“You would do that?” I was genuinely surprised by the offer and had not even considered asking Fisher, given our last conversation. But I was not about to turn him down now, regardless of the fact that, physically and emotionally, I was as close to being a candidate for the biobed next to T’Prynn’s as I had ever been. “Please, I’m happy to go.”

Fisher led the way out of the exam room and down a corridor to an area marked with a simple sign: Isolation Ward 4. He pushed open the door and we entered silently. Fisher did not break stride as he approached T’Prynn lying on the diagnostic bed, whereas I found myself unconsciously slowing my pace. “Come ahead, Mister Pennington,” Fisher said, “I assure you that you’re not going to wake her.”

The Vulcan’s features were stoic yet soft as she reclined motionless, while tones from the biobed indicating her heart rate, respiration, and brainwave activity combined to create a rhythmic accompaniment to her apparent restfulness. On occasion, a nurse would come by to read a monitor or check a connection or even just to pause and place a hand on T’Prynn’s. There was no way of knowing whether such gestures made a difference in her treatment or whether the unconscious woman even noticed them, but the routine seemed to comfort everyone involved in her care.

After a few moments of being in T’Prynn’s presence— moments during which my thoughts did not wander outside what was happening right there—Doctor Fisher motioned me out of the ward. I followed him, noticing as we went back into the corridor that a breeze somehow had brought a chill to my cheeks. Then the physician reached over to pass me a disposable handkerchief.

I raised it to my cheeks and wiped away rivulets of tears. Evidently, without even realizing it, I had wept while standing with T’Prynn.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and it was Doctor Fisher’s. “Tim, let’s take a walk.”

I followed him to a small staff lounge with a door that he closed for privacy’s sake. I sat in an armless upholstered chair and he took a seat in an identical one opposite mine. “I apologize, Doctor,” I said. “I’m not really sure what came over me in there.”

“You’re not the first to have that experience, and you won’t be the last.”

“Experience? I’m not sure what you mean.”

“It’s not easy to see someone in her condition, and an emotional response isn’t uncommon. Your reaction could stem from a number of things. It’s pretty obvious you have a lot of things going on in your world. I’m certainly aware of the history you share with T’Prynn, of the personal pain and loss she brought about for you. Doctor M’Benga even has this theory that T’Prynn or any other Vulcan in severe psychotic distress might be able to project a shadow of what they are feeling while in a comatose state. Think of it as a distress beacon from one psychic to another. And he suggests that in rare instances, the signal from the beacon is strong enough to be picked up by anyone around it.”

“Is that possible?”

“With those people, who the hell knows,” Fisher said. “But M’Benga hasn’t offered that theory yet to anyone but me, so treat that one as off the record.”

I laughed a little. “Right.”

“So, am I close?”

I mulled my words a bit before speaking. “My mind keeps returning to her breakdown. The pain I saw on her face. I thought seeing her in a state of calm and peace would help me rationalize that her pain is over, and push that image out of my mind.”

“Maybe you can push that image out of your mind by helping in some way,” he said, “if not her then definitely yourself. If you have been hanging on to your anger at her, if you have been feeling spiteful or hoping for retribution, what might be anchoring her pain in your mind is a good dose of guilt.”

“Oh, there’s plenty of that to go around, believe me,” I said. “With Reyes in the brig, T’Prynn in a coma, Quinn caught in the crossfire of an Orion mad as hell at me, and an entire Federation frightened about the return of ancient, wrathful aliens, hell, I’m the life of every party in the whole damn quadrant.”

“Oh, so you did all that by yourself.”

“Didn’t I? I got in this job—hell, I stayin this job—because I want to help put things right, not to be the architect of doom for everyone I know. But I’m not putting many things right these days.”

“Then consider this, Tim,” Fisher said. “Maybe you don’t try to engineer positive change one quadrant at a time or one planet at a time or one station at a time. Consider doing what’s right by one individual at a time. When you change one life for the better, you can get to feeling pretty damn good about the world. Why the hell else do I stay in medicine?”

“It’s not for the free coffee?”

Fisher smiled and nodded at me, then gave me a clap on the shoulder while rising from his seat. As we walked back toward the reception area, I could not help but look back toward Isolation Ward 4, where I knew staff members were checking readouts, holding hands, and changing the world one life at a time.

But the only life I wanted to change in that moment was my own.

15

It should have come as no surprise to me that two days of drinking at Tom Walker’s place would do little to change my life. Well, little to change it beyond the fact that by that time, even the most indulgent of the establishment’s servers had lost a measure of patience with me.

Not that I had become an unruly, unwashed sot as I occupied my usual table. I had done my best to bide by the establishment’s regular business hours as well as to maintain my professional demeanor, despite my carrying myself in a manner that I assumed made me seem more unapproachable than usual. Yes, I knew my next story could have come from the next person passing by my table, and that my appearing open and interested might well have been the key to unlocking that person’s secrets. But in that moment, I would not have wanted a good lead even if a source had poured it over ice and served it to me in a glass. What was more, while I had the air about me of someone who had come to the place to drink, even that was a façade. Rather than knocking back whisky after whisky on a growing tab of expenses, I simply stared into the glass before me, swirling its contents frequently to appear as though I had been consuming it. In all likelihood, I was losing as much of the alcohol to evaporation as I was to ingestion.

“Freshen that for you, Tim?”

I snapped my head up to look at the source of the question, almost expecting to see Amity in her skimpy barmaid’s outfit from aboard the Omari-Ekon. Rather, it was Meryl, the young brunette who seemed to be the only server with any remaining interest in checking on me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you were asleep.”

“I wasn’t. And I don’t.”

“Don’t?” she repeated. “Don’t sleep?”

“Do sleep. Don’t want whatever it is you asked me.”

“Okay,” she said, setting a tall tumbler of ice water on the table. “But I brought this for you anyway.”

“Fine.” I reached for the glass and brought it to my mouth, the coolness of the water delivering a bit of a sting to my healing lower lip as well as a burst of clearer consciousness to my mind. A bead of water dripped down my chin, and as I brushed it away with the side of my finger, the sensation of the scruff on my unshaven face reminded me that I likely looked much like I felt inside: disengaged and unmotivated. Considering that I had not returned any of my editor’s messages, nor Quinn’s for that matter, since Amity’s disappearance, Meryl here was likely the only person even aware of where I was.

“Tim?”

“Yes?” I set the glass down and looked at her.

“I know I haven’t known you long, but I don’t think this is very like you,” she said. “I don’t know whether I should ask if you want to talk or if I should just leave you alone.”