Star Trek Into Darkness Page 0,12
ninth birthday.
Her mother lifted the little girl’s too-thin arm and slipped the bunny underneath it, willing herself to believe that her daughter could feel the touch of synthetic softness. She looked for a smile, a twitch, a reaction of any kind. There was none—only the soft hum and occasional beep of the attentive but emotionless devices that were keeping her daughter alive. Bending, she gently stroked the girl’s left cheek and kissed her lightly on the forehead while with her left hand she tightly grasped the delicate fingers of the girl’s right hand. As always, there was no response. Having held back as long as she could, the mother began to cry. Outside the hospital room window, a country breeze stirred the leaves in trees that kept watch.
Unable to keep it together any longer, her grief-stricken father turned and fled the room.
It was peaceful on the old stone deck outside the hospital. In the distance, the towers of Greater London pierced the horizon. Here and there, patients sat alone in chairs, enjoying the fresh air. Nurses and attendants wordlessly pushed less mobile patients from place to place across the carefully landscaped yard, sliding them among rows of flowers and shrubs like ships between green waves. Birds called—against all odds, wild birds still dwelled in the English countryside. Even that cheerful chorus could do nothing to impact the man’s misery. Complete, utter, and overwhelming, his despair was matched only by his sense of powerlessness. His daughter was being taken from him, her life draining away as surely and steadily as liquid from a punctured bottle, and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing.
“I can save her.”
Startled and uncomfortable at having been observed in such a vulnerable position, the young man turned.
“What did you say?”
The stranger who had spoken looked to be about the same age as the distraught father, though it was difficult to tell for certain. His hair was neatly combed, his body beneath the unremarkable clothing svelte and solid. His face was narrow, his eyes remarkably penetrating. Grief-stricken father and enigmatic visitor stood eyeing one another. At the moment, there was no one within earshot—they were alone with the grounds, the hospital, and each other.
“Your daughter. I can save her.”
There had been no hesitation in the stranger’s voice, no uncertainty. It hinted at an unshakable confidence that would extend to everything upon which it might choose to comment. The stranger had been stating a fact, one his tone suggested was incontrovertible.
A ridiculous claim, Tom Harewood knew. All the best doctors had been consulted. International specialist sites had been queried. There was nothing more that could be done for his daughter. And yet . . . and yet . . . there was something about the oddly imposing stranger that deserved, if not confidence, at least a question.
“Who are you . . . ?”
He broke off. The stranger’s expression was one of silent, unspoken presumption. Harewood struggled to focus on it, but it was difficult to see anything save the face of his wife, and of an eight-year-old girl whose condition had degenerated beyond anything resembling encouraging.
Those faces and not the words of the stranger kept Harewood from simply turning and walking away.
III
Like many finely crafted antiques, San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge only grew more beautiful with age. Indifferent to humans and their steadily advancing technology, fog still rolled in from the cold Pacific. Easily pierced by modern communications and perceptors, it remained as lazy and soft in appearance as when its climatic magic had first been encountered by wandering sailors whose most advanced tech back then consisted of discs of ground glass slapped together inside a metal tube.
Constructed farther inland, the section of Starfleet Headquarters whose grounds two officers were presently traversing was contrastingly bathed in warm sunshine. Attired in gray dress uniforms, the pair drew appreciative glances from lower-ranking personnel and civilian visitors. James Kirk expanded under the admiring stares while his companion stolidly ignored them. Vanity, Spock reflected as he noted his friend’s reaction to the sometimes envious looks, was among humankind’s least estimable characteristics. Having pointed this out to his friend on more than one occasion and receiving only laughter in return, the science officer had ceased to comment on the widespread cultural defect.
“This is it,” Kirk said confidently. “I can feel it.”
“Your ‘feeling’ aside,” the Vulcan responded sardonically, “I consider it highly unlikely that we will be selected for the new program.”
Kirk feigned hurt. “Why else would Pike want to see us? Forget