Kirk loved sunset almost as much as he loved the dawn. The sky was a faultless shade of blue, the clear frozen colour reminding him of a certain seventeen- no, eighteen, as of three weeks ago- year-old's eyes. The few clouds that marred the void were luminous threads of pale gold and white as fine as spider silk, deepening in the west and blazing with retina-searing orange. The world was beautiful, the city of San Francisco set aflame and dazzling, the air bracingly cold; it was the cusp of the New Year, according to Earth's solar calendar and Western tradition, and to Kirk that meant one thing.
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