easy enough to believe him as he watched her cry, his expression as stoic, as ungiving as ever. Yet when she looked into his eyes, she could not let go of the certainty that there was still something there, something just for her.
It doesn’t matter, though, does it? It never did.
“I should go,” she managed. “Thank you for ? for returning my call.”
“It was not my intention to cause you distress. I feel it would be inappropriate for me to leave you in your current state.”
She smiled slightly. In his way, he was asking her if she was all right before ending the call. Perhaps it was true that all men were alike, adhering to the same code that enabled them to break women’s hearts all over the galaxy.
“I’ll recover,” she said, wondering as she said it if it was true. She knew, of course, that she would pick up and move on. But she also knew—she knew—that no other man would move her the way that this one had.
“Good-bye, Mister Spock. I will not forget you.”
“Live long and prosper, Miss Kalomi,” he said, and then he was gone.
Spock turned away from his monitor, contemplative. He could not fully comprehend why she had elected to reveal her feelings, understanding what she did of his Vulcan heritage. It was possible that his partly human ancestry had inspired in Leila Kalomi a belief that he was capable of returning her love. But considering their prior conversations regarding any aspect of the matter, he couldn’t see how. It struck him as odd that she—that many species, actually—seemed to feel compelled to induce the subject of their desires to reciprocate those feelings. Odd, and in this particular instance, unfortunate.
Yearning, he thought, templing his fingers. The desire to have what one has not. Too often, it was not the desire to achieve knowledge, or spiritual completion; it was not a desire for possibilities within. This yearning, this desire that seemed to drive so much of the galaxy into paroxysms of unrest was the wish to obtain something else—land, or resources. Or love.
Had some part of him yearned for Miss Kalomi, for her company? Perhaps, in that he had, in fact, taken some pleasure in seeing her. But he had also taken pleasure in seeing some of the science and industry museums of Earth. Obviously, considering the variables in experience, they could not be compared.
His computer signaled. He touched the control. “Spock here.”
It was the captain. “I’ve called a senior officers’ meeting in conference one, at fifteen hundred hours. I want to go over the new scheduling rosters, and I’d like your input.”
“Yes, Captain.”
A glance at the monitor told him that he had forty minutes until his presence was required. He decided he would arrive early and spend the spare time formulating possible shift changes. He also decided, as he left his quarters, that he would not seek any further contact with Leila Kalomi. He expected, all things considered, that she would elect to do the same.
Fifteen
Carol ate very little of her meal, although the food was excellent. The restaurant had been highly recommended by Doc Evans and was worthy of the praise. But as Kirk picked over his own pasta, he realized that the quality of the food wasn’t actually the problem.
“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked, nodding at her nearly full plate. The question was almost automatic, a polite inquiry in place of what he should say, what he knew he should ask. He didn’t want to, though. She’d been distant with him since before Mars, but he still didn’t want to talk about it, fully aware of what she was likely to say. Fully aware that he still didn’t know what he wanted to do.
That’s not true. You know, you just don’t want to admit it. The thought was more honest than he wanted to acknowledge, even now. But his brief stint as the captain of the U.S.S. Aloia had clarified a lot of things for him.
“I guess not,” she said, and sighed. Her smile was faint. “I’ve still got a lot of unpacking to do at the lab. And I guess ? I guess I’ve been thinking that you’re going to leave me again soon.”
He pushed his plate aside, reached for one of her hands.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you’ve got almost a week left, but I don’t think ? I can’t keep pretending—”
“Carol,” he said softly, stroked her fingers. It hurt, worse than he’d expected, and although he knew what he wanted, knew where his future lay, he realized that he couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t let her go, not without at least trying. He loved her.
“Before you asked me to come to the lab, I thought about what it would mean to lose you,” he said. “The thought of never seeing you again was like the end of the world.”
A tear trickled down one of her golden cheekbones, in spite of her smile. She started to respond, but he grasped her hand tighter, squeezed her delicate fingers within his own.
“Don’t say anything, Carol, not yet. I just wondered ? I thought that maybe I could talk you into changing your mind.”
“Changing my mind?”
“About Starfleet.” He drew a deep breath.
“I wondered what you would say if I asked
you to—”
She released his hand. “Don’t, please,” she half whispered. Behind her tears, she was beautiful. Beautiful and merciful and deeply, terribly sad. “You already know what my answer would have to be.”
His vague hopes crumbled, yet he felt a shameful glimmer of relief beneath his own sorrow. He did love her, as much as he’d ever loved anyone. But he couldn’t ask her to give up her dreams for his, either. In a way, she’d released them both.
“Yes,” he said, sitting back in his seat. “I know.”
Karen Dupree turned to look at Kent, and he smiled at her. He’d been smiling a lot over the last few days, his decision having lifted a massive weight from his shoulders. She smiled back, turning again toward the podium, where Don Byers had finished delivering their quarterly report and was now going over their newly revised mission statement. Kent looked out into the audience of Terran Redpeace members and supporters, most of them hanging on every one of Byers’s words. He’d become a good speaker over the years, engaging and entertaining. Kent would be up next; they were all expecting to hear his take on the Kraden debacle. It was their first Earth conference since the incident, held at their original headquarters. It was fitting that he’d be making his announcement here, not two klicks from where it had all started for him, where he and Jess had grown up together. There would be another conference on Mars in a few days, but he wouldn’t be speaking there.
“We’re putting a new face on Redpeace,” Byers said. “We want to do whatever we can to keep our newfound visibility high, while simultaneously distancing ourselves from violent groups like Whole Earth. In the wake of this near tragedy, we want it made absolutely clear that our goals and methodology are entirely disparate from Whole Earth and groups like it.”
The reception was wholeheartedly positive, their friends and colleagues, numerous members of the press—who, until the Mars incident, had never managed to attend
one of the quarterly conferences—all clapping loudly for the well-spoken Byers. Don nodded his acceptance of it, then called Kent up with a brief but glowing introduction. The applause grew as Kent rose from his seat, as Don moved to sit back down just to the left of the podium. Kent hooked his friend’s arm, kept him standing.
“Don’t sit down just yet,” he said.
Byers complied, puzzled, as Kent took his place in front of the crowd. He felt their appreciative gazes, their enthusiasm and loyalty, and was warmed by it. The cause—not just for Mars, but for maintaining natural integrity throughout the galaxy—had never been so well supported or so public. He knew that great things would come of such loving attention, such fervent belief in the power of conservation.
“Friends and supporters, people of the press,” Kent began, his voice carrying clear and strong, not a hint of hesitation. “I thank each and every one of you for your loyalty and support throughout my service as chairperson for the Immutable Foundation, also known as Redpeace.” A few people chuckled, though most of the crowd was so accustomed to the nickname that it failed to rouse them.
“I can’t tell you how much I’ve appreciated everything you’ve done for this organization,” he continued, “from volunteering, to financial support, to just showing up whenever there was a press conference or a protest. You are this organization.” Murmurs of approval went up all around him.
“What we do—what we try to do—is make a positive difference in this galaxy, to keep all of our worlds safe and sound for every living creature. And for generations to come.” His voice broke slightly, and he cleared his throat before continuing. It was the right thing, he knew it, but that didn’t mean it was painless.
“I love what we stand for,” he said, smiling out at them all. “And so it is with the greatest regret that I must announce my resignation as chair, effective immediately.”
“Thad—” Byers, standing to his side, clutched him by the forearm.
Kent waved him off. “I’ve chosen to step down for personal reasons, and I would like to be the first to nominate Don Byers as my replacement. Don?”
Byers appeared flabbergasted as the hall erupted into applause. Kent stepped away from the podium, fighting to contain himself as he took his seat.
“Well, I don’t know what to say,” Byers began, but then he launched into a smooth and competent acceptance speech, just as Kent had known he would. Don was the perfect man for this job. A much more capable and deserving man than Kent had ever been.
Kent did not meet the gaze of any of the other board members, sitting all around him, until the meeting had been adjourned and most of the crowd had trickled out. He did the expected obligatory round of hand shaking and embraces, carefully avoiding the questions, and finally it was over. He let out a deep breath and headed for the building’s main exit. Don Byers caught up to him just before he reached it.
“Thad,” Byers said, his face still flushed from all the excitement, his eyes sparkling, though he wasn’t smiling. He wore an expression of sincere concern. “I still can’t believe that you did this. No one can. I hope you know how much I appreciate that you would want to pass the baton to me—and I know you said your reasons were personal—but why?”
Kent considered, for a half second, actually telling him the truth. He’d known Don Byers for more than fifteen years, and if anyone deserved an explanation, it was Don. But what could he say? That he’d wavered when he shouldn’t have? That in his desperation to give his own life meaning, he’d tried to cheat? He’d told himself, all these years, that it was for Jess, that it had all been for Jess, but the truth was he just hadn’t ever gotten around to inventing a reason to live without her. What had happened at Tyn Sei, with the Immutable Foundation, Redpeace—they had all been ways to structure an anger that should have been laid to rest long ago. After his awkward and confusing meeting with Carol Marcus, he’d done a lot of think ing. And though he still believed in the work, he didn’t want to be angry anymore. That anger had allowed him to set aside his common sense, to collaborate, even indirectly, with the likes of Josh Swanson, and then keep his mouth shut about it when he should have spoken up.
Perhaps, though, it wasn’t so bad to go out with an ounce of integrity left, at least in an old friend’s admiring gaze.
“It was time, Don,” he said. “That’s all.”
Don hesitated, then nodded. “If you say so, Thad.”
The two men shook hands and parted, Kent promising to keep in touch until Don got settled. As the new chair of Redpeace headed for the transporters, a lively spring in his step, Thad silently wished him well. He turned back to the main exit and stepped out into the sun-filled afternoon.
The sky was a brilliant blue, almost turquoise, and the freshness of the warm air filled him with renewed energy. He walked for more than a kilometer before he broke into a jog, caring not at all that he was sweating into his suit, that he must look quite strange to any passersby. It felt good to run, to be outside and free from responsibility. A half klick later, he hit an old dirt path that had never been paved, that he still remembered clearly from his childhood. He’d walked the path with Jess many times.
He ascended the narrow path to a broad expanse of unmowed green, settling back into a walk, letting himself cool off. Moments later, he saw the first of the markers that signified the old cemetery, then a second and third. The large, polished blocks of granite and plasticrete jutted up from the uneven terrain, the soil having settled many generations ago, when Terrans still buried their dead. He walked among the graves, headed roughly northwest. Birds sang randomly in the shadow-washed trees, a light wind blowing softly. He reached the glassed-in mausoleum and entered, low lights winking on as he opened the door.
How many years since he’d come here? He couldn’t remember. At least ten. His footsteps echoed across the stone floor, and he ran his hands along the cool wall that bore the names of so many, some of them relatives or acquaintances of his ancestors, he was sure. Someday his name would be here too. His fingers came to rest on a name engraved just below his shoulder, and he bent slightly at the knees to press his cheek to it, to feel the chill stone against his face.
I haven’t given up Jess, he silently promised. I’ll never give up. But you can rest now, my love, really and truly. I swear, I won’t let you down like that again. Never again.
There wasn’t too much left to do by lunchtime on the fourth day after their return, so following a final meal together, most of the Inception team went their separate ways. The good-byes were sad, though not overly so. In spite of what they’d gone through together, they’d known each other only a short time, really. And because Leila had nowhere in particular she had to be, she volunteered to go back to the lab with Carol, to finish up.
She’d just unpacked the last of the sensor packs when Carol joined her in storage, setting a box of recalibrated tricorders on a low shelf. Leila turned and smiled at her, pushing her hair behind her ears.
“I think that’s everything, Doctor,” she said.
“I thought you were going to call me Carol from now on,” Carol said, smiling back. “And I think you’re right. Thank you for helping me finish.”
Leila shrugged. “I had nothing else to do.”
Carol’s smile faded. “I know. And again, I’m so sorry about how things turned out with Kraden. Maybe if I’d played ball a little better—”
“No, it’s not that,” Leila interrupted. “I just meant ? I meant I don’t have anything to go home to at the moment. No one waiting.”
She said it lightly, but something must have shown in her demeanor, her tone. Carol gave her a sympathetic smile, leaning back against one wall of shelves and folding her arms.
“Does that mean that your officer ?”
Leila nodded. “It wasn’t meant to happen, I suppose.” She wanted to sound careless, but her heart wasn’t in it. She wasn’t ready for carelessness yet.
Carol nodded. “I see. Well, if it makes you feel any better, my St
arfleet officer and I also parted ways. Just after we got back.”
Perhaps she too was trying to be casual about it, but there was a tightness at the corners of her mouth that said otherwise. Leila nodded in turn, her expression solemn. She understood. They were silent for a moment, each, perhaps, lost in her own feelings of sorrow, of loss, but when their gazes met once more, both women smiled.
“It’s not the end of the world, is it?” Carol asked.
“No, it’s not,” Leila agreed.
“We’re intelligent, attractive, capable women, you and I, complete within ourselves. And we have a lot of life ahead of us. Lots of possibilities.”
“That’s right.” Leila had been considering that trip to the rain forest again, with Professor Bonner’s team. She would go, she decided suddenly, involve herself in a new project. It would be fully involving too—the workload was heavy, and there would be no transporters or modern conveniences for kilometers around; one had to rely on small craft to get from place to place. It would be like living in the twenty-second century, and just the thought of it was suddenly quite appealing to her. “A universe full.”
