Star Trek: New Frontier: Books 1-4

by Peter David

  "And then my attention was drawn by one fellow seated over in a corner. A Terran, by the look of him, with hair silver as a crescent moon."

  "You are attracted to him, no doubt," said Selar dryly.

  "No, actually. He was a bit old for my tastes. But I was interested in him, for he seemed to be watching everything without any interest in participating. Furthermore he was wearing—believe it or not—a Starfleet uniform that hasn't been issued in years. A costume, I figured. I asked the bartender about him, and apparently he'd simply wandered in one day some weeks previously and just—I don't know— taken up residence there. He hardly ever left. So I went over and chatted with him. Asked him what he was doing there. He told me he was 'reliving old times,' as he put it. Remembering friends long gone, times left behind. He was reticent at first, but I got him talking. I have a knack for doing that."

  "Indeed."

  "Yes. And he seemed particularly intrigued when

  I told him I was an engineer. He claimed that he was as well. Claimed, in fact, that he wrote the book on engineering."

  "A man with drinks in him will claim a great many things when he seeks the attention of a pretty face," observed Selar.

  Burgoyne was about to continue when s/he paused a moment and, with a grin, said, "Are you saying you think I have a pretty face?"

  "I am saying that, with sufficient intoxication, anyone may seem attractive," replied Selar. "You were saying—?"

  "Yes, well. . . as I said, he boasted of a great many things. Sufficiently intoxicated, as you noted. Came up with the most insane boasts. Said he was over a hundred and fifty years old, that he served with Captain Kirk . . . all manner of absurd notions. And he also had no patience at all for—how did he put it—?" And Burgoyne made a passable attempt at imitating a Scots brogue as s/he growled, " The wretched brew what passes for a man's drink in this godforsaken century.' He was drinking this," and Burgoyne tapped the glass of brown liquid.

  "That very drink?"

  "Not this specific one, of course. It was two years ago, remember. But he seemed to have a somewhat endless supply of it. We seemed to communicate quite well with one another. At first, I believe, he took me for a standard-issue female, and he openly flirted with me. When I informed him of the Hermat race and our dual gender, at first he seemed amazed and then he just laughed and said," and again Burgoyne copied the brogue, "'Ach, I would have loved to set up Captain Kirk with one of ye on a blind date. There would have been some tales to tell about that one.'" Burgoyne paused and then added, by way of explanation, "There are some who find our dual sex disturbing."

  "Is that a fact," said Selar noncommittally.

  "Yes." Burgoyne swirled hish drink around in the glass. "Tell me, Doctor . . . are you among them?"

  "Not at all. I find you disturbing." Burgoyne's smile displayed hish fangs. "I'll take that as a compliment," s/he said.

  "As you wish."

  "So anyway, the Terran offered me some of what he was drinking, and I tried it, and I swear to you I thought that it was going to peel the skin off the inside of my throat. I quickly realized that he was right: The stuff they've gotten us accustomed to in Starfleet is nothing compared to genuine Earth alcohol. Hell, even Hermat beverages pale in comparison to," and s/he rubbed the glass affectionately, "good ol' Scots whiskey. He told me if I had any intention of being a genuine engineer, that I should be able to drink him under the table. So I matched him drink for drink."

  "And did you succeed? In drinking him under the table, I mean."

  "Are you kidding?" Burgoyne laughed. "The last thing I remember was his smiling face turning at about a forty-five-degree angle . . . or at least that's what it seemed like before I hit the floor. But before that happened, I really let him have it."

  "'Have it'?"

  "I told him that I thought he was being gutless. That he was sitting in this pub hiding from the rest of the galaxy, when he could be out accomplishing amazing things. That he might be telling himself that he was being nostalgic, but in fact he was just being gutless," and s/he tapped one long finger on the table three times to emphasize the last three words. Then s/he winced slightly and said, "At least I think that's what I told him. It got a little fuzzy there at the end. When I came to, I was in a back room at the pub with all sorts of debauchery and perversity going on all around me. Reminded me of home, actually. And I found that he'd left me something: a bottle of Scotch, and a message scribbled on the label of the bottle. And the message was exactly two words long: He'd written, 'You're right.'"

  " 'You're right.' That was the message in its entirety."

  "The whole thing, yes. Never saw him again, but I can only assume that he decided to get back out to where he belonged."

  "And where would that be?"

  "Damned if I know." Burgoyne leaned forward. "Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Doctor?"

  "Oh. Well. . . not really, no. I had simply assumed that this was a long and fairly pointless

  narrative. Why? Is there something to this story beyond that?" "What I'm saying, Selar, is that we shouldn't be afraid to try new things. We Hermats have our . . . unusual anatomical quirks. But—"

  She put up a hand. "Lieutenant Commander . . ."

  "An unwieldy title. I prefer Burgoyne from you."

  "Very well. Commander Burgoyne . . . despite a valiant endeavor, this conversation is not proceeding in substantially different fashion than our previous one. I am not interested in you."

  "Yes, you are. You simply don't know it yet."

  "May I ask how you have come to this intriguing, albeit it entirely erroneous, conclusion?"

  "All right. . . but only if you promise to keep it between us."

  She pushed the drink of Scotch several inches away from her as she said, "I assure you, Chief Burgoyne . . . nothing will give me greater personal satisfaction than knowing that this conversation will go no further than this table."

  S/he leaned forward conspiratorially and gestured that Selar should get closer to hir. With a soft sigh, Selar did as Burgoyne indicated, and the Hermat said in such a low voice that even the acute hearing of the Vulcan could barely hear hir:

  "Pheromones," whispered Burgoyne.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Pheromones. Hermats can detect an elevated pheromone level in most races. It's a gift. It cues us to rising sexual interest and excitement."

  "I see. And you're detecting an elevated pheromone level in me."

  "That is precisely right," Burgoyne said with such confidence that even the unflappable Selar felt a bit disconcerted. "You're becoming sexually excited. . . more so when you're with me, I like to think, although that may simply be wishful thinking on my part. I have always been something of a romantic."

  "Commander . . . I am certain that you are quite good at your job . . ."

  "I am."

  "But you are unfamiliar with Vulcan biology. It is . . ." And then she caught herself, surprise flooding through her mind. She had been about to discuss such delicate and personal matters as with an off worlder. What was she thinking? Why was she having trouble prioritizing? ". . . it is impossible that I would be interested in you, in any event."

  "Impossible why?"

  "I cannot go into it."

  Burgoyne leaned forward with a look of genuine curiosity on hish face. "Why can't you go into it?"

  "I cannot," Selar said, her voice rising a bit more than she would have thought appropriate. The volume of her response didn't quite penetrate.

  "Look, at the very least, I'd like to be your friend. If there's some problem that—"

  And Selar was suddenly on her feet, and her response was a roar of fury. " I said I cannot go into it! What part of 'cannot' did you not comprehend?!"

  The silence was instantaneous throughout the Team Room. Selar had managed, with no effort at all, to focus all attention in the room on herself. It was hardly a position that she desired to be in. Slowly her gaze surveyed the Team Room. Fighting to recapture her normal
tone of voice, she asked, "May I assume you have something of greater importance on your minds than me?"

  The crewmen needed no further urging to return to their respective conversations, although there were assorted quick glances in Selar's direction.

  Automatically she put her hand to the underside of her throat. Her pulse was racing. The sounds of the room suddenly seemed magnified. Her temper had flared with Burgoyne, and although s/he might be one of the more irritating individuals that Selar had ever met, s/he was hardly enough to warrant the Vulcan tossing aside years of training and indulging in an emotional outburst.

  "I have to go," she said, exerting her magnificent control over herself.

  All flirtation, all smugness, was gone from Burgoyne. Instead s/he took Selar's hand firmly in hish own. Selar tried halfheartedly to pull clear, but Burgoyne's grip was surprisingly strong. Belatedly Selar remembered that Hermats had physical strength approximately two and a half times Earth norm. "Selar . . . if nothing else, we're fellow officers. If a fellow officer is in trouble, I'll do everything I can to alleviate that trouble. Whatever is wrong with you, I want to help."

  "I do not need help. I merely need to be left alone. Thank you." And she exited as quickly as she could from the Team Room. This left everyone staring in confusion at Burgoyne. Burgoyne, for hish part, merely raised a glass. "May the Great Bird of the Galaxy roost on your planets," s/he said to the collective Team Room. S/he finished off the contents of hish glass and then, with a shrug, s/he reached over, picked up Selar's glass, and knocked that back, too.

  Selar ran as quickly as she could down the Excalibur corridors. Twice she almost knocked over passing crewmen before she made it to sickbay. Upon seeing her return, Dr. Maxwell promptly proceeded to give her a quick precis on the status of the four dozen passengers from the Cambon. But before he could get out more than a sentence, she cut him off with a sharp gesture.

  "Is there anything wrong, Doctor?" asked Maxwell, now clearly concerned about the condition of the chief medical officer. "Any problem that I can help with?"

  "I am fine," she replied in a less-than-convincing manner.

  "Are you sure? You seem rather flushed. Is there a—"

  "Are you an expert on Vulcan physiology?" Selar demanded.

  "No . . . no, not an expert per se, although I'm certainly well versed in—"

  "Well, I am an expert, Doctor," she shot back. "I have been living inside my particuler vucan physi ology for quite some time now, and I assure you that I am in perfect health."

  "With all due respect, Doctor, I don't know as I'dagree."

  "With all due respect to you, Doctor, your agreement or lack thereof is of no relevance to me whatsoever." And with that she stalked quickly to her office, locking the door behind her to guarantee privacy.

  She had no desire to subject herself to a medical scan in sickbay in full view of every one of her staff and technicians. She had no particular concern over the privacy of other crew members when it came to getting physicals or having problems attended to. But now that it was she herself who was in question, her right to privacy had assumed paramount importance. It was ironic, and yet an irony that she was not exactly in any condition to truly appreciate.

  She opened an equipment compartment in the wall and extracted a medical tricorder. Adjusting it for herself, she began to take readings.

  Pulse, heartbeat, respiration . . . everything was elevated. Moreover, she was having trouble focusing on anything.

  Selar reached deep into herself. A calm, cool center of logic was drilled into Vulcans at such an early age that it became utterly ingrained into their nature. Yet Selar was having to relive that training, finding that cool center and tapping into it. Her body, her system, was entirely at the command of her mind and she would force it to obey her commands. Slowly she quieted her hurried breathing. She cleared away every noise, every distraction, until she could hear the accelerated beating of her own heart. She slowed it, bit by bit, replacing the dim red haze which seemed to have taken hold of her with a sedate, serene blue.

  She thought back to her first days at the Academy, the first time that she had encountered the Academy pool. Such things were virtually unknown on Vulcan, an arid planet with a steady red sky and a sun so searing that Vulcans had even developed an inner eyelid to shield themselves against its effects. The pool might well have been an alien artifact; indeed, in many ways it was to her.

  Clad in a bathing suit, she had stood on the edge of the pool, dipping a toe into it, unsure of what to do. Every logical bone in her body had told her that there was nothing to fear. That fear was besides the point, as it so often was. And yet she could not bring herself to ease herself into the water . . . until the decision had been taken out of her hands when a passing cadet named Finnegan had thought it the height of hilarity to shove her from behind into the pool. She had fallen feet-first into the deep end of the pool. . . and proceeded to drown, since naturally people who are born on a desert planet have absolutely no idea how to swim. The selfsame Finnegan, chagrined, had immediately leaped into the water and pulled out the sputtering Vulcan.

  But Selar had taken that first unpleasant experience as a challenge, and every day found her at the pool until she was as good a swimmer as anyone at the Academy. Many was the time where she would simply float in the water, arms outstretched, bobbing with the gentle lapping of the water.

  Now she was projecting herself back to that time. She imagined herself floating, floating ever so gently, buoyed as if by lapping waves. Bit by bit, she fashioned her recollections of the Academy pool into a place of escape. The rest of the world, her worries, her concerns, her uncharacteristic confusion, all melted away as she bobbed in the water with no distractions. She felt her composure returning to her, her ineffable logic controlling her actions once more. Whatever was happening to her, it was nothing that she couldn't control. Nothing that. . .

  "Hi," said a voice. And there, swimming past her in a tight bathing suit that accentuated hish firm breasts, hish curvaceous hips, and also what seemed an impressive male endowment, was Burgoyne.

  Selar snapped forward in her chair, the pool vanishing along with the Hermat intruder. She looked around and found herself, of course, still in her office. A quick scan with the medical tricorder told her that her bioreadings were back to normal. But the image of Burgoyne was solidly rooted in her mind.

  She leaned forward toward her computer terminal and said, "Computer."

  "Working."

  "Personal medical log, Stardate 50926.2 . . ."

  There was a pause, sufficiently long enough for the computer to prompt, "Waiting for entry."

  Selar could only think of one thing to say, Five words that summarized her present situation with simple eloquence.

  "I am in big trouble," she said.

  KEBRON

  IV.

  "HOW MUCH TROUBLE would you say we're in, precisely?" Si Cwan asked in a low, tense voice.

  "A good deal," replied Zak Kebron.

  Between them they had precisely one phaser, the sidearm that Kebron habitually carried whenever embarking on any sort of mission. They'd had no time to grab anything else off the shuttle before the unfortunate ship had blown up.

  The science vessel was not terribly large—only eight decks deep—and it was one of the oldest models of such ships. Stairs or ladders between decks instead of turbolifts, and flooring made of grated metal that made a hellacious racket whenever Kebron, in particular, walked on it. Moreover the lighting was dim. Whether it was because they were on battery backup, or had deliberately made it that way just to throw off Kebron and Si Cwan, was impossible to say.

  They hunched in a corner as best they could, considering Si Cwan's height and that Kebron wasn't exactly built for hunching. "This is insane," muttered Si Cwan. "Why did they shoot at us?"

  "When you're trying to kill someone, that's usually a reliable method."

  "But why were they trying to kill us?"

  "Immaterial. The f
act of it is all we need to deal with." From the shadows that surrounded them, he was surveying the area as thoroughly as he could,

  "We need a plan," Si Cwan said urgently.

  Kebron appeared to consider it a moment, and then he said simply, "Survival."

  "That's obvious. Are you being deliberately obtuse, Kebron? Our lives are at stake . . ."

  Kebron glared at him, and there was extreme danger in those eyes, glittering against the dusky brown skin. "Our lives are at stake because you insisted on trying to rescue your sister. Do not forget that."

  "Of course not. Now that we've properly assigned the blame, can we deal with the problem at hand?" Si Cwan waited, but the only response he got was a grunt. Taking that to be a "yes," he considered the situation a moment and then said, "I say we should split up."

  "And I say you're a fool," replied Kebron.

  "Why? We're less of a target that way."

  Kebron scowled at him. "Look at me. Look at you. Look at our size and build. Singly or together, we're targets. Individually, neither of us can watch each other's backs."

  "As if you'd watch my back," Si Cwan snorted disdainfully. "Good luck to you, Kebron. I'll take my chances." He started to move out of the shadows, and suddenly he felt Kebron's powerful hand clamp on his shoulder. Before he could utter so much as a word of protest, Kebron had hauled him back and slammed him into the wall behind them. It shuddered slightly with the impact.

  "You're not a prince here, Cwan," Kebron said tightly. "You're not a lord. You will do what I say, when I say it, or so help me I'll crush your head with my bare hands and save whoever's out to get us the trouble. Do we understand each other?"

  There were a hundred responses that Si Cwan wanted to make, but he choked them all down . . . which wasn't especially difficult, since he was choking from the grip that Kebron had on him. So all he managed to get out was a very hoarse whisper of, "Perfectly."