by Peter David
“We are not animals,” Selar managed to say. “We are . . . intelligent, rational beings.”
“Yes,” Voltak agreed readily. He hesitated. “Your point being . . . ?”
“My point,” and she tried to remember what it was. It took her a moment. “Yes. My point is that, rather than just giving in to rutting impulses, we should . . . should . . . talk first.”
“Absolutely, yes . . . I have no problem with that.” In point of fact, Voltak looked as if he were ready to paw the ground. But instead he drew himself up, pulled together his Vulcan calm and utterly self-possessed demeanor. “What shall we talk about?”
“We shall discuss matters that are of intellectual interest. And as we do that, we can . . . introduce ourselves to the physical aspect of our relationship . . . in a calm, mature manner.”
“That sounds most reasonable, Selar.”
They sat near each other on the bed, and Voltak extended two fingers. Selar returned the gesture, her fingers against his.
It was such a simple thing, this touch. And yet it felt like a jolt of electricity had leaped between the two of them. Selar had trouble steadying her breath. This was insanity. She was a rational person, a serious and sober-minded person. It was utter lunacy that some primordial mating urge could strip from her everything that made her unique. It was . . . not logical.
“So . . . tell me, Selar,” said Voltak, sounding no more steady than Selar. “Do you feel that your . . . medical skills have been sufficiently challenged in your position on the Enterprise? Or do you feel that you might have been of . . . greater service to the common good . . . if you had remained with pure research, as I understand you originally intended to do.”
Selar nodded, trying to remember what the question had been. “I am . . . quite fulfilled, yes. I feel I made the . . . the right decision.” Her fingers slowly moved away from his and reached up, tracing the strong curve of his chin. “And . . . you . . . you spoke once of teaching, but instead have remained with . . . with fieldwork.”
He was caressing the arch of her ear, his voice rock steady . . . but not without effort. “To instruct others in the discipline of doing that which gives me the most satisfaction . . . did not appear the logical course.” He paused, then said, “Selar?”
Her voice low and throaty, she said, “Yes?”
“I do not wish . . . to talk . . . anymore.”
‘That would be . . . acceptable to me.”
Within moments—with the utmost efficiency and concern for order—they were naked with one another. He drew her to him, and his fingers touched her temples. She put her fingers to his temples as well, and their minds moved closer.
There was so much coldness in the day-to-day life of a Vulcan, so much remoteness. Yet the Vulcan mind-meld was the antithesis of the isolation provided by that prized Vulcan logic. It was as if nature and evolution had enhanced the Vulcan telepathic ability to compensate for the shields they erected around themselves. As distant as they held themselves from each other, the mind-meld enabled them to cut through defenses and drop shields more thoroughly than most other races. Thus were Vulcans a paradoxical combination of standoffish and yet intimate.
And never was that intimacy more thorough than in a couple about to mate.
They probed one another, drawn to each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Voltak felt Selar’s deep compassion, her care for all living beings masked behind a facade of Vulcan detachment, and brought it into his heart. Selar savored Voltak’s thoroughness and dedication, his insight and fascination with the past and how it might bear on the future, and she took pride in him.
And then their minds went beyond the depth already provided by the meld, deeper and deeper, and even as their bodies came together their minds, their intellects were merged. In her mind’s eye, Selar saw the two of them intertwined, impossible to discern where one left off and the other began. Her breath came in short gasps, her consciousness and control spinning away as she allowed the joy of union to overwhelm her completely . . . the joy and ecstasy and heat, the heat building in her loins, her chest . . .
. . . her chest . . .
. . . and the heat beginning to grip her, and suddenly there was something wrong, God, there was something terribly wrong . . .
. . . her chest was on fire. The euphoria, the glorious blood-frenzy of joining, were slipping away. Instead there was pain in her torso, a vise-grip on her bosom, and she couldn’t breathe.
Selar’s back arched in agony, and she gasped desperately for air, unable to pull any into her lungs, and her mind screamed at her, You’re having a heart attack! And then she heard a howl of anguish that reverberated in her body and in her soul, and she realized what was happening. It wasn’t her. It was Voltak. Voltak was having a massive coronary.
And Selar’s mind was linked into his.
She had no command over her body, over her faculties. She tried to move, to struggle, to focus. She tried desperately to push Voltak out of her mind so she could do something other than writhe in pain. But Voltak, his emotions already laid bare and raw because of the Joining, was responding to this hideous turn of events in a most un-Vulcanlike manner. He was afraid. Terrified. And because of that, rather than breaking his telepathic bond with Selar, he held on to her all the more desperately. It is impossible to convince the drowning man that the only chance he has is to toss aside the life preserver.
Calm! her mind screamed at him, calm! But Voltak was unable to find the peaceful center within him, that intellectual height from which his logic and icy demeanor could project.
And in her mind’s eye, she could see him. She could see him as if he were being surrounded by blackness, tendrils reaching out and pulling him down, far and away. Paralyzed, pain stabbing her through the chest, she didn’t know whether to reach out to him as raw emotion dictated, or try to break off as logic commanded so that she might still have a chance of saving him. She elected the latter because it was the only sane thing to do, she might still have a prayer . . .
And as she started to pull away, Selar suddenly realized her error, because Voltak called to her in her mind, My katra . . .
His soul. His Vulcan soul, all that made him what he was, his spirit, his essence. Under ordinary circumstances a mind-meld would preserve his katra and bring it to a place of honor with his ancestors. But these circumstances were far from ordinary.
To accept the katra was to accept the death of the other, and Dr. Selar was not ready or willing to accept that Voltak was beyond hope, beyond saving. She was a doctor, there were things she could do, if she could only battle past the accursed mental and physical paralysis that the mind-meld had trapped her in.
And in a fading voice she heard again, katra, and she knew that he was lost. That it was too late. Desperately Selar, who only instants earlier had been trying to pull free, reversed herself and plunged toward him. She could “see” his hand outstretched to her, and in the palm of his hand something small and glowing and precious, and she reached toward him, desperately, mental fingers outstretched, almost pulling it from his grasp, a mere second or two more to bring them sufficiently close together . . .
. . . and the blackness claimed him. Claimed him and claimed her as death closed around the two of them. Coldness cut through Selar, and for a moment the void opened to her, and she saw the other side and it was terrifying and barren to her. So much emptiness, so much desolation, so much nothingness. As life was the celebration of everything that was, there was death, the consecration of everything that wasn’t. And from the darkness, something seemed to look back at her, and reject her, pushing her away, pushing Voltak and his soul forever out of her reach, for it was too late.
His katra, his essence, his life force, extinguished as easily as a candle snuffed out by a vagrant breeze, and Selar called out over and over again in lonely agony, called out into the blackness, raged at the void, felt his death, felt the passing of his life force, clutched frantically at it as if trying to ensnare passing wisps of
smoke, and having about as much success.
No, please no, come back, come back to me . . .
But there was no one and nothing there to hear her.
And Selar felt a sudden jolt to her head even as the pain in her chest abruptly evaporated. Pulling her scattered senses together, she realized that she had fallen off the bed. She scrambled to her feet and there was Voltak, lying on the bed, eyes open, the nothingness of the void reflected in the soullessness of his eyes.
She quickly tried to minister to him, calling his name, trying to massage his heart, trying to will him back to life as if she could infuse some of her own life force into him.
And slowly . . .
. . . slowly . . .
. . . she stopped. She stopped as she realized that he was gone, and not all her efforts were going to bring him back.
She realized that her face was covered with tears. She wiped them away, composing her demeanor, pulling herself together, stitching herself back together using her training as a Vulcan and as a doctor as the thread. Her breathing returned to its normal rhythm, her pulse was restored to its natural beat, and she checked a chronometer to establish the time of death.
And Dr. Selar, as she calmly dressed, told herself that something valuable had been accomplished this day. Something far more valuable than just another mating for the purpose of propagating the race.
She had learned the true folly of allowing emotions to sweep one up, to carry one away. Oh, she had known it intellectually from studying the history of her race. But she had experienced it firsthand now, and she was the better for it. She had left herself vulnerable, allowed someone else into her psyche, into her soul. Certainly she had been dragged there by the demands of Pon farr, but she was over that now. The demands of her “rutting instinct” had cost a man—a man whom she had perhaps “loved”—not only his life, but his soul.
She would never, under any circumstance, allow herself to be ruled either by arbitrary physical demands, or by anything approaching any aspect of emotionality. She would be the perfect Vulcan, the perfect doctor. That, and only that, would be her new life’s goal. For, to Selar, states of mind such as love, tenderness, or vulnerability were more than just an embarrassment or an inconvenience. They were tantamount to death sentences. And the premier credo of medicine was that, first and foremost, the physician shall do no harm.
That was something that Selar was all too prepared to live by.
Forever.
NOW . . .
I.
THE U.S.S. ENTERPRISE 1701-E made her way through space at considerably less than her normal, brisk clip. The reason was quickly apparent to any observer, for the Enterprise was surrounded by half a dozen far smaller, less speedy ships. Ships that had only the most minimal of warp capabilities, and at least one whose warp coils had overheated and was being towed along.
Looking at the monitor screen, in regards to their entourage, Commander William Riker commented, “I feel like a mother duck.”
Data turned at this station and regarded Riker with such clear befuddlement that it was all Picard could do to keep a straight face. “Don’t say it, Data,” he pleaded, heading it off.
“ ’It,’ Captain?”
“Yes. Don’t begin inquiring as to whether Mr. Riker will begin quacking, or waddling, or laying eggs or acquiring webbing between his toes. The answer is no.”
“Very well, sir,” Data replied reasonably. “In any event, it will not be necessary, since you have already voiced all the possibilities that occurred to me.”
Picard opened his mouth again, and then closed it. Riker and Counselor Deanna Troi exchanged broad grins.
“Although,” Data added thoughtfully, “there is a slight tendency toward waddling. . . .”
Riker’s face immediately darkened. The fact that Deanna was now grinning so widely that it looked as if her face was going to split in two didn’t help matters. “Mister Data, I will have you know I do not, have never, and will never, ’waddle.’ “
“You do tend to sway when you walk, sir,” Data replied, undeterred and apparently oblivious of the imagery he was evoking. “A sort of rhythmic, side-to-side motion that could, under some conditions, be construed as—”
‘’No, it couldn’t,” Riker said sharply.
“If you would like, I can demonstrate,” Data began, half up out of his chair.
Both Riker and Picard quickly said, “No!” Surprised by the vehemence of the reaction, Data sat back down.
“That won’t be necessary,” Picard added, clearing his throat and trying to sound authoritative. “Data, I have observed Mr. Riker’s . . . gait . . . on many an occasion, and I feel utterly confident in stating that the commander does not, in fact, waddle.”
“Very well, sir,” Data said.
“Good. I’m glad that’s sett—”
“Actually, it is more of a swagger than a waddle.”
Riker began to feel a distant thudding in his temples. “I do not waddle . . . and I do not swagger . . . I just . . . walk.”
He looked to Deanna for solace and received absolutely none as she told him, “Well, actually, you do have a bit of a swagger.”
“Et tu, Deanna?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it. Actually, I’ve always considered it part of your charm. An outward display of confidence in yourself, your capabilities, and your position.”
Riker drew himself up and said serenely, “Very well. I can live with that.”
And then in a voice so low that only Riker could hear, Troi added, “Of course, that may in turn be covering up something . . . a basic lack of confidence, or perhaps insecurity with . . .”
He fired a glance at her, but before he could reply, Lieutenant Kristian Ayre at the conn glanced over his shoulder and said, “Sir, we are within range of Deep Space Five. Estimated time of arrival, twenty-two minutes.”
Thank God, thought Picard. Out loud, he simply said, “Inform them that we are within range.”
“There’s a ton of ion activity in the area,” Ayre commented after a moment more. “Thirty, maybe forty ships have passed through here within the last twenty-four hours. They must be having a lot of visitors.”
Riker glanced at Picard. “More refugees?”
“Without question,” Picard affirmed. “Matters should be fairly . . . interesting . . . upon our arrival.”
• • •
Picard had never seen a space station quite so packed. The place was bristling with ships, docked at every port. Many others were in a holding pattern. Some were in the process of switching places, taking turns so that different ships would be able to take advantage of the station facilities. The Enterprise dwarfed all the other vessels. Partly because of that, she wasn’t even able to draw near, and settled for falling into orbit around the station, well within transporter range but far enough away that there was no possible danger of collision with a smaller ship.
At tactical, Lieutenant Paige said, “Sir, I have been endeavoring to hail DS5. There’s a lot of subspace chatter, though. I’m having trouble punching through.”
“With all the ships jamming the area, I can’t say I’m surprised. The reports of the Thallonian refugee situation did not begin to approach just how comprehensive the current state of affairs is.”
“Incoming signal, sir.”
“On screen.”
The screen rippled and the image of DS5 disappeared to be replaced by a face that Picard had not been expecting. Picard found himself staring into the stony, perpetually disapproving gaze of Admiral Edward Jellico. Picard could sense Riker stiffening nearby.
Jellico’s history with the Enterprise was not exactly a happy one. He had never been a particular fan of Picard. Riker had voiced the opinion to Picard that it stemmed not from an assessment of Picard’s performance as an officer, but from Jellico’s likely jealousy of how well Picard was regarded by personnel both above and below him. Jellico had temporarily taken command of the Enterprise at one time, and he’d butted hea
ds directly with Riker the entire time.
Jellico had a reputation for efficiency and for getting the job done, but he and Picard differed on a very core, fundamental issue. Men followed Jellico because, by the chain of command, they had to. They followed Picard because they wanted to, and no amount of blustering or authoritative officiousness on the part of Jellico was going to change that.
What it boiled down to was that Jellico’s was a limited personality. He knew that he would go only so far and no further, would accomplish only so much and no more. Picard’s vistas, on the other hand, seemed potentially limitless. Jellico would never be able to forgive him for that.
Perversely, Riker took a small measure of happiness in noticing that Jellico’s already thinning blond hair was almost gone. Considering Picard’s long-standing lack of follicles, Riker wondered why that nonetheless pleased him. He chalked it off to pettiness, but was willing to live with that. He glanced at Picard and saw no flicker of change in Picard’s deadpan expression. Whatever was going through Picard’s mind in relation to Jellico, clearly he had no intention of tipping it off to any observers. As always, Picard remained the consummate poker player. He got to his feet and faced Jellico, his hands draped behind his back.
“Admiral Jellico,” Picard said evenly. “I was unaware that you were now in charge of Deep Space Five. Congratulations on your promotion and new assignment.”
Jellico did not look the least bit amused, which was fairly standard for him. He never looked the least bit amused. “This is not a new post for me, Captain,” he said, emphasizing Picard’s rank in a manner that did not indicate respect, but rather was clearly a not-so-subtle reminder of who was the captain and who was the admiral. “Although I’ve been cooling my heels here for so long that it’s beginning to seem that way. Where the hell have you been? We’ve been here for three days waiting for you.”