Weakened, we faded until nothing but a warm ember remained of what we had once been. The plane-oriented beings took their time consuming us. Not out of malice; they possessed none. Instead, having feasted in our dimension, hunger did not drive them and so they took us out of habit and the convenience of our lingering among them.
I spent my last moments remembering my mother’s pleas to stay as my first death approached. This time she knew nothing of my presence; would feel nothing at my passing. Yet, there were things I wished I had said, confessions I wish I had made.
A blast of a stronger resonance signal distracted the twodimensionals and in their confusion an eddy formed within the rise and ebb of their movements. A passageway opened, leading to the Enterprise. I urged the Whole forward, pleading and cursing for us to move. Again a warp bubble formed but this time the subspace field stabilized. The disoriented two-dimensionals fled and the Whole plummeted like a spray of meteors through the hull and into the ship’s interior.
I recovered first and went to my mother, finding her with friends in the social center called Ten-Forward. Again I entered her thoughts undetected and this time discovered joy, not grief, filled her mind. Well and happy, she laughed easily, her empathy restored. She must have sensed my presence on a subconscious level because she paused and her thoughts returned to our time together. Peaceful memories caressed my image in her mind; her only regret—that our time had been so brief.
The ship broke free of the plane-oriented beings. The Whole recovered. Anxious to resume our journey they called me to join them. Caught between the need to return to the Whole and a desire to stay with my mother, I resisted the temptation to reveal myself and departed, leaving guilt and shame behind me. In their place I took the fresh memory of my mother’s love. A love I knew would sustain me no matter where I explored. Not a love given by the Whole, who were but part of me, but a love freely offered by one separate from me, who expected nothing in return. Who loved me despite the heartache of my departure, despite the pain of my birth. And I knew at last, grief was a small price to pay for the wondrous gift of the bond we shared.
Seeing Forever
Jeff Suess
The shimmering man does not disrupt the hot jungle but it welcomes him as an old friend. The air is hot, the sun always shines in the Yucatán. Spindly leaves stab skyward from the thick base of henequen plants. Hawk knows where he is instantly.
Mayan temples form the horizon before him. He doesn’t have to look to feel their presence. Blackened stone etched with centuries of decay. The swampy jungle is much the same as it was when Mayan tribes inhabited the lands. The heat has limited the plant life in the area, but tufts of wild grass struggle to breathe. Game birds flourish unhunted. The Yucatán is a natural preserve, not even a Federation outpost for three hundred kilometers. Not a soul in view. But that is how Hawk wants it. He chose the outskirts of the ancient city Chichén Itzá to give him time to reflect. A wisp of air prods him in the right direction and he goes.
The hike takes him a few hours through empty fields of dying brown grass. The autumn sun does not bother him, even in his thick gray tunic and slacks. Out of respect, he feels it is best not to be in uniform when he sees his father. He hikes the unmarked path in an even pace and never tires. Far ahead the pyramidal Temple of Warriors stares through naked eyes and greets him with wicked serpent grins.
Hawk knew to find his father here. Home was in Monument Valley, where his parents had kept a modest bungalow in the Utah desert. Hawk grew up far from the amenities of the Federation, replicators, holodecks, or transporters. Living in the desert, he was befriended by the Shoshone, who laughed at Hawk’s confusing name. Earth’s creatures were respected and names had power. Ren Hawk was both predator and gatherer and he struggled with each. In Starfleet he became just Hawk. But Utah was only home. Life was in the Mayan ruins where his father toiled and studied and ignored the future barreling ahead in favor of a people dead for centuries.
Hawk didn’t bother looking for his father in Utah. He set coordinates for Chichén Itzá and his father’s archeological camp. He grapples the stone base of a sacrificial altar jutting out as handholds atop a hill slope, and hefts himself up with little effort. He is comfortable here, familiar. More so than he thought he would be. That is why he waited to come here last.
His last three years were spent exploring the catacombs of the fabled Hundari on Mystus II in a scientific capacity. His tour consisted mostly of excavation and preservation techniques to find evidence that the people actually existed. During a six-month stint aboard the U.S.S. Ptolemy, Hawk fell instantly in love with the methodology of a starship. His assignment on Mystus came to an end a few weeks back, which gave him the opportunity to search for a new challenge. Hawk found transport to Deep Space 4, where he was greeted with a message from Starfleet of his new commission and promotion. They gave him one week’s leave before he had to rendezvous with his new ship at Earth. He wasted no time coming home.
A transport vessel arrived five days ago with Hawk and dozens of other passengers, mostly Starfleet officers. Hawk transferred his packs of personal effects to temporary quarters at Starfleet Academy, where he had several younger friends finishing up the program. He had promised he’d stop by when he was next on Earth.
His classmates were pleased to see him. They wanted to know all about his adventures, what it was really like in the final frontier. In truth, Hawk was an advisor on an archeological site most of his stay, where adventure was far from everyone’s mind. He felt uncomfortable around his old friends, alienated by his not living up to the Starfleet dream. Hawk made excuses to duck out but promised he’d return before he left Earth. He didn’t tell them about his new posting, though. He wanted his father to be the first to hear it from him.
It wasn’t until he arrived in Toulouse that Hawk realized he was stalling. His father was across the world immersed in history. He wanted to see Joli, sure, but he was reluctant to admit he chose to see her before his father because it was easier.
The rose city of southern France, Toulouse had a history of aviation during the early years. As warp-powered vessels were developed in the late twenty-first century, Toulouse turned inward to preserve its French culture. Joli thought it was the perfect place to run her shuttle contract service. The ideal mix of engineering history and incredible weather. The French cafés that refused to catch up to the times and still served three-course meals cooked, not replicated, was the selling point for Joli. She was a private contractor of shuttlecraft parts and designs. Starfleet set the standard in starship design with the finest engineers in the Federation. Yet virtually no developments were made to boost shuttle technology. It was the perfect niche for Joli and her crew. Their designs figured prominently in the newest runabout models. Joli was quite proud.
When Hawk met Joli at Starfleet HQ, he figured she was a cadet as well. They nearly tumbled into one another in a hallway and she scolded him for his clumsiness. Not in a rude manner, but as though reminding a child to look both ways. She was forceful and, God, was she beautiful. Not just her appearance, which was not classical beauty. The best Hawk could describe her was like a rabbit. Curious, with soft eyes, but you never really knew what was going on in her head. This characteristic was both endearing and the thing that most infuriated Hawk.
He beamed in outside her office, a few steps from her window. The sun reflected off the Garonne River behind him like a tattoo pattern across the glass. She sat at her desk sketching on a data padd with a lightstick. She always preferred the artistic details of freehand drawing. Her blond bangs swiped across her eyes like a drooping quail’s plume. Her hair was short, bright lemon like the suns of Kimos. He stared for a while, hoping never to disturb her. She looked up, through the window to the shining vineyards, to Hawk. She grinned, not at all surprised to see him, and gently brushed the hair from her eyes.
He met her coming out the door. “Renny. It’s good to see you.” Her voice was deeper than Hawk remembered but instantly familiar. Immediately
the living person in front of him superseded the memory. Without a word he scooped her up in his arms and held tight. She fit him and his body warmed where he wasn’t ever cold.
Hawk set her down. Joli took a step back to look him over and nodded. Lean, strong, still a bit wiry. “Your hair’s shorter, not as curly,” she said. “And you’re in good shape.”
“I was always in good shape.”
“You were always handsome,” she shot back. “You weren’t always in good shape.”
Joli was a head shorter than Hawk, a small build. Thin with wide hips and a round chest under a blue and hunter green jumper that was a style Hawk didn’t recognize. It had been three years since he was home. Three years since he felt her lips on his.
They strolled along the riverbank, her fingers laced between his. The older buildings along the river were still red brick, blackened and chipped. The interiors were mostly reinforced and modernized, but the French villagers liked to keep their history. The spire of the chapel of Jacobins peered over the tiled roofs of the city on the two lovers.
“How long do you have here?” Joli asked.
“A few days. You haven’t asked why I’m here.”
“I don’t care. I’m just glad to see you, Renny.” Her eyes smiled.
“It’s Hawk now,” he said. “Lieutenant Hawk, actually.”
She raised one eyebrow. “My, my. So severe. It hasn’t been the same without you. I’ve been busy, but—”
“Yes, I’ve kept up with your work. Designs are very nice.”
“And you’ve been digging.” Joli scrunched her nose like a rabbit. “Bones and rats.”
Hawk laughed. “More like fossilized rodent dung,” he said.
“So the glamorous life of the archeologist is a myth.”
“My father seems to enjoy it.”
They were silent a moment. The sunlight danced downstream.
“You have a new assignment,” she said. “And this is goodbye.”
Hawk didn’t answer.
“I’m used to that by now,” she said. “At least you’d think I’d be.”
“Maybe it’s something you never get used to,” he said. “Or don’t want to. Being away from you is the hardest …” There were no words to finish.
Joli buried her face in his chest. He felt her tears through his tunic and traced his fingers through her hair.
They spent the next several days together, eating heartily, making love in the sliver of moonlight through her bedroom window, staring endlessly in each other’s eyes. In a blue moment he traced his finger around her eye, down her cheek, and rested his fingertip lightly on her lips.
“Nothing will happen to me,” he said, a whisper of wind. “Nothing will change the way I feel.”
Joli closed her eyes. Not time, not distance, nothing came between their bodies pressed together. A silent pact between them.
When he left her, Hawk preferred to remember the image of her along the river. In his mind the sun was setting with an orange palette, the scent of violets in her hair, her arms secure around him. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t exactly how it happened. For him that moment would be her while he was in the depths of cold, cold space counting the nanoseconds till his next leave.
During their last moments together, each tried not to show the swell of pains in their chests. Hawk told Joli about his new assignment anyway and she was very excited for him. He wasn’t sure his father would be. They didn’t say goodbye. They knew there was no way they would be able to say the words.
There is only one day left of the interim between Hawk’s assignments. He pushed this back as long as he could, even though, as much as he loved Joli, this was the main reason he came to Earth so early.
The camp is deep in the heart of the Mayan site. Hawk follows in the footsteps of priests and warriors around the temple steps. He feels their presence around him, a welcoming of distant phantoms. As a child he thought of the human sacrifice victims walking through the temple. Were they unaware of their fate, or did they know their sacrifice was a small part of something so much bigger than they?
Hawk is not winded from his hike. He pauses at the lengthy horizontal statue of the plumed serpent, Kukulcan. The temple grounds are layers of crushed rubble atop sturdy stone pillars. Across a haggard field stands the angular temple of Kukulcan, much like a stunted pyramid topped by a squared building. A sloping stairway slides down the blackened stone face. Small carved statues stand sentry in the field. Grass fingers pry apart the stones. Thousands of years ago people milled about here regularly. For the past thirty years, only a handful have trodden these grounds.
He finds his father at the base of the temple, a tiny figure sitting along the gigantic stairwell’s right track. His father turns, not surprised, somehow knowing Hawk is there. His eyes shine soft green. He’s not sweating. His skin is darkened and leathery like a lizard from thirty years in the sun. The right side of his mouth curls up to brighten his face and the leather doesn’t crack.
Hawk calls to him: “Hey, Pop.” A small child one moment, full grown the next.
Abram Hawk stands and hugs his son. Quick, then steps back, excited. He crouches back down. “Ren, you should see this,” he says. Abram brushes dirt from the base of the stairway with his hand. “See this here,” he says, pointing. Hawk bends down to see. “It’s not very deep. Time has eroded it.”
In the stone, an engraving is nearly worn away. Very low to the ground, sinking in the topsoil. Stone carvings on pillars are common decoration for the Maya. This appears to be a reclining figure, a god of some sort. Crudely done. An odd location for such a drawing.
“It’s Chac-Mool,” Abram says. White teeth burst from his lips. “He’s holding a bowl of hearts. I think.”
Hawk smiles politely. “Very nice.”
His father shakes his head and hurriedly cleans the image better. He blows dust from the carved lines. “You don’t remember. You did this.”
“What?”
“Sure, you were about four or so. I was very upset at the time. Your mom recognized the figure. You knew Chac-Mool at age four. Amazing.”
Hawk looks at the figure again. “I did that?”
“Oh yes.” Abram makes a large effort to stand.
“Isn’t this sacrilegious?”
Abram laughs. “It’s history, Ren. Someday we’ll be history. This is your stamp.” Impulsively he hugs Hawk again. “Good to see you, son.” Then he quickly walks away, leaving Hawk crouched in the dirt.
He dusts off his pants and goes after his father.
“How was Mystus II?” Abram calls behind him.
“It was a good experience. The Hundari ruins were more than we’d hoped for,” Hawk says. “Much will be learned from them.”
Abram pauses at a rock, picks up a data pad. He quickly taps a succession of keys, then places it down again. “Yes, the first dig is always exciting. The most memorable. Thirty-seven years ago, I came down here with some friends just to see how people used to live. You look at the cold stone figures—what looks like an old quarry—and realize people used to live here. And those people—they’re us.” He points to the earth. “This is where we come from.”
“You always were like a kid in the mud out here, Pop.”
“Enjoy your work. That’s the key.” Abram turns, then spins back with another thought. “You enjoyed Mystus, didn’t you?”
Anything besides an affirmative is a betrayal. “Of course. Just like you taught me.”
Abram walks away from the temple, down a serpentine path through a henequen field. Hawk follows.
“Archeology, it’s a good life,” Abram says.
“Yes, for some it is. Where’s everyone else?” Hawk hasn’t seen any of the other members of his father’s team.
“They went home. Day off today. People can only spend so much time around me before I drive them batty.”
Hawk smiles. His father seems smaller to him now but makes up for size with life.
“When your mom
passed on, I’m afraid I became a handful for the others,” Abram says.
“I remember.”
“But they are family.”
They come to a hole opening in the ground, a punch in the earth. “I do most of my work here when I’m alone,” Abram explains. “The sonic imager records the levels—we’re down to eight hundred meters now.” The small imager sits on a tripod straddled over the hole. Hawk has known how to use one since he was a child, and supervised their use on the Hundari site. Imagers record sonic pictures of objects and minerals in the soil, used to locate artifacts and fossils.
“Where are we?”
“Over the cenote,” Abram replies. “We’ll go down the main entrance.” He points to a huge maw opening in the hump of a slight hill.
Hawk steels himself. The cenote. A sacred undergrown well. As a child his father forbade him to ever explore there. It was too unstable, and too precious. “You must not offend the gods,” Abram had said. Hawk sometimes dared to pop down the cenote’s gaping mouth in defiance of his parents’ wishes, just to do it. He had been scared and never found the courage to descend more than the first steps.
Abram leads his son to the huge opening, tall and wide enough for dozens of people to pass through. The wap wap wap of wings signals several bats veering a starburst formation from the cave maw. Darkness swallows the sunlight along with them as they enter. Abram thumbs a glowrod on his belt. A dull green light spreads over the limestone walls. Wooden stairs descending to nothing find jade life with each step.
“It’s about time I brought you down here.” Abram’s whisper has a harsh echo. “You’ve been on your own digs now. Nothing scares you anymore.”
Hawk knows he must tell him he has given up his father’s dream of archeology. The deeper they go the harder it is to tell him. The lead weight in Hawk’s chest trembles. The heat, humidity, is unbearable. He relies on his Starfleet training to adjust his breathing. His father strips off his shirt, not to be encumbered by the heat. Hawk takes off his tunic and rolls it into a bundle. They leave their clothes on the stairway.
Strange New Worlds IV Page 16
