Russ had zero in the way of ideas.
Damned if I don't...
Because she certainly couldn't do anything. Through the grey fog of her astral state, Russ observed the entire course of her past-self, spilling into a future-self, onward to a very dead-self.
Decades or perhaps a century later, and The Storm extinguished most of the remaining population. Without a push for another mission, a cure was never found.
Russ remained in the astral plane on Earth. Eons spun by as nature reclaimed houses, cities, and continents. Greenery invaded, choking out the dying humans.
She toyed with returning to the S.S. Delaney. Intuition warned her that there'd be no return ticket. Passing through the anomaly had been a one way deal.
If only I could go back. Fix things.
This yearning was her constant. She ached to return to a time before, when she hadn't failed. Sometimes, she held on tightly to the thought, and a flicker of a pull shivered through her. Then, it dispelled as quickly as it had come.
In her despair, Russ drew on Genly's training sessions:
"Your mind is the vehicle, and it will take you where you want to go."
If she could picture locations in her mind, and then appear there, perhaps she could traverse time in a similar fashion. But she wouldn't know until she tried. And she might not end up when she wanted to be.
Like all those years ago, when she had played Observation with Genly; they couldn't know for sure what was in the box until they looked. Unless what was in the box was always there, waiting to be seen, or ever-changing depending on who or when someone looked.
I need a plan.
So began her blueprint for disruption.
~*~
Under the waning light of a sunset over an overgrown metropolis, Russ focused the vehicle:
I'm in control.
to carry her to when she wanted.
There was a pop, then a sudden displacement of light and sound.
Checking her new surroundings, Russ noticed the artificial light of electricity (that she hadn't known she'd missed), and a brunette beauty tapping on a keyboard. She wore a loose-fitting blouse and slacks, much different from the hiking gear Russ had last spotted her in.
Chabon laughed at something she'd typed, then shook her head at the screen. She seemed relaxed. Happy.
It was too bad, Russ could admit. But the damage was as necessary as it was unavoidable. Still, Russ thought if she stuck around much longer, she'd lose her nerve. Chabon was the first person she'd seen for ages. Her approachable persona had to be part of the appeal for Forster. Not that it would last for long.
I'm in control.
Russ envisioned her objective, and felt small tendrils snake out and slither into Chabon's head.
Once buried inside, she planted the terrible seed, the rumor she had heard in the tabloids and from other crew during training:
Chabon favored other men. Emphasis on the plural.
Chabon's current demeanor shifted. Her face scrunched up, and relaxed. Then, she grabbed her interface and began chatting up an old boyfriend. Her work and husband were at the back of her mind.
The path Chabon had been forced on would alienate her daughter, and draw great resentment from her husband.
But Chabon would go on, because an urge inside would drive her to do so.