Excalibur #2: Renaissance

by Peter David

  “Ah. My point was sufficiently obvious, then.” She smiled. “Nothing like that happened, Robin. More’s the pity, actually . . . I wouldn’t mind. . . .”

  “I’m not listening to this.”

  “We talked, Robin. We talked. And later . . . well, there are three different dance clubs here. You should try one.”

  “Really.” Robin flopped down on the edge of the bed. “And who, exactly, do you suggest that I go dancing with, Mother?”

  “I don’t know. Find someone.”

  “That’s not what this was supposed to be about, Mother. This was supposed to be about you and me, finding each other. Not you finding someone and me finding someone.”

  “But don’t you see?” said Morgan. “If you found someone, then we would have something to talk about together. It would be like . . . like being teenagers together. All right, granted, I’d be working from very distant memory in my case.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Robin said tartly. “Considering the way you’ve been behaving, I’d say you’ve got the hang of it well enough.”

  For a moment Morgan’s dark eyes flashed in anger, but then comprehension and compassion superseded. “I’ve disappointed you, haven’t I?” she said.

  “Oh, how could you tell?” Robin still sounded annoyed, but felt a little bit less so since it appeared that her mother was actually starting to understand.

  Morgan sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Robin,” she said. She sat up and ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair. “Look, believe it or not, it’s just . . . been quite a while since any man paid attention to me the way Scotty does. And here’s the really funny thing: I thought I didn’t care. I thought I was beyond that. I thought that if another man never gave me the time of day, it would be perfectly fine with me. I didn’t want it, I didn’t need it. . . .” She laughed softly to herself, clearly amused by it. “It just goes to prove that, no matter how long you live, you always have things to learn. You know what, Robin? I won’t spend any more time with him.”

  “Mother, no . . .”

  “It’s okay. It’ll be fine. I’ll explain to him that—”

  “That what?” Robin asked. “That your grown daughter was acting like a spoiled child? ‘Mommy, Mommy, pay attention to me!’ How foolish would that sound? How foolish would that actually be? Because that’s really the truth of it, and we both know it.”

  “Well, yes, it is, but I want to be respectful of your feelings.”

  “And I should be respectful of yours, Mom. I mean . . . oh, hell, the whole thing with you and Scotty is only part of the problem.”

  “Really? And what’s the rest of the problem?”

  Robin smiled wryly, as if she were confessing a major sin. “I like this place.”

  “No!” Morgan gasped in mock-horror and put her hand to her breast as if to calm the rapid beating of her shocked heart. “Oh, my dear lord, we have to get you out of here immediately before you start having fun!”

  “Okay, okay,” laughed Robin. “I guess I deserved that. It’s just that . . . well, Risa, as you know, wasn’t exactly my idea of a fun place. It wasn’t what I wanted to do. But I’ve been walking around, and, you know . . . everyone here is having a good time except me. The beaches are crowded, and the surf created by the water generators moves in and out steadily. The restaurants are superb. There’s a zoo, did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Animals from worlds even I’ve never been to, living in exact replications of their own habitats. And I . . .” She looked chagrined. “I went on the fly-into-the-sun ride.”

  “Oh, Robin, you didn’t!” The words sounded severe, but there was nothing except amusement in her voice.

  “I did. God help me, I did. And I screamed in ‘terror.’ It was incredible. I really felt like I was right in the middle of a solar core, and for one moment . . .” She dropped her voice conspiratorially. “For one moment, I actually felt as if it was the end. That there was some sort of malfunction, and we really were going to be incinerated. I thought we were all dead, and suddenly we ‘came out the other side,’ and . . . well, it was just remarkable. At some point, I’ll probably try out the black-hole ride.”

  “So what are you saying, Robin?”

  “I’m saying that you’re obviously enjoying things your way, and rather than complain about that, I’m just going to start enjoying them my way. You said yourself there were archaeological dig sites. I think I’ll check out a few of them. See what’s there, experience them for myself. I’ll camp out a night or two. That way you won’t have to be out and feeling guilty about me sitting here by myself.”

  “Oh, Robin, you’re wrong—”

  “Now, Mother, I’m certain that my getting off by myself for a day or two wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

  “Oh, I’m not disputing that,” Morgan said flatly. “I was just saying you’re wrong if you thought I was feeling guilty. I was off having too much of a good time to feel guilty for so much as a microsecond.”

  “Oh.” Robin smiled wanly. “Well . . . thank you for clearing that up, Mother.”

  SELAR

  SHE WAS NOT EXPECTING to see Burgoyne sitting there in her outer office. And yet, somehow, she was not the least bit shocked. Selar had known that, sooner or later, s/he would be there. In fact, all the times she had envisioned exactly this moment, it had occurred precisely like this. Odd how some things in life were truly as predictable as all that.

  Burgoyne was standing, but did not approach her. S/he looked surprisingly at ease. “You don’t seem surprised to see me, Selar.”

  “I am not,” Selar replied. “I had hoped that you would be wise enough not to pursue me. To honor my wishes in this instance.”

  “I honor your wishes as precisely as you honor mine. No more, no less.” S/he cocked hir head. “You look well. Very much as I remember you.”

  “It has only been a few weeks, Burgoyne.”

  “Really. It seems much longer.”

  No patients had yet arrived; Selar’s first appointment was not for an hour. She had been looking forward to taking the time to settle herself, go over records of her patients, perhaps even catch up on news. That, obviously, was not going to be the case now.

  Burgoyne was looking more carefully at her. “On closer observation,” s/he said, “you do not look quite as well as I thought. In fact, you look exhausted.”

  “I had a long night with Xyon,” she admitted. “He has been unconscionably fussy.”

  “Unconscionably?” Despite the seriousness of the moment, Burgoyne couldn’t help but smile slightly. “He is an infant. I doubt he has much truck with, or even concept of, such esoteric matters as conscience.”

  “It is inconvenient, nevertheless. As unreasonable as it may sound, I had—on some level—been expecting Xyon to be the equivalent of a miniature adult Vulcan, rather than an infant not in control of any aspect of his being.”

  “As a doctor, I would think you would be quite familiar with the developmental patterns of infants.” Burgoyne was trying to look relaxed, but came across as merely ill at ease.

  “I am. But the familiarity of it is somewhat different from the experiencing of it.” She took a deep breath. “Would you care to sit?”

  “Unnecessary. I have been sitting for quite some time. Most of it was spent in the offices of various Hermat officials, seeking aid in my cause. And then, of course, there was the time I spent in the transports that brought me out here. Once here, I have spent a good deal of time doing further research in Vulcan law and tradition, in continued pursuit of—”

  “Your cause, yes, as you’ve said.” Now it was Selar who sat. She did so very stiffly, her hands resting lightly on her thighs. “Then I suppose we should get to the heart of why you are here.”

  “I suppose we might as well,” Burgoyne said dourly, “considering that you don’t seem inclined to say so much as ‘hello.’ ”

  “Would that make a difference?”

  “I
t might.”

  “Very well: Hello, Burgoyne.”

  “Hello.”

  There was silence for a moment. “Did it make a difference?” asked Selar.

  Burgoyne appeared to consider it. “No. No, not really.”

  “Ah.”

  “You should not have left, Selar. I deserved better than that.”

  To her own surprise, Selar looked down, suddenly having developed a tremendous interest in the floor. “You . . . are right,” she admitted. “You are right, Burgoyne. You deserved better than that. In fact . . . you deserve better than what I can offer you. Your fixation on me surpasses all logical understanding.”

  “Love isn’t about logic.”

  “Yes, it is,” countered Selar. “Love is the romantic gloss put upon fundamental biological drives for the purpose of making them appear more than they already are. No one wishes to think of themselves as slaves to their desire to reproduce. Humans are particularly noted for such absurd behavior. I had hoped that Hermats were above such nonsense. Certainly we Vulcans are.”

  “That,” Burgoyne said, “is not something I would take a great deal of pride in, if I were you.”

  “But you are not me, Burgoyne.”

  “Yes. Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear.” S/he took a deep breath. “You have made it clear that you do not reciprocate my feelings, Selar—”

  “Cannot.”

  “And doesn’t that bother you?” s/he asked. “Doesn’t it bother you that you find yourself incapable of even feeling such a fundamental and important emotion? Yes, yes, I know,” s/he waved hir hands around dismissively, “I know how you and your people go on about emotions. But my understanding has always been that you feel them; you just don’t display them. After all, where is the discipline in controlling something that you have no experience of? It would be like a eunuch taking a vow of celibacy.”

  “A very vivid comparison. No, Burgoyne, it does not bother me. It is something without which I have been able to function quite well, thank you.”

  “Have you? If that’s what you believe, Selar, then you’re deluding yourself.”

  Selar sighed. “This is getting us nowhere, Burgoyne. You have come a long way and obviously spent a good deal of time in your ‘cause.’ What do you wish? I will hear you out, of course. It is certainly the least that I can do.”

  “My concerns involve a bit more than the least that one can do. Xyon is mine, Selar, as much as he is yours.”

  “Vulcan law says differently. So, I suspect, does Hermat law, for if it was aligned with you, you wouldn’t be here alone.”

  “Nevertheless . . . if we are not to reside together, Selar, then I want Xyon to be with me at least half the time.”

  “That,” she said stiffly, “is not going to happen.”

  “I shall make it happen.”

  “How? Through sheer force of will?”

  Burgoyne smiled thinly. “What about the Time of Awakening?”

  Selar blinked in confusion. “You speak . . . of Surak?”

  “Surak, yes. Interesting fellow. Father of your civilization, as I understand it.”

  She nodded. “Yes. But how is that applicable?”

  “You spoke of sheer force of will. As near as I can determine, Surak forged Vulcan society into its current state almost entirely through force of will. He preached logic, stoicism—these and other aspects that were not part of your warlike culture up to that point.” Burgoyne was speaking with ease and confidence; one would have thought s/he was a full Vulcan scholar. “From my reading, there were certainly some bumps and bruises along the way. Some odd traditions arose from those days. The transition from a society of barbarian, warlike attitudes to a society based on logic was certainly not a smooth one.”

  “No, it was not,” agreed Selar. “But I do not see the parallel.”

  “The parallel is that, at some point, Surak had to look out upon the world the way it was, and he had to say to somebody, ‘I can make it better.’ Except that to look upon this barbaric world of savage, warrior Vulcans and say that it could be transformed into a society of dispassionate logic was, in fact, a totally illogical thing to do. It made no sense. No reasonable being could look at black and say, ‘I’ll think I’ll make it white.’ Surak must have, could only have, made the decision and embarked on his course of action based solely on an act not of logic, but of utter faith. Your meticulously crafted world of logic hinges on a decision that was, on the face of it, completely illogical.”

  “Burgoyne . . . allowing you for a moment your rather unique interpretation of our history, which you, as an outsider, are naturally far more qualified to make than any of us who are native to this planet—”

  “Blinding sarcasm. You’re learning.”

  “I am a quick study. Allowing you that, Burgoyne . . . are you saying, in essence, that you intend to convince me, or whatever authorities you choose to approach, that you should be accorded these rights you seek based not upon logic, but upon sheer will power?”

  “Something like that. I’ll use force of will . . . force of arms if necessary.”

  “Force of arms?” She cocked an eyebrow, more amused than anything. “Are you threatening me with violence, Burgoyne?”

  “No,” s/he replied. “But at times this can be a violent universe, Selar. We’re just living in it.” S/he paused, clearly trying to think of something else to say, but then s/he shrugged. “I suppose I’m done here.” S/he turned to leave.

  “Would you like to see him? To see Xyon?” Selar asked quietly.

  S/he turned back to her, clear surprise on hir face. “I . . . didn’t even think to ask. I just figured you’d say no.”

  “Perhaps, in the final analysis, that is why we are not compatible, Burgoyne. You see . . . you think you know me. But you do not. I am not without . . .”

  “Compassion?”

  “No, I am without compassion. Compassion can be a serious impediment to the practice of medicine. If one feels compassion for one’s patients, it can interfere with clear and correct judgment. But I am not without consideration for the feelings of others. Come.” Without another word, she turned and walked out of the office, carefully calculating that the conversation had consumed eleven minutes and nineteen seconds. Spending five more minutes with Burgoyne and Xyon would not act as an impediment to the timely and speedy processing of her patients.

  Her home was only a short distance from her office. When she arrived with Burgoyne in tow, the nurse she had hired to attend to Xyon rose with a mildly quizzical expression. “I was not expecting you to return for seven hours and forty-three minutes,” she said.

  “There was an . . . unexpected circumstance,” Selar said judiciously, casting a sidelong glance at Burgoyne. Burgoyne, for hir part, had gone over to the side of Xyon’s bed and was smiling down at him. “If you would excuse us . . .”

  The nurse, whose name was T’Fil, inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment and walked into another room. Selar turned back to Burgoyne and started, unable even with all her training to cover her surprise. “What are you doing?” she demanded with a bit more edge in her voice than she would have liked.

  Burgoyne had extended two fingers, and Xyon had grabbed one in each of his chubby little hands. With the child gripping hir firmly, Burgoyne had lifted the infant into the air, his tiny feet hovering an inch or so above the mattress and pumping the air joyously.

  “What are you doing?” she said again.

  “Just playing. Quite a grip, huh?”

  “You will hurt him,” Selar told hir. “Put him down.”

  “I’m not hurting him. Look at the grip on him.” To demonstrate, Burgoyne raised and lowered the child slightly. Xyon cooed. “See?”

  “Put him down! Now!”

  Her tone was so emphatic, so strident, that Burgoyne automatically settled Xyon back down on the infant bed. But s/he was looking at Selar with clear surprise. “An emotional outburst. Who would have thought?”

  “It was not
an emotional outburst, Burgoyne. I simply deemed it necessary to increase the volume of my voice in order to get your attention.”

  “Mm-hmm,” said Burgoyne noncommittally. S/he was looking down at Xyon and smiling. “He’s coming along nicely. He has my eyes, don’t you think?”

  “He has his own eyes. Have you seen him for a sufficient period of time?”

  “I could look at him for a lifetime and it would be insufficient. He’s looking back at me, you know. He’s focusing right on me. I think he knows who I am.”

  “Very unlikely. Vulcan children are slow developers . . . not unusual, considering the length of time we live. Children of that age simply do not focus or pay sustained attention in the manner that you are describing.”

  “It’s impressive, Selar, how you can know so much about everything . . . and at the same time, know so very little.”

  Xyon, starting to look a bit concerned—as if he could sense the tension in the air—began to cry. Burgoyne reflexively reached down for him, but Selar quickly said, “It is quite all right, Burgoyne. I will attend to him.”

  She expected an argument, but Burgoyne simply nodded and said, “As you wish.”

  Selar reached down and took Xyon in her arms. He continued to whimper. Burgoyne watched her with curiosity. “Is there a problem, Burgoyne?” Selar asked with thinly veiled impatience, jostling Xyon slightly in a rocking motion. Xyon was still voicing his displeasure.

  “Well . . . look at the way you’re holding him.”

  Selar looked down at him. “What are you talking about? I am holding him correctly. The head is supported, the back is in the proper—” She shook her head, stopping herself. “This is absurd. I am a doctor, Burgoyne. I have delivered children . . .”

  “So have I. Ours.”

  Ignoring the interruption, she continued. “. . . and I think I have some passing familiarity with the proper way to hold a child.” Xyon, apparently disagreeing, whimpered louder.

  “From a purely technical, support-the-frame aspect, yes, what you’re doing is fine. But he needs more than just to be held in such a way that he won’t injure himself. He needs to know you’re nurturing him. You should be holding him closer . . . cradling him . . . letting him feel the warmth of you. Let him sort of . . .” S/he smiled. “Let him sort of melt into you.”