Star Trek: Inception Page 3

  ? And you’re one to talk, she thought, automatically tucking her own finger-brushed hair behind her ears. After staying up too late for Jim’s call, she’d spent half the night going over about a hundred lists—supplies on hand, equipment left to buy, duties to delegate, what to pack. She’d slept through her alarm, something she never did, and had almost been late to her team’s first meeting. The near constant high of adrenaline she’d been running on since getting the go-ahead was finally fizzling out.

  My team. The realization gave her a boost. She smiled, stood, and walked past a stack of boxes to the front of the room. The small college lab was already half stripped, seemed bare and empty in spite of the chairs and people currently crowded into it. Most of the equipment was staying behind, it was the university’s, but the accumulation of almost two years’ work had taken up space, filled a lot of nooks and corners with everything from hard copy to houseplants.

  She turned and faced the men and women she’d chosen, cleared her throat. The few people still talking fell silent, turned expectant faces forward.

  “Good morning, and thank you for coming,” she began. “I know everyone here, though I’m not sure if you all know each other. Let me start by making a few introductions.”

  “And who are you, again?” J.C. called out, and several of her grad student aides applauded, hooting. She grinned, shook her head.

  “I’m sure everyone here knows John Carrington, for what it’s worth,” she said. J.C. stood and bowed, his unkempt hair flopping into his eyes. “J.C. is a molecular biologist and has been with me on this project from the start.

  “Next to him is Tamara Irwin. Tam, give a wave, would you?” The slight, dark-haired girl with owlish eyes raised one hand, her thin mouth curving into a nervous smile.

  “Tam is working in particle physics and signed on about three months ago.” Tam had come to the project late, a replacement for the physicist who’d laid all the groundwork, a brilliant but humorless postdoc who’d been lured away to a lab of his own. Tamara was proving to be just as capable, though she was almost violently shy, her social skills tending toward nonexistent.

  Carol quickly ran through the rest of the familiar faces, the handful of grad students first, before moving on to the new.

  Richard Dachmes nodded, smiling at the others as she ticked off his credentials, his projects as statistician and system programmer. She’d met him only that morning. He was a serious young man who would act as a kind of data overseer, setting up the new system and keeping the information collated; he’d also be responsible for reporting to Kraden. Although she hadn’t yet worked directly with Dachmes, Carol had heard glowing reviews from several colleagues, touting his diplomatic abilities as well as his finely ordered mind, and she felt lucky to have gotten him.

  There was Ben “Mac” MacCready, slightly overweight with a booming laugh, another particle physicist; not her first choice, but number one was otherwise employed, and Mac’s reputation placed him at a close second. Next to Mac sat the geologist, Alison Simhbib, the youngest of the team but already published several times—her work on soil horizons in the Valles Marineris canyon of Mars, if not groundbreaking was extremely well researched, and her current interest in mineralogy made her doubly valuable. And there was Leila Kalomi, who’d already been in on any number of small experiments related to xenocrop yield.

  All four of the new team members were working on their respective doctorates. There was a moment of light chitchat and hand shaking before the attention turned forward again.

  “As I’ve already told you, the process we’ve been developing—which we’re calling “Inception” at this point—is a fast way to make regolith production viable,” Carol said. “What you don’t know yet is just how fast, or how close we already are. In fact, I expect this project to be wrapped up in a matter of weeks. Possibly less than a month.”

  She smiled at the surprise she saw. And they don’t know the half of it, yet.

  “The heavy lifting is done,” she went on. “A little fine-tuning is all that’s left.”

  Dachmes spoke up. “So we’re here because ?”

  “Because Kraden wants a proper field team to document. Considering what we’re working with, they want all the t’s crossed and all the i’s dotted.”

  “What are we working with?” asked Mac.

  Carol took a deep breath. “The reaction we want is triggered by nitrilin.”

  Mac whistled. At the blank looks from a few of the others, she quickly clarified. “Nitrilin is an extremely rare and unstable particle compound. Its only applications thus far have been military.”

  “Yeah, since the scientists who use it tend to blow themselves up,” Mac said.

  J.C. to the rescue. “Once upon a time, and they had no idea what they were working with. No one’s been hurt in decades. It’s dangerous only when handled improperly.”

  Mac was frowning. And, given what most people knew of the substance—assuming they’d ever heard of it at all—she couldn’t blame him. Nitrilin had been discovered about sixty years ago, a compound of meson—quark and antiquark—particles and a string of lepton/neutrino substructures she only barely understood her self. Its presumed discoverer, Alan Scots, had died in a lab explosion. The continuation of his work had resulted in at least a half dozen more deaths before nitrilin had been shelved by general scientific consensus. Federation Science kept it now, extremely small amounts of it suspended in antigrav fields. It was available only by application and with the strictest conditions for its use.

  “I understand your concern,” Carol said, “it is a hazardous material. But once you get a look at the work, see how we’re using it, I think you’ll approve. The FSC has. And it’s an integral part of the Inception process. It creates a controlled reaction that vastly accelerates the infusion of appropriate elements and compounds into soil, by actually changing the atomic structure of certain molecules.”

  “How accelerated are we talking here, anyway?” Mac asked.

  After a shy glance at Carol for approval, Tam answered. She’d been doing most of the sim runs. “Simulations are running at ten cubic acres in just under an hour.”

  There was a brief silence, and then everyone was talking at once. Carol grinned, imagining the stir it would cause when she published. Kraden would own the process patent, but she’d be allowed—encouraged, actually—to discuss her ideas freely in the appropriate circles, once the patent was cleared. Kraden’s founders had all been scientists, certainly as wistful for fame as any lab doc she’d ever met.

  “We still have a lot of work to do,” she said, as the talk died down. “We’re probably going to Mars, for one thing. Kraden has a new lab there, and we’ve got approval pending on a limited acreage study—”

  “Outside?” Simhbib interrupted, her eyes bright. “Where?”

  “Promethei Terra,” Carol answered. “The southern highlands. The lab is self-contained—Zubrin dome—but the plot we’ll be testing is outside. I’ll need each of you to arrange for a leave of anywhere from three to six weeks. The lab has its own transporter, of course, but it’s a private grade; we can’t afford the energy it will use to hop out every night.”

  “Where would we go, anyway?” Mac said. “Aren’t all the big colonies in the north?”

  Simhbib answered. “Yes, but there’s a small colony at Wallace. And Terra Cimmeria boasts the third or fourth largest settlement on the planet, near Kepler.” Both were in easy range and would have better transport capabilities.

  “Actually, we’ll be relying on Federation transporters for most of our travel,” Carol said. Starfleet had shipyards on the planet, at Utopia Planitia, and in orbit. Because their labs were sometimes “rented” by Starfleet science, Kraden had preferred access to transport, or the occasional security help. “I’ve got a shuttle tentatively scheduled for ten days from now to take us to the shipyard station; we’ll go down from there. I know it’s short notice, but whatever else you’ve got on your plate, it can wait. My own
objective opinion is that you’d be crazy to miss out on this opportunity. Now, does anyone have problems with the time line?”

  Incredibly, no one did. Carol handed out the data slates she’d worked up to familiarize the new team members with Inception, basic overviews, as well as secondary units for each of the sciences involved. It was rare for any researcher to come in on a project that was so near conclusion. The slates were accepted eagerly, the excitement in the room palpable.

  Leila Kalomi was the exception. She took the work with a bland smile, silent amid the bustle of interested chatter. Carol paused a moment, crouching next to Leila’s chair. She saw that the skin around Leila’s eyes was puffy, reddened as if from crying.

  “Are you feeling well?” she asked, her voice low. “No offense, but you look tired.”

  Leila nodded. “I am, a little. It shows, does it?”

  “I was planning to go over the material, but if you’d like to leave, I’d be happy to go over it with you later ?”

  “No, that’s ? I’m fine.” Leila’s smile was forced but game. “Really.”

  “Good,” Carol said. “I’m glad you’re here. I haven’t seen you since ? Since that recital your friend was conducting, remember? It’s been over a year, I think.”

  Leila’s smile faltered. “That’s right. Adam’s concerto. That was a long time ago.”

  Oh. Oh, whoops. Carol understood immediately, from the look of nostalgia and pain that fleeted across the young woman’s gaze, from her tone of voice. It was a bit of a leap, but she was willing to bet that Leila’s unhappy demeanor came from being recently singled. Very recently. The poor thing; she looked miserable.

  She instinctively reached out, touched Leila’s shoulder. “Well, you’re exactly who I wanted to lead on botany,” she said. “I’m thrilled you’ll be with us. And I hope you and I will get a chance to catch up, later.”

  “Thank you,” Leila said, dropping her gaze. “That would be nice.”

  Carol backed off and was caught up a moment later listening to Simhbib explain Martian parent rock material to Mac and Tamara.

  She spent the next hour and a half going over questions and particulars with the rest of the team, pleased at the overwhelmingly positive feedback, and was relieved when Leila asked a few educated questions of her own. Whatever her personal situation, she was a good scientist, a good choice. Carol needed everyone functioning at full capacity. And she knew from her own experience that while work couldn’t cure a broken heart, it certainly could distract from the pain. Perhaps Inception would prove to be as much help to Leila as she hoped Leila would be to Inception.

  Pathetic. Miserable and childish and pathetic.

  Leila sat on a low wooden bench in front of the Flat Garden, her thoughts as harsh and grating as the view was peaceful; the carefully raked sand and low plantings were meticulously kept. A handful of other visitors came and went, walking quietly by, pausing, moving on, their conversation low and admiring. A soft, warm breeze blew, lightly drifting through the surrounding trees, but she didn’t feel it. She felt cold.

  She’d been determined to get out, away from “their” apartment, and had chosen the Japanese Gardens because they had seemed soothing the few times she’d visited before—but she was starting to doubt that anything short of a major sedative would bring her serenity. It had been nine days since he’d packed and gone, only nine, and it seemed like an eternity—tears at every turn, hours spent trying to fill her time with anything but self-reflection. She’d barely made it to the Inception meeting. And then to see the pity in Carol Marcus’s eyes, to realize that she couldn’t even appear normal.

  ? Because you’re a child, isn’t that what he said? That you need to “grow up.” Can’t even manage to look like a professional, let alone act like one. And Carol’s pat on the shoulder, that kind, horrible look of understanding ? She’d like to help, of course, a cup of tea, a friendly word; then she’ll be tired of you, tired of your inability to get past this. It’s not her job to take care of you. You’re alone, and you may as well get used to it.

  What she was starting to get used to was the near constant stream of vaguely disjointed, contemptuous thoughts, the realization of her apparent need to flounder in her own pain. The psych program she’d run on her computer had gently suggested she seek counseling for depression, brought on by trauma and aggravated by low self-esteem. She didn’t want to, couldn’t bear the thought of sharing her heartbreak with some paid professional. So all she had to show for her sole attempt at self-help was a new series of abusive adjectives to add to her mental list. Depressed. Traumatized. Low self-esteem.

  Leila folded her arms across her stomach, tight, tried to ignore the fresh tears welling up. Her eyes ached. Her head ached. What was wrong with her? Why did everything hurt so much? Adam had been involved with another woman, had kept it from her; surely she was better off without him—

  That’s right, that voice of contempt broke in. Just keep telling yourself that.

  “? And this is Hiraniwa, or Flat Garden.”

  A small tour group had approached, led by one of the garden caretakers. In spite of her desire not to be noticed, Leila couldn’t help a double-take. The group was entirely Vulcan, three men and two women. They stood calmly, quietly observing the garden as the caretaker, a slight Eurasian man, spoke.

  “It is one of Japan’s earliest manifestations of garden design,” he said. “The white sand, carefully raked into water patterns, is balanced by the plantings of moss, grass, and evergreen. The two shapes there, of low-growing plants, are meant to suggest a gourd and sake cup; they connote pleasure, both spiritual and temporal. The circle of the cup signifies Buddhist enlightenment; the gourd, happiness.”

  The Vulcans studied the garden a moment, their faces serene. Leila surreptitiously studied them in turn. She’d seen Vulcans before, of course, but they weren’t commonplace enough to ignore, not on Earth. From the curious looks the group was getting, she wasn’t alone in her interest. Both women wore spare, sleeveless gowns in shades of gray and were about the same age, thirty perhaps—or so she thought. It was hard to tell. Vulcans lived longer than humans and aged very well. The men were all dressed in black, with elaborately colored shield designs on their shirtfronts. Leila had seen holocasts of Vulcan diplomats dressed similarly. One of the women spoke, her low voice lightly accented.

  “The flowers are azalea, are they not?”

  The caretaker smiled, nodded.

  “It is similar to the Katra-Ut-Bala,” one of the men said. He was slightly taller than the other males, but otherwise they all seemed remarkably alike. It was the expression, or lack thereof, Leila decided. At the caretaker’s inquisitive look, the tall Vulcan clarified, his voice melodic in tone.

  “Garden of Living Spirit,” he said.

  The caretaker nodded. “I’ve seen holographs. The plantings used are ? is it favinit?”

  The Vulcan didn’t smile, exactly, but his face seemed to grow more content. “That’s correct. Favinit is planted in intersecting arcs, to represent a philosophy of oneness with self.”

  “There is a fine example of Katra-Ut-Bala at the embassy,” the woman who’d spoken before added. “It has recently been opened to the public.”

  The caretaker bowed slightly. “I will visit it at my first opportunity. Now, would you care to see our Seki Tei garden, of sand and stone? I think you’ll find it most interesting. In Buddhist mythology ?”

  The group moved away. Leila watched them go, feeling a pang of something like wistfulness. How cool they were, how composed. She sank lower on the bench, wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. She felt entirely disordered, body and soul.

  Certainly they don’t sit around feeling sorry for themselves, her thought-voice supplied. No emotion to drag them down, in any area of their lives. No heartbreak, ever. Did they even experience love? Obviously not love as an emotion, but perhaps as a process, a decision, to do right by their loved ones, to work to please them, to support them. She i
magined a kind of cerebral partnership, a relationship built on mutual appreciation and kindness, logic and shared interests, plans for children and a life together ?

  She cut off her mental voice before it could start telling her what she’d lost yet again, deciding that her next outing would be to the Vulcan Embassy Gardens. It was only two transporter stops from her apartment, and she could use a bit of oneness-with-self, whatever that was, exactly. At the very least, perhaps she’d be less likely to cry surrounded by a people who found it distasteful.

  “Need to be more Vulcan,” she murmured to herself, and at the sidelong glance from a nearby tourist couple, she stood and hurried away, adding unbalanced to her mental list of adjectives. It was almost enough to make her smile.

  Three

  The speaker, Tom Cady, wore a coverall and work boots, his long, silvering hair pulled back in a rough tail. As always, he seemed to radiate energy and enthusiasm as he spoke, pacing the makeshift stage, his words well chosen to incite. He’d already covered several of the current Earth hot points—particularly the disturbing evolutionary trends of several species of fish in the North Atlantic and the chemical spill on the African coast last winter—and was moving into some of the alleged incidents that had occurred on other worlds. An outbreak of the cold virus on Argelius II, presumably brought in on a Federation supply ship; the accidental crushing of a small colony of sand bats on Manark IV by a Starfleet shuttlecraft.