CAROL BREATHED IN DEEPLY. The air in the Bois de Boulogne was clean and fragrant. Unless one peeked through the branches, it was impossible to tell that there had been a disastrous fire somewhere nearby.
And neither she nor Jim was peeking in that direction. They had too much on their minds now to be thinking about the colony or anything else.
Fortunately, she'd been able to leave David with the Medfords. He seemed to like them, and she wouldn't have felt right about abandoning, him to his own devices at a time like this.
Resourceful as he'd proven himself, her son was no Klingon hunter. He was a ten-year-old boy, and all his fear and horror had had to come out some way. It was just too bad that Jim had been forced to bear the brunt of it. He didn't in any way deserve what happened. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"What did you tell him?" he asked, frozen vapor trailing out of his mouth. "About his father, I mean."
She folded her arms across her chest. Once again, the classic defensive posture, she knew. But she didn't care. "The truth—to an extent. That I met his father a long time ago; and that his father went away before he was born."
Jim shook his head. "McCoy knew, didn't he?"
She nodded. "I made him swear not to tell—on the basis of patient privilege,"
He grunted. "Well, that explains why he was avoiding me for a while there." He looked at her. "It must have been hard, raising him by yourself all these years."
Carol shrugged. "Not as hard as you might think. He's a good boy."
"Spock told me what happened out there in the hills. He's more than just a good boy. He's something … I don't know. Something special." The captain sighed. "I wish I could take some credit for that. I wish I … had had some part in him, Carol."
She met his gaze, but she didn't say anything. What could she say?
Finally, he had to ask it. "Why, Carol? Why let me go on all this time, not knowing?"
"Why?" she echoed. She smiled wistfully. "Because it was better for everyone concerned. If you'd known, what could you have given him? A couple of days here and there? You'd only have felt guilty for not spending more time with him. And David wouldn't have understood having to play second fiddle to your career."
Jim looked at her. "Was it better to have no father at all? Or anyway, none he could point to?"
"I won't tell you that was easy," she conceded. "Not for him or for me. But at least it was a clean break. He didn't have to wonder where he stood from day today. He didn't have to figure out why he wasn't a priority for his father, the way he was for his mother."
"That's not fair," he said softly. "You didn't give up your career any more than I would have given up mine."
Carol took his hands in hers and squeezed. "I didn't have to," she told him. "In my kind of work, there's a place for a family. For a child. I'm not saying you're a terrible person for wanting to be a starship captain. But you've got to admit, David couldn't exactly have toddled around your bridge while you were out there fighting Klingons."
He sighed. "No. I don't suppose he could have." He withdrew his hands and gazed at the treetops, where the sun was caught like some kind of splendid bird. "And now he hates me."
"That'll pass," she assured him. "I'll make sure it passes. I'll explain that you weren't to blame for any of this—that for all we know, you saved our lives as much as Spock did."
Jim eyed her. "I appreciate that. But I'd appreciate it more if you took it a step further."
She felt herself stiffen at the suggestion. "You mean tell him who you are."
He nodded. "I mean tell him he has a father. Someone who cares about him, even if he's not around." He licked his lips, searching for the right words. "Carol, I'm not telling you how to raise him. Obviously, you don't need any advice from me on that count. But it's wrong to keep my identity a secret. If I were a boy—especially a boy David's age—something like that would be important to me. Hell, it would make all the difference in the world."
She recalled David's questions about his need for a father. Maybe Jim was right, Maybe.
And then again, maybe it would be like opening Pandora's box. Knowing his father was a starship captain, David might someday want to be like him. And she desperately didn't want David to go flitting around the galaxy, giving up all promise of a home and a family for the exotic lure of faraway places, and probably breaking some poor girl's heart in the process. No, she didn't want that for her son at all.
"Promise you'll tell him about me," Jim urged. "Not now. But when he's over what happened today. When you feel the time is right."
She shook her head. "I can't. Not right off the bat. I'd have to think about it—a lot."
He didn't look happy. "You mean really think about it? Or just tell me you're going to so you can get me off your back?"
Carol smiled. He knew her too well. She'd made a pledge to McCoy that she'd never truly intended to keep. And here she was, trying to make the same kind of pledge to Jim.
But Jim Kirk wasn't a stranger. He was the man she'd once loved—a man, she admitted, if only to herself, that she loved still.
It wasn't right to lie to him. It wasn't right to wear a mask of deception. If she agreed to think about telling David the truth, she would have to really search her heart.
"All right," she said finally. "I'll really think about it. You've got my word. As long as you promise me something in return."
"Anything," he told her.
Carol looked into his eyes, hoping he would understand. "Don't suddenly turn up on this planet, or on the next one we're working on. Don't try to insinuate yourself into his life.
Jim's mouth became a tight line. "Would I do that?" he asked ironically.
"Absolutely," she replied. Seeing his pain, she put her hand against the side of his face. "Let him find his own way, Jim. Let him grow up making his own decisions. Then, if he wants to seek you out, I won't have any objections. Deal?"
After a moment, he nodded. "Deal."
Carol heaved a sigh. "Good. Now that that's settled, you can tell me how it went at Alpha Maluia Six."
It was not difficult to find the children. Of the two domes still standing, only one was being used by Dr. McCoy to treat the injuries suffered by the colonists.
As Spock entered, he scanned the interior of the structure. They were all here, all those he wished to address. However, they were scattered throughout the crowd. It would be necessary to speak with each one individually, he decided.
But before he could even begin to carry out his intention, it was rendered unnecessary. All at once, it seemed to him, the children turned and saw him standing there, and as if responding to an unspoken command, they each got up and came over to him.
First Pfeffer and Wan, whose parents had been sitting together—no doubt sharing their experiences of captivity. Then Garcia. And finally Medford and David, who had been at the far end of the dome watching Nurse Chapel attend to Medford's father,
Dr. McCoy looked up from his own patient to see the youngsters threading their way among the adults. Far from mocking the first officer as he often did, he smiled. Approvingly, Spock thought.
When the children had all assembled around him, the Vulcan eyed each one in turn. Then he held up his right hand and splayed it to form a V between his middle and ring fingers.
"On my planet," he told them, "this is how we say good-bye: Live long and prosper"
Wan looked at him. "Are you leaving now?"
He nodded. "Yes. I am leaving."
With a concentrated effort, she imitated the position of his fingers. It pleased him.
"Live long and prosper," she said.
Then Pfeffer, who didn't do quite as good a job with the gesture. "Live long and prosper."
Garcia and Medford needed their other hands to keep their fingers in the right configuration. But the words came easily enough.
And finally, there was David. Like a Vulcan born, he held up his hand, fingers spread. "Live long and prosper, Mr. Spock."
The first officer nodded. "Well said." And then, as he had planned, he addressed David in particular: "Hatred is illogical."
He had been concerned that the boy might not understand. However, he understood perfectly. It was evident in his eyes and in the set of his jaw. It might not change his mind about the captain, of course. But then again, the Vulcan mused, it might.
Spock widened his purview to include the rest of them. "Prosper and live long," he told them. "All of you."
And then he left the dome.
Kirk was in the ship's botanical garden, takin a few moments to admire his fireblossom, when the doors to the cabin opened and someone walked in. He looked to see who it was, and was surprised to note the presence of Ambassador Farquhar. The man had kept pretty much to himself, it seemed, from the moment they left Alpha Maluria.
Farquhar nodded. "Captain."
Kirk smiled politely. "What brings you here, Ambassador? I didn't know you were a rare-plant aficionado."
Farquhar grunted. "I'm not. But then, I'm not a lot of things, I suppose."
The captain regarded him. "Such as?"
The ambassador frowned. "On second thought, never mind what I'm not. Let's talk about what I am—and that's grateful."
Kirk was taken aback, to say the least. "Grateful?" he echoed. "For what?"
Farquhar's temples worked savagely. "I very nearly made a mess of things down on: Alpha Maluria Six. And on more than one occasion, I'm afraid. But somehow, you managed to pull my rear end out of the fire. And the Malurians' along with it."
The captain shrugged. "I stumbled through it and got lucky, that's all. In the final analysis, I guess that's all any of us can do." He paused. "Besides, I made my share of mistakes this time around, If I'd listened to you in the beginning—if I'd trusted you a little more instead of playing it by the book—we might've prevented the bloodshed—before it ever got started."
"You mean," said the ambassador, "if I'd given you reason to trust me, instead of badgering you from the get-go." He shook his head. "You see, that's what worked for me at Gamma Philuvia. And before that, on Parness's Planet. As long as I kept everyone on the ship off-balance, I pretty much got what I wanted. Then I turned on the charm when I got planetside, and everything just seemed to fall into place."
Kirk nodded. "When something works, there's a tendency to stick with it. Hell, I've been temptedthat way myself."
"But it's not going to work every time," Farquhar added. "I see that now." He considered the fireblossom, reached out and touched one of its petals. "The solution you came up with was a stroke of brilliance. I could be an ambassador for a hundred years and never match it."
The captain looked at him. "Does that mean you're not going to try?"
The ambassador turned to face him. "Of course not." He attempted a smile, and nearly got there. "It means I'm going to try twice as hard." This time, his smile went all the way. "And I pity the captain who expects me to get in his way."
Amen to that, Kirk thought. However, what he said was: "I'd stay and chat a little more, but I'm due up on the bridge."
"Don't let me keep you," the ambassador told him.
The captain chuckled. "I won't." And a moment later, he was on his way out into the corridor.
Amazing, he mused. Every now and then, it seemed, a leopard could change its spots. Kirk was still thinking about Farquhar when he reached the bridge. As he stepped out of the turbolift, he took stock of the personnel on duty. Everyone was present and accounted for.
Sitting in his command chair, noting the red sphere of Beta Canzandia Three on the main viewscreen, Kirk gave the order: "Take us out of orbit, Mr. Sulu. Half-impulse."
"Aye-aye, sir," the helmsman replied.
The captain watched as the planet slowly began to fall back into the recesses of space. Even on impulse power, the Enterprise would lose sight of it in a matter of minutes.
This was a new experience for him. He had departed from hundreds of worlds, some at this leisurely pace and some a great deal more quickly. But he had never left quite so much behind.
If things had worked out differently, he might have been one of the terraformers who had remained with the colony. A husband. A father. A family man. But he had made his choice long ago—made his bed, as the expression went. Now' he had to lie in it.
Spock and McCoy stood on either side of him. Both were silent, giving Kirk a chance to be alone with his thoughts. But not too alone.
"It shouldn't take too long for them to rebuild," McCoy said finally.
"Not long at all," Spock agreed. "Their new domes should arrive in a matter of weeks."
Kirk nodded. "And with Dr. Boudreau's G-Seven unit intact, they'll be back in business inside a month. Of course, Starfleet's going to have to pay a little more attention to this sector in the future. The Klingons didn't get what they were after. They may be back."
The Vulcan shook his head. "I do not believe they will return, Captain, at least not in the near future. Given the actions of the Klingon who rescued us, I would speculate that Beta Canzandia Three was more of a political pawn than an actual strategic objective."
"I see," said McCoy. "And since when have you become an expert on Klingon nature?"
Spock raised an eyebrow. "All scientific theory is based on observation and extrapolation, Doctor. I am merely applying the same procedures to social theory."
Bones rolled his eyes. "People aren't energy emissions, Spock. They're not quanta. They're unpredict-able."
The first officer nodded. "Yes. Predictably so."
McCoy glared at him. "What kind of rhetorical double-talk is that?"
"It is not double-talk at all, Doctor. It is—"
"Enough," Kirk barked.
Immediately, his companions fell silent. Swiveling in his seat, he regarded them.
"You know," he said, "I've heard the two of you go head to head more than once. But I don't think I've ever heard quite as specious an argument as this one." He paused. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to distract me from something."
Bones and Spock exchanged glances. "I haven't the slightest idea of what he's talking about," McCoy commented. "Do you?"
The Vulcan shook his head. "I too am at a loss."
Kirk frowned. "Right. Uh-huh. Whatever you say."
Turning back to face the viewscreen, he allowed himself a smile that neither of them could see. And also, a reflection. He was leaving much behind. But he was also taking much with him. After all, there were families—and there were families.