Star Trek

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  To Matthew and Verity, my guys

  Prologue

  * * *

  Some nights, Michael Burnham thought, you had to resign yourself to not getting any sleep. The trick was to accept your fate and not lie in the dark allowing your wakefulness to become fruitless and circular thinking. In other circumstances she would get up, move around, do some work or meditation. But nothing Michael could do would solve the problem of a roommate tossing and turning and sighing into the darkness.

  Things went quiet. Michael found that she was holding her breath, waiting for Tilly’s soft snores to start. But no—the moment passed, Tilly turned again, and sighed, deeply, into the night.

  Michael pulled herself up onto her elbow. “Tilly,” she whispered. “What’s the matter?”

  Her roommate did not reply, but the other side of the room went suddenly very quiet. Not the soft quiet of sleep—no, something more watchful, wakeful, cautious. Tilly on red alert.

  “Tilly,” Michael said again, more firmly, and in her normal speaking voice. “I know you’re not asleep. What’s going on?”

  The lights were down. Michael sensed rather than saw Tilly sit up, a darker shape in the darkness. “It’s nothing,” said Tilly. A small voice, tiny, barely audible. She talked like that sometimes, Michael had observed, like a creature curling up into a shell, trying to shield herself behind some kind of protective covering.

  “Doesn’t sound like nothing,” Michael said. “Sounds like kind of a big deal.”

  Tilly laughed—a nervous laugh, like a tightly coiled spring. “Oh, you know what it’s like when you can’t sleep . . .”

  “Mm-hm.” I know.

  “Thoughts go racing around your head . . . You can’t shake them . . .”

  “So . . . what’s racing around your head right now, Tilly?”

  No answer. Just a sigh, dredged up from somewhere deep within. Michael waited patiently.

  “Oh, you know,” said Tilly eventually, in the small voice. “Big day tomorrow.”

  In the darkness, Michael nodded to herself. Now they were getting somewhere. “Tomorrow?”

  “You know. First official day. Command Training Program!”

  “That is a big day,” Michael agreed. “Aren’t you excited?”

  Another sigh.

  Michael took a deep, calming breath. Right now, it was her most ardent wish—the depth of which could only be understood by someone who has had a long and tiring day, with another on the horizon—that she could lie back on her bed, close her eyes, and be instantly asleep. But it wasn’t going to happen. Some nights, thought Michael, you had to accept your fate.

  “How about some lights?” she said. “Soft.”

  When the lights came up, Michael looked across to the other bed. Tilly was sitting up, arms wrapped around her knees, all curled up on herself, tight and small. Her heart went out to her. Poor Tilly.

  “Hey,” said Michael softly. “Are you okay?”

  What a question. Of course she wasn’t okay. She looked dreadful—face pale and eyes wide and red. “You’re not really worried about tomorrow, are you?”

  “Well, yes,” said Tilly, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.

  Michael thought about this. “It’s natural to feel nervous,” she said. “It’s a big step—”

  “I’m not nervous—”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m . . . scared.”

  “That’s natural too,” said Michael. “Helpful, even. But you know you have a right to be there, don’t you? You know you’ve earned your place?”

  Tilly didn’t reply.

  “Tilly?”

  “That’s the problem. I’m not sure I have . . .” She gave Michael a sad smile. “Sometimes, you know, I just don’t think I’m good enough—”

  “That’s not true!”

  “It’s just . . . Starfleet was never the plan, you see. The plan was always something else. So I can’t help thinking that way. Sometimes.”

  “Want to tell me why?”

  Tilly sighed. “It’s kind of a long story . . .”

  Michael shifted around in the bed, making herself comfortable. Some nights are big nights, and you had to accept your fate. Michael smiled at her roommate.

  “I’m listening.”

  Part One

  Autumn

  * * *

  1

  * * *

  Sweet sixteen, thought Sylvia Tilly, glancing at herself in the mirror. Her mouth twisted at the sight. Pale face. Long red hair. Curls—stupid, impossible, annoying curls. She tugged at one, which promptly fell into her eye. Did I mention stupid? What do you do with curls like this? They won’t do what they’re told. They have a mind of their own. It wasn’t like Sylvia hadn’t tried . . . Down, curls! Stay straight! Stay sensible! Do the right thing!

  Sylvia looked away from the mirror and back at the screen. She suppressed a sigh. There on the screen was her mother, Siobhan. Siobhan was talking. Her mother did a lot of talking. She talked for a living. She made speeches, and they were very good speeches, and they had taken her all the way up to the Federation Security Council, where she was the representative of the core worlds, and she was going to keep on making very good speeches until she was chair of the council, which wouldn’t be long now. When people met Sylvia, they would say, “Oh, that’s your mother . . .” and Sylvia would smile politely, and then they would say, “You don’t look anything like her.” And she would answer, “It’s the curls.”

  But the point was that Mom talked, a lot, and she expected to be heard, and the problem with that was that Sylvia couldn’t always bring herself to listen. It was kind of . . . relentless? Sometimes you had to tune it out, for your own good, but the problem with that was you wondered whether people on the Security Council did the same thing, Oh, it’s Siobhan, talking again, and the problem with that was you might give yourself the giggles, and if there was one thing Mom didn’t like, it was giggles, particularly when she was talking.

  “Sylvia,” said Siobhan, pausing for breath, “could you do something about that ringlet on your face? It’s very distracting.”

  “Sorry, Mom,” muttered Sylvia. She started tugging at the curl, trying to fix it.

  “You know, sweetheart,” said Siobhan, “if you tried fiddling less with your hair, it would probably be less unruly.”

  Gee, Mom, I’m so glad you called . . .

  “That’s better,” said Siobhan. “Now, let’s take a look at these grades.”

  It was near the end of term, and Sylvia’s report card had come in. Her teachers had been more than happy, much more than happy, but the problem with Mom was that you couldn’t always predict what she would be p
leased about. More importantly, you couldn’t always predict what she would be displeased about. Sylvia felt her shoulders tense. “Everything’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “Let me take a look,” said Siobhan. “I only just this minute got it.”

  Sylvia watched the frown form on her mother’s face. Well, hi there, frown! Sylvia thought. She and her mother’s frown were old, old friends, went back years, although Sylvia sometimes thought that maybe the friendship wasn’t really flowing both ways. Hey, frown, how about a few more smiles?

  “All right,” said her mother, leaning back in her office chair. “There are a couple of issues I can see here.”

  Huh?

  “Mom,” said Sylvia warily, “did you see the marks for math and science?”

  “What?” Her mom glanced across the marks again. “Oh yes, yes, they’re fine.”

  Fine? They were more than fine . . .

  “Mom, did you see the mark for the science project?”

  “Yes, I saw that—I don’t miss things, Sylvia, you know I don’t miss things—”

  Well, there’s one thing you seem to be missing . . . About today? Remember, today? You know? It’s my birthday? Remember that? Huh?

  “But I’m rather concerned about the topic,” said Siobhan.

  “Astromycology is a growth subject . . .” Oh no, another giggle. Sylvia bit her lip to suppress it, bit hard. It wasn’t that kind of Mom-conversation. “You know, that’s actually quite funny, if you know the field.”

  Siobhan gave a tight smile, then shook her head. “I don’t pretend to know the ins and outs, darling. But . . .” She sighed. “It’s these mushrooms again, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes, but that’s not really the most important thing—”

  But Mom wasn’t listening. Mom, for some reason, wasn’t convinced about mycology. “I do see how good your marks are in math and science, sweetheart, but they’re not the whole of it, are they?”

  Uh-oh.

  “What do you mean?” Sylvia said carefully.

  “Well, what else is there here? If we look down the list?”

  “I did really well in literature,” Sylvia said brightly. “Like, upper tenth percentile.” She was surprised not to have gone higher there, to be honest; she’d loved The Tempest, gone out of her way to track down as many different productions as possible, including an incredible one done entirely in zero g . . . That had been something else. The problem with the term paper was that the teacher was pretty urgh, to say the least, and for some reason she hadn’t always liked Sylvia’s classroom contributions . . . She’d gotten pretty touchy in one class, now that Sylvia thought back. Something about Who exactly is the teacher here? Jeez, though, some people were so touchy . . .

  “I suppose upper tenth is fine—but, Sylvia, this mark for French is terrible!”

  Sylvia took a deep breath. She’d seen this one coming, and she’d prepared herself. “Okay, I’m not saying the mark couldn’t be better, but it’s not terrible—”

  “You live in Paris, sweetie!”

  “Only since the start of this academic year! Which is, well, it’s not even a whole year, is it, when you add up the holidays . . . And, also, I study in New York!”

  “You’ve holidayed in the Midi since . . . since before you were born!”

  “You know, there are actually several dialects spoken there—”

  “I know that, Sylvia, I lived there as a little girl.”

  “—and that really complicates things when you’re trying to improve your oral scores—”

  “Your grandmother is a native French speaker!”

  “But we talk to each other in English!” Sylvia’s voice became a wail. “It’s not my fault Granna’s English is flawless! She’s had a lot more time to practice English than I’ve had to practice French!”

  There was a pause. Sylvia swallowed. Hey, Mom, how about those birthday wishes? They’d be really nice round about now . . .

  Siobhan was folding her hands before her. Uh-oh, here we go . . .

  “The issue is, Sylvia,” said Siobhan, “that we’re working toward being the most well-rounded person that we can be.”

  Okay, so the birthday wishes definitely weren’t coming right now. “I know, Mom,” Sylvia said. Tiny voice. Really tiny voice.

  “I’ll be the first to say that a real understanding—a genuine understanding of science and mathematics is crucial for any diplomat. But that isn’t going to be enough. Sylvia, we’ve talked about this so often! If you’re going to make it in the diplomatic corps, everything matters. Everything! You can’t afford to specialize so much, so early.”

  Teeny-tiny voice. “I know, Mom.”

  “Don’t look so cross, sweetie. I’m just worrying that some things might be slipping. And we need to find out why to fix the problem.”

  The problem. I’m always a problem.

  “You’ve missed a couple of flute lessons, haven’t you?” said Siobhan.

  “I’m just finding the breathing difficult. I wish I’d stuck with the viola—”

  “You don’t get solos with a viola.”

  Not technically true, thought Sylvia, but she didn’t pipe up in defense of the viola. Sylvia had her own problems right now. The viola could take care of itself.

  “Okay,” said Siobhan. “I think I’ll need to look through these marks more carefully. You’re right, there is some good news, but there are a few things I’m a little concerned about. We might want to revisit whether this experiment of living with Granna is working out.”

  Sylvia sighed. She loved living with Granna, and Granna’s husband, Quinn. It was so much more relaxing than living with Mom. She didn’t mean that in a bad way. It just was.

  Siobhan frowned. “At the very least you could start speaking French at home.”

  Sylvia did giggle then. Poor Quinn. His French was worse than hers. Actually, that might be worth it, to watch Quinn struggle with the subjunctive.

  Siobhan looked up sharply. “I’m not joking around, Sylvia,” she said. “We’re not at red flags yet, but some of these grades are definitely heading toward amber.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Sylvia said contritely. “I wasn’t joking either . . . It was just . . .” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I really am sorry. I hear what you say, honestly I do.”

  “All right. Good. Well, like I say, I’ll go over this in more detail, and maybe you and me and Granna can sit down next week and talk through what we think is best.” Siobhan’s eyes darted away from the screen. Clearly, something else was going on in the room, and the good side of that was that she would want to stop soon and get back to work. The bad side of that was . . . Well.

  “Hey, sweetie, I have to go. I love you. I miss you. I want you to be the best you can be. Don’t forget that, darling.” Siobhan blew her a kiss. “Night, night! Don’t let the bedbugs bite!”

  The channel cut before Sylvia could answer. Mom was gone and the room was quiet. Sylvia sighed and sat for a while, hunched over the screen. She glanced at the mirror. The curl had come loose again. She gave it a listless tug. It bounced up, then fell down again. Stupid, stupid curls.

  There was a tap on the door, and Granna came in. She took one look at Sylvia’s face and frowned. “Oh dear,” said Adèle. She came to stand behind Sylvia, resting her hands upon her granddaughter’s shoulders. “Should I ask, chérie?”

  “What is there to ask? Mom was . . . Mom.”

  “Ah,” said Adèle, and pulled a face.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Sylvia lied.

  “Oh?”

  “But the thing is,” said Sylvia. “The thing is . . . that I’m never quite sure what it is I’ve done wrong. I think I’m doing okay, and I think that I’ve listened to what she had to say, but it’s never quite right . . .”

  “I know, chérie,” said Adèle, stroking the crestfallen girl’s cheek gently with her thumb. “Your mother loves you, Sylvia, she really does. I know sometimes she is very exacting. I know that her stand
ards are high. But it all comes from love. She can see how smart you are—we all can! She just wants you to excel, to be your very best self. You have so much promise, Sylvia . . .”

  “I know all that, Granna,” said Sylvia. “I really do. But . . .”

  “But what, chérie?”

  Tiny voice. Tiniest of voices. “It’s my birthday . . .”

  Her voice trailed off. Adèle’s hands tensed for a second upon her granddaughter’s shoulders. “Sylvia,” she said carefully, “did she not wish you happy birthday?”

  “I mean, it’s okay . . .” Sylvia said quickly. “I know how busy she is, and she’s got so much to remember . . . I honestly don’t mind, really I don’t—”

  “Oh, Sylvia!”

  “Honestly, Granna, it’s fine!”

  Adèle was gathering herself up. She was only five four, but what she lacked in height, she made up for in elegance, poise, and an imperious presence that a few centuries earlier would have brought the court at Versailles to its knees. “That girl! I shall have a word with her—”

  Sylvia’s heart plummeted. “Please, Granna! Please don’t do that!”

  “It’s your birthday, chérie! Sweet sixteen!”

  “And I’ve had a nice dinner with you and Quinn! Cake, candles, song, the whole kit and caboodle! And I got that mark for my science project! Granna, please don’t speak to her, please—”

  But her grandmother was already through the door. Sylvia sighed. “Sometimes,” she said, to nobody in particular, “I wish people round here could do a little less talking and a little more listening . . . I mean, it’s not that much to ask for, is it? Huh? Huh?”

  But nobody was listening. That was the problem. Nobody was darn well listening.

  Sylvia flopped back on her bed. She put on some music and soon Bowie was singing to her about the starman, and, gosh, that helped with everything, didn’t it? That made things seem a little less awful all around. She closed her eyes, and thought about life, and the universe, and everything. She thought about her science project (practical applications of pathogenic fungi), and how good it was—which was way better than any of her family realized—and how her teacher was talking about contacting a couple of experts in the field to find out exactly how good it was. Sylvia smiled. Just thinking about that project made her happier. People, they were tricky sometimes. Sometimes Sylvia couldn’t get the words out, couldn’t make herself understood. She knew she needed to work on that, along with everything else she needed to work on. But sometimes she was happier just losing herself in her studies, seeing the beautiful world that mycology revealed to her, a world where everything was patterned, and connected, and made sense . . .