Summer’s Plea
Posted on August 30th, 2005 by William Marlowe

At first, years ago, it really only happened when he was tired: he would feel himself slipping away from his body and the Atlantis to–somewhere. But lately it had been getting worse.

Marlowe sat in his office, the face of a Xindi doctor on his monitor. He had lifted a cup of tea to his lips and it happened again. He was in sickbay but not in sickbay and he caught a faint whiff of fresh, cool air–the scent, spiced with the perfume of autumn, caught him off guard and made him light-headed. Hot tea spilled over his hand and brought him back.

“Damn!”

“I’m sorry?” the Xindi said.

“Excuse me. I seem to be overtired.”

“What is this word . . . dam?”

“Ah–an interjection. I apologize. As you were saying?”

Marlowe had to struggle to pay attention to what his Xindi counterpart was trying to tell him. There was actually little the Xindi was saying, though he talked a lot, which made it harder for Marlowe.

“Thank you very much for all your help, Doctor Marlowe. If there is ever anything you need from the Xindi, you have only to ask.”

“Of course. Is there anything else?”

“There is one other thing.” The Xindi’s tone was that of centuries of patients who, too embarrassed to speak up earlier, dropped a bombshell–usually prefaced with “Oh, by the way…” or the equivalent–just as the doctor turned to leave. “I am requesting an additional supply of Ardrine 5.”

“According to the official request from your leaders, you don’t need any more Ardrine 5.” It was an anti-anxiety drug, very potent–a narcotic dispensed only in small doses to serious cases. It could, of course, be used for recreation: on Earth, once, it would have been called a laugher. Marlowe knew what he’d authorized his technicians to send over, and he knew the Xindi didn’t need more.

Great. An addict.

“The request was in error. I don’t know what to tell you.” the Xindi answered.

Marlowe thought: How about the truth–that you’re tired and afraid and you can’t handle it so you want to get so stupid, so hopelessly cranked, that you can’t see straight and you fuck anything with a hole and damn all the people who depend on you. How disgusting. Pray we never meet in person because no drug will bring you back from the hell I’ll–

“Regulations are very clear in this regard. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to deny your request.” It was a shitty compromise and Marlowe knew his expression communicated more of his thoughts than was good for diplomacy.

“I won’t grovel, Mr. Marlowe, but I fear you–”

Marlowe rubbed his eyes. When he pulled his hands away, he knew for a moment something was wrong.

“–the seriousness of our position–”

Then he saw: the vines–at any rate, changes in skin color that crisscrossed his body in a pattern that looked like vines–were not a stark, deep green, as they had been since he’d woken up covered with them in a field on an apparently uninhabited planet. The leaves were pale now, yellow in some spots.

“–many of us feel that–

Marlowe clenched his jaw. The tidy accent he’d acquired in childhood elocution classes vanished and was replaced by his native Orcadian brogue.

“This conversation is over.” The screen went dark when Marlowe cut the transmission.

To his surprise, he had used his fist to do so. The desk panel was dented and flickering where his hand had been.

Marlowe finished his tea. It tasted–strangely. The scent again blew by his nostrils, though obviously there could be no wind on the ship. The breeze seemed to curl as it went by–to beckon. He closed his eyes and was engulfed in a gust of wind. A voice echoed in the office:

I’ll see you soon
It’s nearly time
Will

No one in sickbay heard. They noticed Marlowe’s slightly tousled hair but said nothing. One or two looked expectantly at the CMO’s office, but there was no one else there. Marlowe walked to a console to check on the supply replication process and saw his disheveled reflection; he quickly smoothed back his hair. When he focused on the readouts again, he almost cursed aloud.

Don’t forget us

The message scrolled by before Marlowe’s eyes. He blinked, and it was gone. He made some adjustments, reprioritized the replicator queue, and looked down at the PADD in his hand. He feared the worst.

There was only one word on the display:

Please