Chapter 13: 7 ampules of Vulcan gene therapy in the Orion satchel. But gene therapy can be a tricky thing. Where would T'Sil get the 8th ampule? And then, what happens after that? And the question T'Sil didn't ask: how was the gene therapy manufactured, or, as S'Vrall knows, not 'how?' but ... 'who?'

Warning: dark.

I walked into my quarters. T'Sil was sitting at our desk, munching on an apple.

"Wut?" she asked, chewing, as she saw my face.

I threw the satchel onto the table and opened it up. Seven ampules, all in a row, faced her, five of them expended.

"Oh," she whispered, swallowing hard.

"Please tell me you're not stupid," I growled.

"What do you mean?" she asked, blinking in surprise.

"PLEASE tell me you're NOT STUPID!" I shouted.

"WHAT?" she shouted back, angry, hurt, and confused.

I sat down across from her and attempted to calm myself. I was very much concerned that she was, indeed, very stupid, and then: there would be nothing for it but to watch her die, slowly and painfully.

"Tell me what your game plan here was," I said through gritted teeth.

"Huh?" she said. Yes, she was stupid. "Look, I told you. I took two shots this time, because, you know, four hours later, I didn't want to puke all over you when we were getting it on and then turn into a human, right? That'd be awkward."

Awkward, I thought. That's what she's worried about?

"No," I said carefully, "I didn't mean for last night, that was obvious, I meant," and I pointed at the ampules. "One, two, three, four, five: you've taken five shots over four month, yes?"

"Yes," she said, "and ..."

I quickly waved her to silence. "That leaves, six, seven. Then what happens? What's your exit strategy after the seventh ampule?"

"Um, ..." she thought for a really, really long time. Like: three seconds. I could see the imaginary smoke rise from her ears and she tried to add two and two. "I ... well, I, you know, um, I thought, well, that was fun. Then I'd be done. ... like?"

I put my head into my hands and blew out a long sigh. "Yes," I said, "you are correct: you'd be done."

"What are you not telling me?" a small, worried voice asked me.

I looked up at her. "You do know where this came from, yes?"

"Yeah, my uncle," she said. "He gave to to me for my 18th birthday."

And she smiled at me, more sunnily than her daisy-print dress.

I just looked at her.

"What?" she demanded.

"I'm not asking who gave it to you. I'm asking you if you know who manufactured this and sold it to your uncle." Whoever he is, ... liked I cared that her 'uncle' gave her a 'birthday present.' I was, as you might tell, very annoyed at her cavalier attitude about all this.

"The Orions. But they didn't sell it to him. They're, like, really chummy with my uncle. They gave him that as a gift, see, because he told me that when I asked. Those things aren't cheap, you know!"

"Nor legal," I added.

She shrugged, ... can you believe that? She shrugged. "Nor is the Romulan ale."

I glared at her. "All seven, ... no: eight, bottles of it?"

"Yah," she said. "All eight bottles, ... now."

"That you got for your 18th birthday," I surmised.

"Well, ... there were eight bottles left." She corrected.

"'Left'?"

"It was a really big birthday party. Lots of dignitaries, and bigwigs and stuff, you know? Swells." She shrugged again, nonchalantly. "...what?" she asked worriedly when she saw my look.

"Who are you?" I demanded. "Starfleet academy at 14? 18th birthday with dignitaries and 'swells'? ... with gifts from an uncle with incalculable value?"

T'Sil shrugged. "Nobody, really."

"Stop shrugging," I snapped, annoyed.

"Okay," she said.

"Answer my question," I ordered.

T'Sil started to shrug, again. My glare put a stop to that. "Like I said: nobody. But my uncle is. Have you heard the name 'Paxton'?"

"No," I said, "should I have?"

"Only the richest man on Earth, if not the Federation," she said. "But, like, he inherited it all from my grandfather, John Frederick Paxton."

She waited for recognition on my face.

"The Terra Prime movement?" she asked and waited. Then she sighed. "'Earth for Humans' was their motto."

Now it was my turn to shrug. "So?"

"And no alien races."

"Oh," I said, "the Earther xenophobes."

"Yeah," she said, "the 'xenophobes.' My grandfather built quite the trade empire. After his Terra Prime-initiative was dismantled, most of it actually survived as shell corporations. My uncle reconsolidated the disparate corporations under one umbrella, NūSol."

She waited again.

"If you're looking for some reaction from me," I said, "I really don't care about internal matters of Federation member planets."

"Yeah," she said, "I get that."

"And he lavishes all these gifts upon you because ...?"

"Well," T'Sil said, "he doesn't have any kids, see? And his sister, well, ... did."

"You," I said.

"Yup."

"Only child?" I asked.

"Yup," she confirmed.

Great. I thought. Spoiled rich kid.

We looked at each other.

"So," I said, "you get whatever you want and get to do whatever you want, because you're the heir apparent."

T'Sil looked away. "I wouldn't put it exactly like that ..."

"How, then, would you put it?"

She looked back at me. "I'm an Ensign on a Starfleet vessel. I have to make my rack, just like everybody else."

"... and, underneath your rack, you have enough Romulan ale to buy the entire economy of a system, including its own defense force, and trade agreements of the surrounding systems."

She glared at me, insulted.

"And this," I pointed down at the satchel.

"I said it was a gift!" She retorted heatedly.

"Yes, it was," was my calm reply. "And I know exactly why it was a gift, Ms. Paxton Empire."

"Well, yeah, of course the Orions want to show respect. We make a lot in trade from them, and vice versa. They'd like to keep that going."

"That's one way of looking at it," I said.

"I don't follow," she said.

You will, I thought ruefully. "Then, let me ask you something different, but related. When you took these last two ampules, did you notice anything?"

T'Sil raised her eyebrow, looking very much like a Vulcan.

"This time," I clarified, "did you need to take the therapy? And after taking it, did you feel much better?"

"You mean: after I puked, or before?"

"Answer the question," I said.

T'Sil looked away. "I didn't need to take it," she muttered.

"Look at me, T'Sil," I said.

She looked back. "I didn't need to take it," she said. But she looked down at the table as she said this, not at me.

"You know, T'Sil," I said, "Vulcans don't lie."

"Yeah," she said regretfully. "You told me that before." She wiped her eyes with the back of her arm and sniffled.

I looked down at the satchel. "Sixth, then seventh. Neither of which you 'need,' as you say. But here's the thing. Gene therapy is cumulative, and your body's become accustomed to the treatment. It's anticipating the next shot, then the next, then the next, but now, thanks to your brilliant plan last night, there's only two more ampules. Good thing you don't 'need' an eighth shot, after your body craves the sixth one, then the seventh one."

"W-what are you saying?"

"Where are you going to get the next shot?" I asked her. "What is your game plan?"

"I ... could ask the Orions?" she asked me.

I smiled sadly at her. "You certainly could. But you'd have to ask them for this particular genome. Do you have this sequenced? Do you know how they make this? Did you even think to ask?"

"This is the part where you're calling me stupid again, isn't it?" she said in a small voice.

I closed the satchel and stood. "Well, it's been nice knowing you." I looked at her. My eyes were filled with pity.

"Please," she whispered. "Tell me what happens."

"These therapies are distilled from one, and only one, Vulcan. A Vulcan girl, say, 12 or 13 years old, goes into the processor, ... and this comes out. Well, 10 ampules. So, the Orions are holding the eighth, ninth, and tenth ampules in reserve, just waiting for your call. Just waiting."

I looked at her. T'Sil swallowed.

"And when you do contact them, they'll be happy to sell you the eighth one, ... for everything you've got, and for everything you don't, and, by the time the craving kicks in, you will do anything to get your fix, kid, anything. You'll empty your own accounts, but it won't be enough. So you'll empty your parents' accounts, and you won't even think twice about it. And they'll give you the eighth ampule. But the ninth?"

I let that linger. "The ninth, you've already given them everything, so they'll ask you to do something for them: slit your uncle's throat, maybe? Or maybe they need him right where he is? So they'll ask you to slit the throat of the person who knows: me. And you'll kill Michael Burnham. Just like that. Because, no witnesses right? Then you'll get the ninth ampule."

"Then the tenth?" I surmised. "Federation headquarters is a blocker to the Syndicate, isn't it? ... with all their pesky rules, right? So, they'll ask you to place a bomb there, ... or Starfleet headquarters? Or Starfleet Academy, during parents' weekend, to make a really big, public splash, and every man, woman, and child that day: dead, by your hands, but you won't even care, because, after those thousands, dead, you'll get your tenth, and final, shot, and you'll plead for them to take you into exile, you'll plead for an eleventh shot, and that's when they'll inform you, with deepest regrets, that there is no eleventh shot, but you could, if you're very lucky, find a Vulcan with a matching genome, and take transfusions from her. If there were an exact match, you might be able to drain her dry and live a little bit longer, right?"

I smiled bitterly at her. "But there is no exact match. The Orions know this. Not on Vulcan. Not anywhere. They make sure. But you won't know that. You'll go around Vulcan, attacking Vulcans, desperately trying to find something that resembles your fix, and that's when you'll be subdued by the Vulcan Defense Force and detained, and one day your prison guard will be delivering your one meal for the day, but he won't find you in your cell, oh, no! He'll find a puddle on the cell floor of biomass that you've disintegrated into, and you'll finally get to understand what that one girl knew as she stepped into that processor, having seen everyone before her step in, heard the screams that only pain so great that even a Vulcan succumbs to, and see this set of ampules come out the other side, and the rest of the useless biomass incinerated, you know: to make room for her when it was her turn."

I opened up the satchel and showed her the contents. "That's what this is," I told her. "One Vulcan girl drained dry and incinerated so you can play Vulcan for a day. Isn't that neat?"

Tears were streaming down T'Sil's cheeks. "Why did you tell me this? How do you know this? ... when nobody else in the damn'd galaxy has ever ..." She sniffled and looked around for something to wipe her face. Her arm was pulling extra duty today as she angrily wiped her cheeks again.

"I tell you this, T'Sil, so when it comes time for this eighth shot, you now have the option. Come to me, and I'll make it quick. Or don't, and you won't even see me coming."

"You'll be dead before you know what hit you." I said.

"Gee," she sniffled. "Thanks."

I nodded.

"Won't you ... won't you get arrested, and stuff, for, like, you know, ... murder?"

"They'd have to catch me first to arrest me," I replied.

"So: a fugitive for the rest of your life?"

"Thanks to you," I pointed out. "Another life ruined by a rich kid playing with toys with no consequences to pay, ... until the bill comes due, as it always does."

She looked away. "Jesus Christ, you're worse than my parents!"

"At least you had parents. This little girl didn't."

"Will you stop rubbing my face in that, please! I didn't even know, okay?" she shouted at me.

"I WAS THAT GIRL!" I screamed at her.

Her eyes got wide. "What?" she asked in utter confusion.

"I was that girl." I said. "The Orions were coming to herd me and a bunch of other kids onto their frigate and transport us back to who-knows-where to do this to us. I watched year after year as they dumped babies onto Hellguard then collected the adolescents and carted them away. We were being harvested! My turn was next, T'Sil. Just because the Orions finally found a use for us! Vulcan slaves? That's never worked for them. You can't break us. But this? Just because some rich Earthers wanted to pretend they were Vulcan for a day."

"I was that girl, T'Sil, because your little escapades created a very lucrative market for the Orions to exploit. Congratulations!"

T'Sil just looked at me. "I didn't know," she whimpered. "I didn't know."

"And that exonerates you completely." Scorn dripped from my voice.

"Don't kill yourself," I instructed her. "Leave that to me."

I turned to go.

"Where are you going?"

I turned back. "It's lunch time. I'm going to get a salad from the mess deck. Do you want me to bring you anything? Do you want a salad?"

T'Sil stared at me like I were some space-alien, or something.

How little did she know how right she was!

See: she wouldn't be able to find an exact genetic match from any Vulcan, because that little girl the Orions processed wasn't a Vulcan, ... not exactly. You can't just grab any Vulcan off the street without the entire Federation being up in arms about it. "No [Vulcan] Child Left Behind!" and all that.

To get around that, the Orions used abandoned Romulan halfers to manufacture their gene therapies. How many of those were in the Federation?

Zero, ... I mean: not counting me. But I don't count, because I'm a 'Vulcan,' see?

"Um, ... no," she answered me. "I'm not hungry."

"Okay, a salad," I said, ignoring her. "Water, too?"

T'Sil swallowed, shell-shocked. "Um, okay. Water'd be good."

I turned to go.

"Um, S'Vrall, um, ... I really didn't know, you know?"

"You told me that already," I said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and try to save your life, because, as it turns out, I'm the idiot here."

"Wait, ... what?" she asked.

I turned back to her again. "Zero percent chance are your odds, I'm thinking, but maybe I can find somebody who can create a miracle. Do you believe in miracles?" I asked her.

"Do you?" she asked me back.

"No," I said. "I believe in justice in the form of cause and effect. You were an idiot, so you die. That's what I believe. And a lot of people who aren't idiots die, simply because they're helpless civilian casualties, caught between two superpowers, like the Federation and the Klingon Empire, who have to measure their dick sizes by exchanging photon torpedoes with each other. Needless, mindless, senseless death: that's what I believe in."

"So," she said slowly. "I'm an idiot, so I die, and photon torpedoes: that's your philosophy."

I nodded: "Good summarization."

"Then why did you say you were gonna to try to save me if you said it'd take a miracle but you don't believe in miracles?" she demanded.

"Cause and effect. I'm in the position to do something, to try something, even if it fail, I can try, no? And when justice visits itself on me, then ... I don't know, T'Sil. Nothing matters: you don't matter. I don't matter. Nothing matters. What matters is that I try and make just a little tiny bit of sense in this senseless, meaningless, uncaring Universe. It doesn't care about me. Not at all, for I was that girl, but, then, I wasn't. That, too, was cause and effect, and maybe it's because I'm supposed to be here, now, because I'm the only one who can do something about this. How is that fucking coincidence? Can you explain that to me? Because I can't. I don't know, T'Sil. I just don't know."

"But you're going to try?" she confirmed.

"I'm going to try," I said. "But first, I'm hungry, so I'm going to get us salads."

And I left.