Takes place before the series begins. No warnings, no violence, no pairings, no language, no nudity.
Rated: G
Last Equation
1.
"Take a break, young man."
"I just want to run through this one more time, and make sure I've got it right―"
I smile at the door to the cockpit simulator, and shake my head. "Another five minutes, then."
"Thanks, instructor!"
The cheery voice echoes in the computer lab, and I rub my forehead as I wander back to my desk to rifle through my papers. The restless action does nothing to soothe me. Fifteen days and counting, and I just...Oh, I'm too old for this, I tell myself. I settle down in the rickety chair, wheels creaking as I run through the diagnostics program for Sandrock, checking everything for the twentieth time.
The door slides open, and I don't bother to look. Quatre's light step sounds behind me, followed by the rattle as he sets his goggles down on the computer desk.
"I went through it manually this morning," he tells me, and I nod, my eyes on the spill of numbers and calculations scrolling up the screen. In the corner of my eye, I can see him turn to lean against the desk. His arms are crossed as he stares out the glass into the hanger, where Sandrock waits.
"Fifteen days," he whispers, and his face is troubled.
"Quatre," I start to say, but I hesitate, and the moment is past. He shakes himself, and gives me one of those flashing smiles.
"That's a fortnight and a half," Quatre says, but his eyes are still far away, and I doubt he's even seeing Sandrock now.
"A fortnight," I murmur, reaching back into my university days, long before this boy was born. "That's..."
"Ten days," he says, and laughs. "I learned the stupidest things. Like how to make a half-Windsor...and which fork is for oysters." He winks at me. "Had oysters once. They're pretty disgusting, but at least I used the proper fork."
"Use the proper tool for the job," I say, turning my eyes back to the screen. My heart feels heavy, as I ponder the latest communications. I've already deleted them, but I can read between the lines. I know the goals. "It's an important skill."
Quatre shrugs. "Seems pretty pointless to me."
"A man with a hammer sees everything as a nail," I tell him, hiding behind the oblique phrases that drove Quatre mad so often, early in our acquaintance. I smile to myself as his shoulders stiffen momentarily.
"I am the hammer," he whispers, his shoulders slumping.
"Young man," I say, and stop again. Not having kids of my own was never an impediment to my research, but I wonder sometimes if it would've helped me to understand this child. Yes, child, despite the affectionate title I've given him. "Are you truly prepared for this?"
"As best I can be," he says, another smile flitting across his face. He shifts, and I can see the dark circles under his eyes, and the tightness of his fingers against his upper arms. He's nervous, I know that much. The rest he hides, but not so well I can't see the signs. "I just want to see Earth for myself," he adds, turning his head away from me. "And I want to be someone to be proud of."
That's my cue, I know, but I just can't find the words. Instead, I settle for second best. "You've done a great deal, in a short time. I'm proud of you already." The program stops running, and I hit the key to close the window.
"That's not enough," Quatre tells me, his tone firm. "I want to make a difference."
Maybe you already have, and don't realize it, I think to myself. The orders are clear, and there's fifteen days. Maybe between now and then, I will come to my senses and fulfill the contract. And maybe, Quatre will make more of a difference than he'll ever realize.
2.
"Instructor," he calls, setting the goggles down on the desk. He leans over me to see what I'm doing. "You're adjusting the heat shotels? Why?"
"Just a few modifications I thought of last night," I tell him. I was faster on the draw than him, and I sigh in relief. The real modifications were completed only seconds before I heard his soft steps at the door, and I push away from the desk, letting the program calibrate. If there must be death, I can't stop it, but I will stop at least one death, if it ever comes to that.
"You're always adding stuff," he says with a laugh, and opens the locker to pull out his suit. The helmet is set down with a clank on the desk, next to the goggles.
"It's a good trait for a scientist to have," I protest, but we've been over this before. I tweak constantly, and he knows it. He tolerates the subtle changes with far more flexibility than I would have expected, remembering the spoiled, confused child I'd first met. "Once you've gone," and I can't quite say the rest, "you'll have to do all this on your own."
"I could take Sandrock apart and put him back together in my sleep," Quatre assures me, toeing off his shoes. He sits down on the other chair, and pulls off his pants, stripping down to boxers and undershirt before putting his feet in the airlock suit and standing to pull it up to his hips.
"I'm sure you could," I murmur, and glance at the screen. Confirmation came in this morning, and I'm feeling old, tired, and heart-broken. "The orders for the mission..."
"Are really very simple, instructor," Quatre says, shrugging. "You don't need to run any manual checks on my system. I haven't had a core loss yet."
He grins, a little impishly, but then grows serious, and I stare at the way the suit doesn't quite conform to his body like it did two months ago. He's lost weight, I think. I grin and shrug, settling back in my chair, and tap my fingers on the console, wondering what else I could check. Perhaps there's something wrong with the V-fin, or I could run another check on...
"Instructor?" Quatre cocks his head at me, puzzled, and I give him a wry smile.
"Sorry, young man, just thinking," I tell him. "And no, my mind is not wandering. I'm not that old."
He laughs, a bright sound, and my heart breaks all over again.
"Quatre," I ask, and he stops, somehow aware that the moment has arrived. It's just not the moment he's expecting. "Are you truly prepared to die?"
"It's an acceptable risk," he says. "As long as I can change something for the better, then I have no problems accepting what will happen."
"I'm not sure I see the point, if you're not going to be around to enjoy what you've gained," I tell him. My fingers play along the edge of the desk, seeking a keyboard. Something to distract me, I realize, and withdraw my hands into my lap.
"But other people will," he assures me. "Once there's peace, then what I'll do will be worth it. That's what I'm doing this for, after all."
Are you? I want to ask, but I'm good with numbers and calculations. Words are my weakest point, and for a moment I wonder whether I could come up with an equation to explain the derivative of one young man's collision with a group of strangers, and the arc of those changes over the past three years. The ellipse would move gracefully across the page, plummeting towards the Y-axis like a meteor's fall to Earth.
"Don't worry, instructor," Quatre says, laying a quick hand on my shoulder. "This is what I've trained for, all this time. I won't fail you."
But I want you to, I reply silently. If failing me means that you live, then I want you to fail so badly you never throw yourself into death again. On the other hand...living means living with what you'll have done. And that might be worse than death. I wonder if Quatre has already determined this, in that strange intuitive way of his, where the steps between assumption and conclusion don't exist, but the logic remains flawless. He doesn't always think; he just knows.
I wish I knew how to speak to him, sometimes.
"One more run," he says, picking up the helmet, and tucking it under his arm. "Then tomorrow, right, instructor?"
"Right," I say to his departing back, watching through the glass as he kicks off from the ramp and floats down to Sandrock.
One more day, before I must decide, or hold my tongue and let him go on this insane mission. Can you really create peace through war, I ask myself, once again aware that such questions are for philosophers, not scientists. Perhaps, though, I am growing into a philosopher, thanks to this determined young man. Better that than a doddering old scientist, I tell myself, and laugh under my breath.
The sound falters, though, as his words echo in my mind.
As long as I can change something for the better, then I have no problems accepting what will happen.
It's then I smile, because it's then I know what I'll decide, and I have no problems accepting what will happen, either. Quatre, I think, you've already changed something for the better, no matter what else happens.
You changed me.