by Peter David
“So,” her voice was very quiet and he had to strain to hear. “You… do find me attractive?”
“Yes. Very much so.”
“And do you”—she looked up at him with hesitation that almost seemed girlish—“do you want me?”
“I—” He suddenly felt as if the temperature in the room had risen. “It is simply that … well …”
“M’k’n’zy, you act as if you’ve never been with a woman before….” Her voice trailed off as she saw his reaction.
With an annoyed grunt, he turned away. “What is it, emblazoned on my face? Has the news been circulated throughout the town? How is—”
And then he heard something that he had not expected: laughter. Gentle, floating laughter, as he turned to see that her body was shaking with mirth. Somehow it was not exactly conducive to salving his wounded ego. “I’m sure it’s very funny to you,” M’k’n’zy said sourly.
“No! No, I … I think it’s sweet!” she said.
“Sweet!”
“Yes. You were so busy fighting for the freedom of our world that you never had time for romantic entanglements. Besides, after a day of hacking and slaying, it must be difficult to be in the mood for soft words and softer women.”
He was completely astounded to hear her say that. “Yes!” he affirmed, sitting next to her on the bed. “Yes, that’s it exactly! How did you know?”
“It’s obvious. Obvious to me, at least. Don’t worry, M’k’n’zy,” she said confidently, patting his hand. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“That is … that is so kind of you,” he said, squeezing her hand in return. “I cannot begin to tell you.” Relief flooded through him and he flopped back on the bed. “I thought that you would—no, actually, I had no idea what you would say or do. I wasn’t even planning to tell you. I was just … I … I don’t know what … I just wanted …”
She lay down next to him, propping her head up with one hand. “What did you want?”
“I don’t know,” he said softly.
“You can leave if you wish. I’ll wait for D’ndai to fulfill the requirements of law. I just…” She stared down at him.
“You just what?”
“Nothing, M’k’n’zy. It really doesn’t matter.”
He looked up into her face. She was quite lovely, really. And there was a mixture of sadness and resolution that reminded him, in many ways, of himself. “Catrine,” he said slowly, “I do not … anticipate remaining on this world. I am seriously considering leaving Xenex. I am thinking of going far, far away. You’ve had such great loss, such great sadness. You deserve so much more than I can give, I think. You deserve more than simply what the law dictates. You deserve a man to be with you, to wake up next to you, to care for you. If you wait, I’m sure that man will come to you. If we did what you ask now, then—”
“Then I would have your baby. A baby who, I can only hope, will grow up to be as strong, as brave, as determined, and good as his or her father.”
“But you should have a mate to—”
“You do not understand, M’k’n’zy. I’m not looking for such a man. My dear, lost husband… he was a good man. He was my soul mate. Perhaps someday in the far, far future I may be ready for another, but I do not envision such a time. But I am ready for a child now. A child to love, to raise in the teachings of Xenex.”
“Catrine, I—”
She leaned over and her lips brushed tentatively against his. When he did not resist, she kissed him more thoroughly. The kiss was like a fine wine, sweet and bringing warmth to him. His hands, seemingly of their own accord, were running along her body, tracing the curves of her hips. Slowly she undid the front of his shirt and looked at his chest. She saw scars, bruises all over his torso, and she traced the line of one of the scars across his left breast.
“Sword slipped past my guard. Grazed me,” he said, and he was surprised how choked his voice sounded.
“So many scars. So much fighting,” she sighed as she gazed into his face. “How much death have these eyes seen?”
“Too much,” he admitted. “Far too much.”
“Tell me, M’k’n’zy of Calhoun, would it not be nice for a man who has seen so much death, slain so many people … would it not be proper and just and honorable if, the very first time you made love, it was for the purpose of putting a life back into the world?”
She kissed him on the throat and he sighed, his body trembling. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, it… it would.”
He somewhat lost track of what happened after that. He knew that her simple white shift had fallen to the floor, and his own clothes soon joined them there. She was gentle with him, and loving, and any fears he had over being unable to perform were quickly left far, far behind, along with the concerns of the real world.
She moved atop him, her face smiling down at him, and he was lost in the beauty and glory that was Catrine. Even though the goal was a straightforward one, she managed to prolong the moment, the heat building within him but not finding release until she was ready to let it go. And when she finally did, and he exploded into her …
He was silent. There was no outcry, no shout of joy. Nothing but complete and utter silence. Even in a moment of total ecstasy, M’k’n’zy could not completely let go. Catrine was struck by it as he sagged beneath her, spent and quiet, so very quiet. She touched the side of his face. “Did you… enjoy it, M’k’n’zy?”
He smiled ruefully. His breath was coming in slow, ragged gasps as he said, “You have to … remember who you’re talking to.”
“I don’t understand.”
And she was astounded to see a single tear roll down his cheek as he said, “I enjoyed it more than anything else… that doesn’t involve killing an enemy. Do you understand now?”
Slowly she nodded and wiped away the tear. She brought the wet finger to her mouth and tasted it. Then she slid off him and lay next to him, her arm draped across his chest, her head on his shoulder. “Can we stay like this for a time?”
He nodded almost imperceptibly and she drew against him. Even though it was early evening, and the sun had only just drawn below the horizon, Catrine nonetheless fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.
When she awoke six hours later, he was gone. The side of the bed he’d been lying on was cool to the touch. Catrine turned over to face away from “his” side of the bed, as she would continue to do for the rest of her days, and ever so softly cried herself back to sleep.
NOW …
I
IN THE STARKNESS OF HER ROOM, Selar twisted and turned on her bed, the single sheet becoming completely ensnarled around her naked body. Sweat was pouring from her, even though the climate control for her quarters did a more than adequate job of duplicating the arid, dry-heat environment of her native Vulcan. Several times during the night she woke up, crying out the name of Voltak, her late husband, and then she would lapse back into her fitful sleep.
An assortment of images tumbled through her mind. She would relive the night of their mating, the horrible circumstance in which a heart attack took Voltak from her while they were in the throes of Pon Farr. She would see his face, floating away into the void. And then she would see another face, a curiously angled face with a smile that bordered on a smirk, and two-tone blond hair cut low to the scalp. It was the face of Burgoyne 172, the Hermat chief engineer who had taken a fancy to Selar and made several impassioned overtures before Selar had made it clear that she simply wasn’t inclined to sate the demands of Pon Farr with the odd Hermat. But Selar had changed her mind, only to spot Burgoyne arm-in-arm with astronavigator Mark McHenry, heading off to what was clearly an assignation. This left Selar high and dry… and mightily frustrated.
Burgoyne was smiling at her, hish fangs peeping out from under hish lips. And then Burgoyne reached out with hish long, tapered fingers, and Selar saw herself, her arms reaching out toward Burgoyne. Burgoyne reached for her.
And there was a high-pitched beep.
The sound rep
eated itself, and it was enough to jostle Selar to wakefulness. Sitting up quickly, she misjudged her position and rolled off the bed, crashing to the floor with a rather loud thud. She lay there, entangled in the bedsheet, musing over the rather odd situation that had brought her to this particular sequence of events. Then, in the darkness, her brain fully cleared and she responded via voice prompt. “Computer, Selar here,” she said, her voice so casual that it never would have betrayed the fact that she was lying on the floor, naked and tangled up in a sheet.
“Doctor,” came the concerned voice of Doctor Maxwell. “Are you all right?”
“I am in perfect health, Doctor. Why are you inquiring?”
“Because you’re over an hour late for your shift, and, well … that’s unlike you.”
That explained why Maxwell had paged her via her comm badge rather than patch directly to her quarters. He’d assumed that she was already out and about, since Selar never slept late. Selar checked the chronometer on the wall. Had she been human, she would have moaned to herself, or jumped up in a panic. “I… appreciate the summons, Doctor. I shall be along shortly.” “Take your time, Doctor,” Maxwell’s reassuring voice came. “Things are somewhat quiet here, for a change of pace.”
“Indeed. You are saying, then, that I am not needed.”
There was something in her tone of voice that clearly was puzzling to Maxwell, but he endeavored not to let it show. He was only partly successful. “We can always use your guidance, Doctor. You are the CMO, after all.”
“The thought is appreciated, Doctor, as is the half-hearted argument regarding my indispensability.” She paused, and then her thoughts began to drift, because she was feeling the building of the warmth once more. It seemed to have its origins in her loins and in her heart, and the two radiated outward, the circles of sensation intersecting within her. Something within her snapped her attention back to the fact that she had an open comm link and a puzzled doctor at the other end. “I will be some time more, Doctor, if, as you say, all is calm. I have a meeting I must attend to.”
“Not a problem, Doctor. Sickbay out.”
Once again she had nothing but the silence of the room. For some reason, she fancied that she could hear distant wind chimes, and sense a warm desert breeze sweeping over her. Something had to be done about the Pon Farr. She had a plan; her research had been very beneficial in that matter. Now it was just a matter of summoning up her courage and doing what needed to be done. She had hoped she would be able to wait … wait indefinitely if need be. But that didn’t seem to be an option. Nor was returning to Vulcan much of a solution either. For one thing, finding a Vulcan male in the right state of Pon Farr was possible but difficult in the time she had left. She could hardly just announce her need on the Vulcan planetary internet, and discreet inquiries took time. Besides, a choice of mate on availibility alone would hardly be logical. Selar still retained enough of her logic to know that. She would at least choose a highly qualified father for her child.
No, she knew what she was going to do—what she had to do.
She dressed as quickly as she could, annoyed that her fingers were trembling slightly, thereby making it difficult for her to put her uniform on with efficiency. She glanced once in the mirror and turned away as quickly as she could from what she saw. She stumbled towards the door of her quarters…
… and it didn’t open.
She stepped back, looked at the door as if to wonder whether anything on the vessel was going to go right for her this day, and tapped her comm badge. “Selar to Ops. We seem to have a maintenance problem with the door to my quarters.”
“We’re aware of that, Doctor,” came Lefler’s voice. “It’s not just you. Engineering has some systems glitches they’re trying to lock down. Doors all over the ship are opening by themselves or not opening when they’re supposed to.”
“Including turbo lifts?” asked Selar.
“No, thank God. Just doors. Burogyne estimates another hour or so before they’ve got it cleared up…”
Selar tensed inwardly at the mention of Burgoyne’s name. At that moment, the door to her quarters slid open, even though she was standing two feet away. “The door is open; apparently I have been liberated.”
“We’ll keep working on it. Ops out.”
Selar headed out, relieved to be out of her quarters and away from the face she’d seen in the mirror. A face that she barely recognized as hers. One that seemed to have more ties to Vulcans of the past, with that burning and smoldering savagery, than anything that she vaguely related to her modern-day perception of her race.
A face burned in her mind, one that had not appeared in any of her dreams. And she was going to go to that person and have her situation attended to.
Or else she was going to die.
II
“THE GREAT BIRD OF THE GALAXY.”
Admiral Edward Jellico’s face, incredulity written in large letters all over it, glared disbelievingly out from the comm screen at Mackenzie Calhoun and Elizabeth Paula Shelby, who were seated in the conference lounge in apparently relaxed fashion. Jellico’s tone of voice came as absolutely no surprise to Shelby; she’d had a sneaking suspicion what he was going to say before he said it. She could see the nice view Jellico had outside his window at Starfleet headquarters: the Golden Gate Bridge, the occasional shuttle floating past. It seemed pleasant enough, and yet she wondered how he managed to tolerate it. If Shelby didn’t have stars to look out at, she was certain she would go completely mad.
“The Great Bird of the Galaxy?” he said again.
“Yes, Admiral, that’s correct,” Calhoun said.
“You’re telling me,” Jellico leaned forward as if somehow that would bring him closer to the captain of the Excalibur, “that the entire planet of Thallon was smashed apart by a giant flaming bird, clawing its way out to freedom, and that it then flew away to who-knows-where?”
“I find it hard to believe myself, but yes, Admiral, that’s essentially what I’m saying.”
“Captain Calhoun, what do you take me for? Calhoun … Shelby,” Jellico began again with an air of forced patience, “I know you don’t think much of me—”
“That’s not true, sir,” Shelby assured him.
“Absolutely not,” agreed Calhoun. In point of fact, Calhoun thought, we actually don’t think of you at all.
Calhoun reached down subtly to rub his right shin where Shelby had just kicked him under the table. He fired an annoyed look at her, and blocked his mouth from Jellico’s view with one hand as he murmured, “Striking a superior officer?”
Shelby reached up to scratch the back of her neck, shielding her face from Jellico’s view long enough to mutter back, “If you want to stay a superior officer, don’t say whatever it is you’re thinking.” Without waiting for him to respond, she turned to Jellico and said, “Admiral, how you are viewed or not viewed by the command personnel of the Excalibur has nothing to do with the matter at hand. The ship’s log, the science log, even our visual records, all confirm what it was that we saw.”
“Visual records can be arranged, Commander. To imply that seeing is necessarily believing is a charmingly antiquated notion that hasn’t had a shred of truth to it in about four centuries now.”
“Granted, Admiral, but the fact remains: Somehow this creature burrowed into the heart of the planet Thallon, and provided the energy-rich resources which enabled the Thallonians to become the dominant world that they grew into. It was the creature’s imminent… hatching, if you will … that caused the drain of power, the destruction of the world, and the fall of the Thallonian Empire.”
“Commander,” Jellico said patiently, “empires fall because of any number of things. Economic collapse. Political infighting. Inbreeding causing a downward spiral in the quality of its rulers. Empires do not fall because giant flaming birds smash the home world to bits!”
“Well…” Shelby paused, looked to Calhoun, who shrugged. She turned back to Jellico. “Not as a rule …”
“Commander—”
“Admiral, be reasonable. Do you really think someone would go to all this effort just for the purpose of perpetrating some sort of massive hoax on you? With all due respect—”
“There’s that phrase again,” sighed Jellico. “The one that always precedes something said with a total lack of respect.”
“With all due respect,” Shelby said more forcefully, “doesn’t that sound like an odd view of the galaxy? I mean, really now. Ship’s log, science log… all to pull a joke on us?”
“Or perhaps to cover up some sort of—”
“Of what?” Calhoun now cut in, and the veneer of affable amusement, and even faint condescension, was gone. “May I ask, Admiral, what you are implying?”
“May I ask, Captain, what you are inferring?” countered Jellico.
“I am inferring,” replied Calhoun, “that you think there may have been some sort of sloppiness on my part, and that the report we’ve given you was constructed—in all its outrageousness—to fool us. And that we fell for it. And if that is the case, Admiral,” and his voice lowered in a tone that bordered on deadly, “then I am going to have to ask you to apologize.”
“Apologize to you, Captain?” asked Jellico with clear skepticism.
“No, Admiral. To be perfectly blunt—”
“As if that were a change of pace.”
“I couldn’t give a damn what you think of me,” continued Calhoun as if Jellico hadn’t spoken. “But Elizabeth Shelby is one of the most capable humans I’ve ever known.”
“Captain, this isn’t necessary,” Shelby tried to say.
But he ignored her and continued. “The notion that she would fail to see through any hoax is, frankly, insulting. And if you do not retract that statement, then I shall file a formal complaint with Starfleet Command.”
“What ‘statement,’ Captain?” replied Jellico. “You’re asking me to retract an inference that you yourself made. I am simply saying that I find this report of your activities in Sector 221-G, formerly known as Thallonian space, to be somewhat … dubious.”