Shattered Bonds (continued)

There was, he thought, a certain smug satisfaction in her eyes. That could be as much from her seemingly successful attempt at matchmaking as much as anything she might have accomplished with him.

He and Georgia met Klaus and Nadine at the door. The two women exchanged final pleasantries. Klaus shook Trenton’s hand, with still quite a firm grip, Trenton noticed. The couple turned, taking one another’s hand in their own, and headed off into the night. Trenton watched them with a certain melancholy, but it was quickly broken by Georgia’s voice as she came up beside him.

“It’s a nice night for a walk,” she offered with an easy casualness that Trenton did not believe. “We might not get another one like it for a while.”

Trenton looked toward Georgia to find her staring back up at him. Her eyes sparkled, whether with mischievousness or something else, Trenton could not tell.

“I suppose it is,” he responded noncommittally. For a moment, he thought Georgia might actually slap him across the arm.

“Fine,” Georgia said, giving her best imitation of a child-like pout. “Will you at least walk me home?”

Trenton nodded slowly in assent.

Georgia smiled and moved in closer, but Trenton still refused to touch her. That did not seem to deter her. Trenton gave a small, almost silent sigh. At least, he told himself, her place was not that far from the dining hall.

They walked silence. Georgia appeared satisfied, even if he refused to place his hand in hers, to simply be with him. Trenton was distracted enough by that that it took him some time to notice that Georgia was taking them on a route that was far from the most direct one back to her dwelling. It was not until he got his bearings that he realized where they were headed.

His first temptation was to simply stop, figuratively digging in his heels before being dragged any further ahead. That, of course, would have come off as more than just a bit childish and, he had to admit, even ridiculous. He did slow down his pace, though, trying to divert their path. Georgia remained resolute, though, finally reaching out to touch his forearm. Now, he did stop.

“Please.”

Her voice was quiet and soft. Trenton could not deny the tone of pleading in it. Although he would have preferred to travel anywhere else within the compound for her—anywhere, he acquiesced. Her hand remained on his arm as they started forward again. He made no effort to remove it.

They entered the small cemetery, one of two that colony contained. Trenton knew that Georgia’s husband was buried here, for she still visited his site from time to time. He did not know exactly where it was located, but was fairly certain where it was not. To his growing dread, she guided him to a place that he knew far too well.

It took all of Trenton’s will to keep moving. Chill perspiration formed a web across his body. Beneath Georgia’s hand, his arm trembled. She said nothing. Instead, she simply reaffirmed her grip and led him to all-too-familiar grave marker. He did nothing but stand and stare down at it for several long minutes.

With a solemnity and earnestness that Trenton had never before heard from her, Georgia spoke.

“Edith,” she began. Her voice trembled slightly, to Trenton’s already discomfited incredulity. “I love this man,” she said, sounding undeniably choked up. “He won’t ask you, so I will.”

She cleared her throat, apparently finding newfound strength and confidence. Her fingers, however, dug uncomfortably into Trenton’s arm. Her grip, he was surprised to discover, rivaled that of Klaus.

“I believe you’d want this man to be happy in this life, even after you’ve passed from it. But, damned his stubborn and devoted soul, he won’t take my word for it.” Some of her earlier spunk and humor had started to return. “So maybe there’s some way you can convince him that it’s all right.”

There came, of course, no answer from the grave. Despite his faith, he had never believed that those who passed on could speak to those still living. It was, perhaps, a comforting conceit for those who remained behind, but Trenton had always Edith as gone. She might very well be in a better place, but she was undeniably gone—had been gone . . . for a very long time.

Tightness wrapped itself around Trenton’s chest. He struggled to breathe, wondering if his own end might finally have come, that Georgia had brought him to the one place where he could free himself from this life, to not be alone. As tears ran from his eyes, though, he knew that it was his own sorrow and loss that had caused that ache. Death was not yet ready for him.

Trenton stared down at the grave marker. His eyes traced the forms of each letter of the words engraved there: Edith Adams, Beloved Wife. He let the tears fall and found that he could breathe now. Georgia’s hand remained upon his arm and, when he looked, he saw that her eyes were shone brightly as well.

He did not know how long they remained there. There came a time when no more tears would come. He felt drained and exhausted, yet also less troubled than he had felt in quite some time. Georgia patted his arm and sniffed. Her lips moved in a sorrowful smile and she looked into his eyes. His hand rested atop hers and they remained there for a long moment.

“I think it’s time to go,” Trenton whispered.

Georgia nodded slowly, her eyes still fixed on his.

“Yes,” she agreed softly. “I think it is.”

Trenton guided her from the tiny cemetery. Although they did not hold hands, Trenton remained close to her, allowing her touch as they walked once again into the night. They did not hurry, and Trenton found that he had reason to do so. It almost felt far too soon when they reached Georgia’s home.

Georgia stood before him, staring hard into his eyes. Trenton wondered what she found there. He stood with his arms crossed protectively over his chest, looking back at her.

She patted his arm gently. “You’re a good man, Trenton Adams,” she told him. “I don’t know whether to say ‘I’m sorry’ or . . . something else.”

Trenton felt a smile form and chuckled softly. “How about ‘Good night’?”

Georgia smile was almost a grin. She appeared to have regained most of her customary good humor.

“Good night, then.”

She moved in closer. Then, stretching up onto her toes, she leaned forward to kiss him lightly on the cheek. She hesitated for a moment, and then pressed her lips against his. He stiffened and she thought he might pull suddenly away. Instead, he allowed her lips to linger there. His were dry and warm.

They parted finally when she discovered that she had not been bothering to breathe. She looked away. Her expression betrayed no embarrassment. There was, instead, something almost thoughtful in it as she turned away.

“Good night,” she whispered and entered her home.

Trenton stared after her, trying to make sense of what it was that he felt. He then noticed something else. Chuckling deeply, he grinned, shifting his legs into a more comfortable position.

I’ll be damned. After a hundred and fifty years, that can still happen.

He took one more look at the door that led into Georgia’s house. Shaking his head slowly, he walked away, thinking that, even after all these years, he still had not seen it all.

#

Wendy laughed, glad of company that, for the moment, needed no medical advice. Being one of only two fully certified physicians at the moment in the colony basically meant that was never truly off-duty. However, for tonight, unless someone required trauma surgery, or for whom childbirth was imminent—and in the latter case she just might tell them to hold it in until a reasonable hour the next morning—she considered her office hours to be closed.

She had spent the entire day in the clinic. Originally, she had hoped to shut down early and spend at least a couple of hours helping with the harvest activities. It would be good, she had thought, to get away from the examination rooms and out interacting with people while she still could get around easily. Instead, she spent the entire day tending to several pulled muscles, a few serious scrapes, and a handful of puncture wounds.

Her most serious case had been Cho-Liang Xu who, at forty-two years of age, discovered that he was gravely allergic to apricots. He had been brought to the clinic, and successfully treated in time, but not before his face and extremities had swollen to almost comic proportions. It was mildly amusing now, even to Cho-Liang, but Wendy was grateful that he had not been working alone and further out in the orchards when found.

Flexing her shoulders, she could feel the tension in them. She wanted more wine, but Greg had wandered off and she was feeling too lazy to go get it herself.

What I really want is a good massage, she mused, and then smiled softly to herself. Of course, that’s how I ended up with this little guy in my belly. She sighed, playing with the empty glass. All the more reason not to have another one.

Allison and Astrid had gone off seeking dessert, leaving Wendy temporarily alone. Watching them as they walked away together, wondering when one of them would be coming to see her about insemination. She actually would not be surprised if they approached her about it at the same time—or even together. Nearly all of the male colonists had contributed samples, but other than choosing one based on the traits of a specific donor, that was about as close to real genetic handling as they were going to get. One implanted, the rest would not be that far removed from how families had conceived and borne children for countless millennia.

Most of the gene management equipment had not operated properly in decades. The nearest replacement parts were far too many light-years away for a service call. Ever since the unfortunate results with Doreen Ferguson’s child, Wendy had refused to rely on the equipment for anything other than basic research. For nearly everything else, the colonists had to rely on the old-fashioned methods of breeding. Wendy actually thought it brought it bit more genuine excitement and suspense into the whole thing. It certainly had for her.

We’ll see if I still feel that way a few months from now . . .

“Hey! Dr. Aimes,” a voice broke through her reverie.

Wendy looked up to find Jason leaning over the table across from her. He was holding a large cup of some kind of amber liquid in one hand. She tried to focus on him, hoping that she did not look as drunk as she suddenly felt. The way he studied her silently for a moment before continuing told her that she probably did.

I only had one . . . Didn’t I?

“I checked into the comm logs like you asked,” Jason was saying. “I think it was just a glitch.”

It took Wendy a moment to realize what he was talking about. When she did, she cursed herself silently.

Oh damn! I forgot completely about that. Some doctor you are . . . leaving a patient possibly dying out there while you . . .

She trailed off, unable to remember exactly what had distracted her from what could have been a life-or-death situation.

“It’s the weirdest damn thing, though,” Jason went on.

Wendy gave him her attention. He was clearly waiting for her to prompt him for more—and she was interested.

“What was that?” she asked.

“The logs show that you did receive a message, just like you said.”

“Who was it from?”

“That’s the weird part,” Jason replied. “According to the logs, it came from Polly Juneau.”

Wendy stared at Jason, despite still having some trouble focusing completely on him.

“Exactly,” Jason agreed, based solely from her expression. “She’s been dead, what . . . two years? And her frequency was taken offline.”

“A recording?”

Jason shrugged. “That’s what I thought at first,” he said. “But none of the archives are linked to the main comm system. So it had to be some kind of weird glitch.” He took a swig of the beer and then smiled puckishly. “Unless you’re receiving messages from the dead now, too,” he said, winking at her.

Wendy felt a cold knot in her stomach. A fine sheen of chilled sweat tingled across her body. She wanted to blame it on the wine, but knew better.

“Are you all right, Dr. Aimes?”

Jason’s concerned expression seemed to fill her field of vision.