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Not quite stars: too much gravity. He snickers at his unoriginal yet oh-so-appropriate pun, looking up to confirm he’s still alone. Hard to explain laughter over White research. Serious business: break the genetics; break the enemy. Too much gravity, indeed. Multitracking, again. Normal people multitask; I trace full blown tangents, falsely gifted brain running down a billion paths at once. I bet he sees it. I’m never anywhere but with him when I’m with him. If I don’t pay attention, he notices, and I miss something.
“Sisko to Bashir.”
“Sir?”
“We’re rescheduled for 13:00.”
“Understood.”
Damn. Maybe the Prophets are dropping none-too-subtle hints.
“Bashir to Garak.”
“Doctor?”
“I have to cancel. They rescheduled the command staff briefing. Again.”
Silence. This singularity of you, nebula of me, circles, a center of gravity occupying the space between, until some larger celestial sphere transects, like this war.
“Given new information from Cardassia, I doubt either of us will have time for lunch in the near future.”
Silence. Then, our trajectories shift.
“New information?”
“I’m afraid I can’t divulge, Doctor. Let us just say, in war, one should expect the unexpected.”
“Yes, I suppose. Make it up later?”
Silence. What, exactly? Dinner, coffee, drinks, or maybe a casual stroll on the Promenade? No, our parameters are too delineated, since…no: don’t go there.
“Perhaps.”
What if we allow the collapse, let physics drag us together, again? We. What’s “we?” Supermassive. Supergravitational. Superbly destructive. We…us…superlative, honestly. Ambiguous and precise, all at once, like some annoying Kardasi subtext. The “we” only leaves crumbs: statistical debris.
“Simulation complete: seventy-eight point nine-three probability of systemic failure.”
“Alright. Computer, run the next enzyme sequence, same error margins.”
“Running.”
No, not stars. He heads out the door, PADD in hand. But we do burn.