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 shortstaffed 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 semisecluded 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 quite 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.
Best not to try and impress her, or sit around worrying about what to say . . . or what was going to happen, for that matter. The truth of it was, she’d provided a wonderful diversion from how he’d been feeling, from the perplexed unhappiness that had been eating at him since the moment he’d set foot on the Sphinx. He hadn’t even realized how absorbed he’d been with his own dark thoughts until she’d distracted him, just by being herself. As much as he wanted to touch her, to feel like she wanted him to—and the very thought made him want it even more—even if nothing at all happened, he was glad to have met her.
“What are you thinking about now, Captain?”
Jain slipped back into her chair before he could stand, watching him with an almost objective interest as he carefully considered her question. How to answer? He’d long ago recognized in himself a desire—almost a need—to feel truly connected to the women who attracted him. He met a woman he liked, he wanted to be with her, to feel close to her, and physical intimacy wasn’t threatening in the same way that emotional intimacy could be—he had the terrible habit of making himself too vulnerable too fast, and it had cost him, time and again, something always pulling him away. Making love to a woman was the answer to his need for connection, to exchange something special without allowing room for hurt; he never lied or faked meaning, and because he honestly respected his partners, he never felt as though he’d used a woman selfishly . . . but there were times when he recognized the limitations to what could be shared in the bedroom, and wished for an even deeper connection. But to achieve it, he had to be willing to share more than just an hour or two of pleasure; he had to be willing to share himself, and that meant risking pain, for himself and for his partner—because in the end, they would always go their separate ways.
Jain simply watched him, as though recognizing that he was deciding how much of himself to risk . . . and it was that gentle understanding that helped him decide. He hardly knew her, but he believed in her, believed in what he saw—and what he saw was a mind and heart that didn’t judge, a strong, smart woman who wanted only to know him a little better.
“I was thinking of how glad I am to have met you,” he said, meeting her gaze directly. “Because I’ve had a hard time of it lately, I’ve been . . . stuck, I guess you could say. Caught someplace that I don’t like very much. And today, meeting you . . .”
“You feel a little less stuck?” Jain asked, her expression open and empathetic.
“I do,” he said, smiling a little.
“May I ask . . .” Jain hesitated, then started again.
“If it’s not too personal, may I ask about what’s been troubling you? If you can’t talk about it, or don’t want to, I’ll understand. But I’m interested.”
If she’d asked in any other way, or offered help instead of curiosity, he wouldn’t have felt comfortable answering. Her careful but direct approach was relaxing, though, almost as if she knew exactly what to say to put him at ease.
Kirk paused for a moment, looking for the right words. “Do you know what it’s like,” he asked slowly, “to believe strongly in something, an ideal, a way of life—maybe in spite of evidence to the contrary—and then one day, something happens that makes you question whether or not the belief was ever justified?”
Jain frowned thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’m not sure what you mean. Are we talking about a personal belief, or some external doctrine, created by someone else?”
“Both,” he said, relaxing further. It was feeling more like a philosophical discussion than anything else. “What I’ve been contemplating is how it’s possible to hold on to your faith in something—to feel confidence in your ability to upkeep an ideal—when all around you are examples of others who have not. Those who’ve failed, or changed, good men who’ve somehow lost sight of that same belief system.”
It was as much as he could tell her, and as much as was needed to express the nature of his discontent. He was surprised at how much better he felt already, just speaking his concerns aloud . . . and he realized quite suddenly that he didn’t need an answer from her, or from anyone else. Talking about it, acknowledging it, was enough.
And maybe that’s what makes the difference, between continuing to fight the good fight and losing one’s resolution, one’s faith—not to take it for granted. Remembering that it’s a choice, every day, just like anything else.
“Do you want to know what I think?” Jain asked, quite seriously. At his nod, she folded her hands in front of her, her tone taking on an edge that he hadn’t heard before.
“I think there always has been and always will be people who will uphold their ideals, no matter what—just as there are people who are weak, who will fold when the pressure gets to be too much,” she said, looking into his eyes as she spoke. “But I also think that there are those who eventually come to believe that it’s not as simple as all that, that there are complexities to be considered beyond black and white, right and wrong. People who start to see that purity of purpose is an illusion. A cloak, really . . . a moralistic disguise, that can actually end up jeopardizing the very ideals they seek to uphold.”
She smiled faintly, but not with any reason that he could tell. “It can create quite a paradox, if you think about it—is it wrong to compromise your beliefs in order to preserve them?”
That the question was rhetorical was a relief; Kirk didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know if she was talking about herself, or openly philosophizing, or expressing serious convictions about morality . . . but he was sure that they’d wandered on to separate tracks. If one had to compromise his own beliefs in order to preserve them, then the beliefs were flawed somehow . . . or the person was.
Jain grinned suddenly, shaking her head. “Listen to me. I’m sorry, I guess that wasn’t particularly helpful.”
Her smile turned apologetic. “That call a moment ago was something of a summons, I’m afraid. The man I’ve been working with has an important panel in an hour or so, and I promised to help him prepare.”
“I’ll walk back with you,” Kirk said, disappointed but doing his best to mask it. They’d had such a fine day together, he didn’t want it to be over with.
Jain seemed to feel the same way. “If you’ve got some free time later, maybe we can have dinner . . . or something?”
Being asked out by a beautiful woman was something he could definitely get used to. “I think that can be arranged,” he said, smiling.
Together, they left
the lounge, Kirk already looking forward to later . . . but he
couldn’t entirely forget her strange question, or the faint,
cheerless smile she’d worn as she asked it—and he realized that he
wanted to know who she was more than ever, where she came from,
what she did. He’d have to charm her into a few solid
answers over dinner . . . or something, as the case might
be.
In all, a most engaging day.
Spock reflected over the fascinating itinerary of the summit’s second day as he and the captain took seats in the back of the large assembly room, people filing in all around them for the highly anticipated future technologies panel. First, upon arriving, the discussion of energy probabilities in subspace and approaches to discovery. Spock had read several studies on the implementation of strata pulse-testing, but had by no means been convinced that the results would be scientifically sound. From the solid, logical approach of the key speaker to the subject, however, and the well thought out responses from his copanelists, Spock was strongly considering a change of opinion. By opting to leave early in the discussion, the captain had missed a thoroughly captivating aggregation of viewpoints.
Afterward, Spock had briefly vacillated between attending an open debate over harnessing soliton waves or a lecture on perpetuality by Dellas of Tiburon. Soliton wave potential was a particular interest of his, but Dellas was renowned for her powerful and innovative discourses, and seldom appeared before an audience. He had therefore chosen to hear Dellas, and had not been disappointed.
From the lecture, he had planned to attend the dilithium-enhancement discussion, but had ended up in a lengthy conversation with Seren of Vulcan in the corridor outside. Spock had taken note of his own high visibility within the conference, the nods and glances from many of the attendants—the three most likely reasons being his heritage, his past receipt of a Vulcanian science award, and his singular position in Starfleet. It was for the latter that Seren had approached him, to say that his own younger sibling was considering a career in Starfleet, and to ask about Spock’s experiences. The conversation had evolved through several fascinating topics thereafter, including non-Federation technology and a panel that Spock had missed by the Enterprise’ s late arrival, but which Seren had attended, regarding X-ray singularities. There was some slim evidence that the Romulans were turning their attention to the potentially powerful energy source, which lent the possibility more credibility than it had earlier commanded.
The conversation had ended as the dilithium discussion let out, and a most excited Mr. Scott had insisted that they lunch together. Spock had enjoyed their meeting; the engineer lacked the focus of logic, but had been extremely detailed with his own thoughts and projections about the panel he’d attended, enthusiastically expressing his wide knowledge of starship propulsion systems and a number of related subjects.
The afternoon was filled by another lecture, this one on the possibilities of holographic technology; a round-table discussion about the role of science in sociological advancements; and an open discussion on progressions in tachyon communication theory, about which Spock was invited to speak. The captain had attended the last half of the discussion, expressing great pleasure with Spock’s contribution when they met afterward.
“Mr. Spock, you almost make me understand it,” he’d said, smiling. A great compliment, indeed.
They’d walked together to the future technology panel, the captain choosing seats in the back of the room; as the room filled, his actions suggested that he was searching the crowd for a particular person, his head turning repeatedly, his attention directed and constantly moving.
“Captain, are you expecting to meet someone here?” Spock asked. “If so, perhaps I can help you locate the individual in question. There are eight hundred seats here, and an expectation that all will be filled—”
“Thank you, Mr. Spock, that won’t be necessary. She’s . . . she’s pretty hard to miss,” he replied, still scanning the assembling group.
Ah. Perhaps the captain’s earlier absence was due to an involvement with a female companion. Spock would not presume to say, although based on past observations, such an assumption would not be illogical.
“There she is.”
The captain stood and stepped out into the aisle, his focus on a humanoid woman who had just entered the room. From her flamboyant clothing, Spock had to agree with the captain’s earlier assessment.
The woman joined them as the audience began to settle, the first of the panelists moving up onto the raised platform at the front of the room. Spock stood to greet her.
“Dr. Jain Suni, this is my first officer, Mr. Spock.”
“A pleasure, Doctor,” Spock said politely.
“The pleasure is mine,” Dr. Suni replied, nodding in turn. “I read your secondary thesis on charm quark anomalies. Great material.”
Before he could respond, the captain pointed out that the panel was about to begin, and the three of them took their seats.
There were six Starfleet scientists on the panel, all well established within their respective fields. Spock had read all of them, although two had stopped publishing in recent years—Dr. Lansing, a researcher in biomechanics, and Dr. Kettaract, a molecular physicist. Of the other four, two were mathematicians, one a geneticist, one a chemical engineer. Dr. Lansing had been chosen as moderator.
Each panelist was introduced, Lansing giving a brief synopsis of each doctor’s body of work before opening a general conversation, asking what technological advancements within the Federation could be foreseen for the immediate future and speculation for a century beyond.
As Spock had expected, Dr. Woodmansey spoke first, a geneticist known for his egotism and verbosity. He projected several medical breakthroughs concerning neurological function in the next two decades, theorizing that telekinetic energies might one day provide an inexhaustible source of power. The chemical engineer, Dr. Walse, asked several informed questions, moving the discussion toward exciting new developments in fusion theory. One of the mathematicians brought up Julia set fractal geometry, and Dr. Lansing steered the conversation toward amplification of cellular decay kinetics. It was proving to be an intense and enlightening discussion, the audience quiet, entranced . . . until Dr. Kettaract began to speak.
The molecular physicist, a tall, thin, human male in his late middle age, had remained silent throughout the gentle debate, a brooding look on his face. Spock seemed to recall that Kettaract had been involved in some minor scientific controversy at the beginning of his career, and it appeared that he was determined to continue on his illustrious path.
“All this talk is fine and good,” Kettaract began, his thin tone implying otherwise, “but I think we need to talk about now —not what the Federation is capable of, or what we’re working on, but what the Klingons are working on. What the Romulans are working on. Because as sure as we sit here, talking about possibilities, talking about incremental steps into the future, they are out there making it happen. And they’re making it happen so that they can destroy us, make no mistake. Anyone who doesn’t see that is a fool.”
A shocked murmur ran through the assembly, the other panelists wearing expressions of irritation, dismay, surprise. Kettaract’s aggressive behavior was highly improper for the setting, both disrespectful and inflammatory.
Dr. Lansing made an attempt to refocus attention to the topic. “I’m sure we all understand that the Federation has its enemies, but this is not a political forum. I believe that summit is being held elsewhere.”
Laughter fluttered through the audience, but a note of tension ran through it. Lansing continued, making a solid effort to placate the disruptive doctor. “Dr. Kettaract, perhaps you’d like to share your thoughts on advancements in your own field.”
“I apologize if I’ve been rude,” Kettaract said, shaking his head. “But I feel quite strongly that we must address the nature of the environment in which we exist. The Federation is a primarily peaceful community, dedicated to learning, to advancements in science and culture—but we don’t operate in a vacuum. And while we’re looking for ways to progress, our enemies are looking for a strategic edge. Look at the Romulans—they’ve been spending their time making improvements to their cloaking technology. And they already have a trade alliance with the Klingons; how long do you think it will be before the first cloaked battle cruiser strikes?”
“What would you propose, Doctor?” Woodmansey sneered.
Lansing was on her feet. “Gentlemen, please —”
“I propose that we stop wasting our time on the inconsequential, on what might be, and start working toward insuring that the Federation will still be here in the future,” Kettaract said loudly, his voice rising. “I propose that the Federation’s scientific community starts taking a longer view, that we start worrying about how to maintain our superiority as a galactic power!”
People in the audience were standing, arguing, some of them shouting for Kettaract to be removed, others applauding. Dr. Walse left the platform as Lansing stood helplessly, her attempts to bring order frustrated. Not that it mattered; the majority of the assembled scientists had stopped watching the panel, either leaving the room or openly debating among themselves.
“Fascinating,” Spock said. He remained in his seat, watching Dr. Kettaract continue his militant rant to members of the audience who had gathered at the base of the platform, offering their own opinions. Spock decided to approach Kettaract when the atmosphere calmed, curious about the evolution of his views.
The captain was also watching the debacle, his eyes narrowed in obvious disapproval—but next to him, Dr. Suni had the fingertips of both hands pressed to the sides of her head, a look of disbelief in her wide eyes. She immediately confirmed her feelings aloud.
“I don’t believe it. How could he?”
“You know him?” The captain asked, nodding toward Kettaract.
The doctor sighed heavily. “Bendes Kettaract? Yes, I know him. We came here together; he’s the Starfleet scientist I’ve been working with.”