by S. D. Perry
* * *
Jain Suni rose early on the second day of the summit, had a light breakfast, then spent an hour or so jotting down notes for Bendes’s evening panel. She was already bored with the conference, uninterested in the decidedly dull company of their peers. True, many were brilliant, but she had yet to hear a truly original idea . . . or to meet a scientist with a vibrant, exciting personality and a good sense of humor. Suni knew they existed, but apparently none had opted to attend the Federation summit. And unfortunately for her, Bendes absolutely insisted that they give it at least another day.
And what Bendes wants . . . She didn’t bother to finish the cliché as she stored her notes—notes that he probably wouldn’t end up using, anyway—even wearied by her own thoughts on the matter. She felt herself to be a woman of action rather than talk, which made the summit a distraction, unimportant. Most of the people speaking had already published their ideas, and she was a voracious reader . . . but unlike her, Bendes enjoyed the politics, and believed that an open exchange created open-mindedness. The man was strangely idealistic in his own way, but Suni was determined to be supportive if it killed her . . . and besides, there was currently nothing for either of them to do back at the lab, and if there was anything worse than being bored, it was having to wait patiently for results.
After a few exercises and a shower, Suni dressed for the day, deliberately choosing a low-cut, formfitting bodysuit of dark green, that looked see-through sheer but wasn’t. Most of her colleagues would be shocked, envious, or deeply interested, depending on species and persuasion . . . and she had to admit, she enjoyed the overall antilogy factor. Quantum-field theoreticians weren’t generally expected to be extroverts.
A quick look over the conference schedule, and she decided that Bendes was most likely to be sitting in on one of the subspace theory discussions—what forms of natural energy might exist in certain strata of subspace and how to get at them, definitely old news. She’d already read the key speaker’s less than plausible—and entirely tedious—speculations on the matter, but thought she might as well touch base with Bendes, see if he’d heard from the lab. She also wanted to offer up her notes for his future-of-technology discussion. He and five other Starfleet giants would be speaking in the largest of the assembly rooms, the turnout expected to be high . . . and without guidance, a few stabilizing facts to refer to, Bendes tended to stray. Passionately.
After tucking a few essentials into a small pack on her belt, Suni left her quarters and headed for the subspace discussion, drawing a number of looks along the way. Even the Vulcans she passed looked, although their reactions were obviously internal, not a trace of interest on the outside. She liked Vulcans, they had a decent, life-affirming culture and well-trained minds . . . but having debated a few back in school, it had finally become apparent to her that they didn’t seem to count feelings of superiority as emotion, which she considered cheating. She didn’t know that it was true of all Vulcans, but certainly those she’d met.
She walked through the security gate, and had just reached the conference room she wanted when the door opened and a Starfleet officer backed out, in command uniform. He looked familiar, though she could only see part of his profile—young, human, medium tall with broad shoulders. She was interested already, and when he turned around, she found herself grinning. Captain James Kirk, of the Enterprise. She’d only met him once, for just a moment or two at a crowded party . . . five, six years ago? He’d made an impression, though; she’d recognize that handsome face anywhere. And whether or not he remembered her, she suddenly suspected that it might be her turn to make an impression.
“James Kirk,” she said, stepping forward, glad she’d decided on the bodysuit by the way he looked at her—gallant, courteous, but with a sparkle in his eye that wouldn’t have been there if she’d worn something else.
“I’m sorry,” he said, smiling boyishly as he shook her hand. “Have we met?” “Five years ago, I believe. On Earth. We were both at a dinner party, honoring David Kincaid’s retirement from the Academy. He taught physics.”
“You’re in Starfleet?” he asked, still smiling.
Suni shook her head. “No, I was one of his research assistants. He also taught relativistic quantum mechanics at New Northern Cal. I graded papers, mostly.”
Kirk folded his arms, frowning slightly but not seriously.
“Are you going to put me out of my misery, or are you actually going to make me guess your name?”
As charming as she remembered. “Jain. Dr. Jain Suni, in fact,” she said, looking into his eyes. They were warm, friendly—and definitely interested. She felt like laughing, the coincidence of meeting up with him again as unexpected as the sudden attraction . . . his and her own.
Kirk started to say something else, then stopped and glanced back at the conference room before starting again. “You know, it’s a little embarrassing to admit, but I was having trouble following the discussion in there. My physics terminology is somewhat outdated. If you’re not too busy, perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me a quick remedial course . . . ? I’d spring for the coffee.”
Not particularly subtle, but she’d always preferred a direct approach . . . and there was a sweetness to him that was very appealing, very honest. Bendes didn’t actually need her for anything, he could use his communicator if he did. And she certainly wasn’t interested in yawning her way through another day of circular reasoning, just killing time until they could get back to the lab. . . .
“Captain, I’d like that very much,” she said, and when he offered his arm, she gladly took it, the possibilities for her day not seeming quite so dull, after all.
Chapter Seven
McCoy avoided thinking about it. In the first three days following his diagnosis, he evaded all but the most superficial contact, even managing to beg off seeing Jim by claiming too much work—which wasn’t actually a lie, since he threw himself into running the physicals, arriving before and staying long after each shift. He thought about everyone else’s test results, he thought about recalibrating his instruments and increasing crew efficiency and putting new cabinets up behind his desk. When he wasn’t thinking about any of those things, McCoy slept, finding himself suddenly exhausted at the end of each workday, half asleep before he hit the sack each night.
It was most commonly referred to as denial, and he was more than happy to wait it out; he’d have plenty of time to wallow in the awareness of his mortality when he was stuck in bed a few months down the line. A lot of people seemed to think denial was a bad thing, but he knew from experience that the human mind could only deal with some issues when it damn well felt like it, and not a moment sooner—and he, for one, was not going to rush headlong into some emotional abyss until he had to. But early on the morning of the fourth day, the Enterprise’s first full day at M-20, McCoy remembered Karen Patterson, and the denial gave way to hope.
It was an accident, really. Several of his lab staff had gone to the summit, which he’d used as an excuse to stay behind; Jim had pushed, cajoling, insisting that he needed someone to desert the conference with him, but McCoy had convinced him that he wasn’t interested. The captain had been mildly annoyed, but had let it go after exacting a promise that McCoy would find time to beam over in the next day or so. The doctor had returned to work, only to realize that the summit had left him understaffed. He’d been so preoccupied with avoiding himself, he hadn’t kept track of who he’d given leave to, nor had he bothered to make a note on the duty roster.
After a call to the lab confirmed it, the scowling doctor plopped himself in front of the computer, determined to get it worked out before the first crew members showed up for their scheduled exams.
“Computer, give me a list of medical division technicians who are currently not on duty, but who haven’t signed out for ship leave,” McCoy said. “Name only.” Nurse West would be arriving in ten minutes, and he couldn’t get at least one more person into the lab to rack samples; he’d have to get her to
do it, which would earn him a solid week of disapproving looks and mumbled complaints. Sandra West was a competent assistant and usually as nice as pie, but she could raise holy hell if asked to do anything outside the scope of her duties.
“Working . . .” the computer clattered, the almost female voice sounding as emotionless as . . . well, as Spock.
“Carmen, Philip G.; Erickson, Alexander T.; Ivers, Carey N.; Peterson, Sarah T. . . .”
“Stop,” McCoy said, frowning, picking through the line of syllables he’d heard, recognizing a name made up of two others.
Carey Peterson . . . Karen Patterson.
He abruptly stood up, remembering Karen, pacing the empty room as he dug for information. Med school, they’d had three or four classes together. Bright—genius-bright—red hair, terrible sense of humor. Pretty eyes. Her medical science had been impeccable, her diagnoses a hundred percent, but her bedside manner had been mediocre at best, cold fish at worst. She wasn’t unfriendly, she was just one of those people who saw the disease rather than the patient. He vaguely remembered suggesting to her that she should consider focusing on surgery, something intricate and demanding that wouldn’t require her to employ her people skills . . . and a few years after graduation, he’d received a note from her, saying that she’d moved into private research and was much happier.
He’d thought of her only a few times since, on every occasion because he’d been flipping through a Starfleet medical journal and run across her name. She’d published several times, authoring and coauthoring papers on rare human diseases, the material dense but brilliant, innovative, and if he remembered right . . .
“Computer, access medical library. Pull up every article or paper we’ve got with the name Karen Patterson on it . . .” Middle name, she’d had an unusual middle name . . . Mica? Nica?
“Karen Nico Patterson,” he continued, astounded at the things one could remember when the need arose. “From those articles, cross-reference Patterson with the following words—xenopolycythemia, hematology, pathogenesis, disease.”
“Working . . . seven articles found. Seven articles containing reference to disease. Seven articles containing reference to disease and hematology. Seven—”
“Are there any articles containing all of the words?” McCoy snapped; ignorant machine.
“Article published Stardate 2231.2 in Starfleet medical journal issue 421, written by Dr. Karen Nico Patterson. Article titled Searching for Answers: Hope for Humans with Blood-Based Hyperplasia.”
McCoy took a deep breath, then another. He’d remembered right. The article hadn’t promised a cure, it had been about new research in the area—but xenopolycythemia was one form of blood-based hyperplasia.
“Computer, where is Dr. Patterson currently employed?”
Clatters and beeps. “Unknown.”
“Where was she employed last, then?”
“Working . . . unable to find reference.”
Dammit. “What’s the last reference you have on file?”
“Dr. Karen Nico Patterson, passage booked to Lunar Colonies from Earth, Stardate 2716.6. Passage booked from Lunar Colonies to Altair VI, Stardate 2717.1.”
Hardly two years ago. McCoy nodded to himself, his throat tight with urgency. “So she’s on Altair VI.”
“Negative. Current whereabouts of Karen Patterson unknown.”
He clenched his fists, barely resisting an urge to break something. Why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place, you fool piece of—
“Doctor, are you all right?”
Nurse West. McCoy turned to face her, wanting to throw her out, to find Karen, the thought that he hadn’t found a replacement lab technician suddenly seeming ridiculously unimportant . . . but the slight, maternal frown on her face reminded him of where—and who—he was. Whatever his troubles, no matter how serious, he was CMO of the Enterprise. Until he was ready to bring in his shingle, he had responsibilities that he would not fail.
“It’s this blasted computer,” he growled, shaking his head. “Never mind, Nurse. The lab is short-staffed today, would you please call in Carmen or Peterson for a half shift?”
“Of course, Doctor.”
As she bustled off to take care of it, McCoy walked to his desk and sat down, his feelings all tied up in knots. Remembering Karen Patterson’s name and specialty had opened the door to hope—but it had also pushed him out of the calm, gray zone of denial, of feeling nothing at all.
No matter. If anyone alive can help me, it’s Karen.
Now all he had to do was find her.
* * *
Jain Suni was amazing.
Coffee had become lunch, which had become a long, meandering walk around the station, the two of them laughing and talking like old friends in a matter of hours. She seemed to say whatever was on her mind, no matter how silly or pointed, not worrying at all about how she came across—and for Kirk, it was both refreshing and inspiring to be around such a confident young woman . . . particularly after last night’s talk with Darres.
As much as he wanted to believe his old friend, there was no solid evidence to support his claim, and Spock had agreed. It still seemed most likely that Jack Casden was directly responsible for what had happened to his crew. Kirk had slept quite badly, worried about Darres, a semiconscious part of him deeply concerned that he might be watching another good man losing his way, a good man fooling himself by taking what he wanted to believe and calling it truth.
The outcome of his restless night was beginning his day moody and exhausted . . . and halfway through the first panel of the morning, one that had entirely absorbed Mr. Spock, he’d realized that he needed more coffee if he hoped to stay awake. Maybe a lot more.
And there she was. As though it was fated for us to meet.
Kirk had initially been interested by her looks, there was no denying it, and she was stunning—short, thick, dark hair framed her porcelain-fine face, her features strong and generous, her eyes incredibly bright. She was wearing some kind of clinging bodysuit that accentuated her curves, her softness, which he liked very much—but after spending time with her, he decided that her looks and figure were only accents, like physical expressions of her personality.
Not that I object to the package, he thought, watching her talk about the patterns she imagined in the stars outside the window, watching her trace the shapes on the glass with long fingers. They had stopped walking when they’d reached a mostly empty observation lounge at the end of the station’s northernmost ray, choosing a small table in a semi-secluded corner of the room.
Kirk was intrigued and impressed by her, by everything about her. Jain had a great sense of humor, sharply witty without being cruel, her observations about her fellow scientists incredibly funny. She was smart but unpretentious about it, her comments on everything from Federation politics to time travel both thoughtful and interesting . . . and yet she somehow managed to reveal very little information about herself personally, her answers vague when he asked about her work or background.
A woman of mystery . . .
It had to be deliberate, a touch of artfulness for effect; she was only twenty-eight years old, a civilian working as a Starfleet consultant on some sort of research project. Whatever the reason for her mysterious behavior, it worked. Jain’s playful evasions stirred his interest, making him want to know more about her.
“ . . . but I always thought it looked like—you’re not listening, are you?”
Kirk smiled. “I’m afraid you caught me. I was thinking about something else.”
Jain crossed her arms, a lovely smirk turning up one corner of her mouth. “Clever, Captain, but I see right through you.”
“Tell me,” he said, smiling wider.
“Now I’m supposed to ask you what you were thinking about, and you’ll say something terribly flattering . . . at which point I’m so overwhelmed that I throw caution to the wind and melt into your arms, lost to the passion of the moment.” She leaned back in her chair, looking qui
te satisfied with herself.
Kirk laughed. He hadn’t felt so wonderfully challenged by a woman in a long time. “Would it have worked?”
“That depends on effort and quality,” she answered. “For instance, if you had said something about how beautiful my eyes look in the starlight, absolutely not. Totally unoriginal, no effort at all, beyond having the nerve to say it.”
“They do, you know,” Kirk said. “Although I certainly would have tried harder than that.”
Jain leaned forward, fixing him with her brilliant gaze as she rested her arms on the table. “All right, Jim,” she said, her voice low, her smile slow and deliberate. “What were you thinking about?”
“Jain, I—”
A communicator chirped. Hers, not his.
“Talk about timing,” Jain said casually, though he could tell she wasn’t any happier about the interruption than he was. “I’m sorry, would you excuse me? This might take a minute.”
“Of course,” he said, standing as she got up from the table and stepped away, reaching into her belt for the offending device as she walked quickly across the room.
Kirk turned and looked out the window, not sure what he’d been about to say to her. The attraction was obviously mutual, but he’d also never met a woman more scrutinizing of his attentions . . . or less likely to be impressed by them. From what little time they’d spent together, he knew that she responded to honesty over idealism, to acknowledgments of vulnerability over projections of strength—
—but she wouldn’t respect any man who tried to manipulate her emotions—and she would see it coming from light-years away.
