by Peter David
BURGOYNE
BURGOYNE HAD BEEN TO BARS and taverns all over the Federation, and s/he was most curious to see what such an establishment on Vulcan would be like. Unfortunately, s/he had to comb the city for hours until s/he finally found what appeared to be the only one in town. The moment s/he entered, s/he promptly understood why: The Vulcan clientele was virtually nonexistent. The bar, which was called “Offworlds,” catered to exactly that which the sign suggested: people who were from offworld. There were enough patrons there, certainly, but it was almost entirely people from worlds other than Vulcan.
Burgoyne sat down at the bar and watched the bartender go about his business. The bartender was Vulcan, and he mixed drinks with a quiet, straightforward efficiency. It bordered on the wretchedly boring to watch. The bartender turned to hir questioningly and said, “May I help you?”
“Scotch. Neat.” S/he paused, and added with a smile, “It’s the official drink of engineers everywhere.”
“I was not aware of that.”
“It was a joke,” Burgoyne said.
“I was not aware of that, either.”
Burgoyne was about to pursue the matter, but decided that it would probably be wise not to do so. The drink was placed in front of hir and s/he downed it in one shot. “Go again,” s/he said.
The bartender had barely had time to turn away from hir, and now looked back with a mild gaze. “That is illogical. You consumed the drink in 0.09 seconds. Not only is it unlikely that you tasted it, but you have not permitted sufficient time for the traditional, less-than-salubrious influence of alcohol to take effect. You may wish to—”
Burgoyne squared hir shoulders, and there was an unmistakable undercurrent of warning in hir voice. “Which part was unclear? The ‘go’? Or the ‘again’?”
Without a word, the bartender poured another shot of scotch. Burgoyne was about to toss that one back, too, but something in the faintly scolding look of the bartender caused hir to hold up at the last moment and simply sip it. The bartender nodded slightly in approval and moved to another customer.
A voice from next to Burgoyne said, “Is there anything in the universe more boring than a Vulcan bar?”
“I’m beginning to think not,” Burgoyne replied. “What the hell is wrong with these people?”
S/he turned and, to hir surprise, saw a Vulcan sitting next to hir. He was looking at hir with a sort of amused detachment.
“Sorry,” muttered Burgoyne.
“No, you are not. One should never apologize for candor. It is illogical. Moreover, it is impolite. It assumes that another person cannot tolerate the truth . . . or, at least, the truth as you perceive it.”
“All right,” Burgoyne said evenly. S/he regarded the Vulcan thoughtfully. “But what are you doing here then?”
The Vulcan shrugged. It seemed a rather odd gesture on a Vulcan. “I have nowhere else better to be.”
“I see.” Burgoyne reflexively delivered the Vulcan salute of greeting. “I am Burgoyne 172. Peace and long life.”
“Live long and prosper. My name is Slon.”
“Hello, Slon.” Burgoyne knocked back the remains of the scotch and caught the bartender’s eye. This time s/he had merely to mouth the words, “Go again,” and the bartender did not bother to dispute it. But Burgoyne could tell from the faint scowl that he did not approve. “I have never encountered a bartender who was reluctant to sell drinks.”
“On Vulcan we believe in logic in all things. That would include imbibing.”
“But what’s the point of that? One drinks when one doesn’t want to think logically.”
“Hence the notable absence of Vulcans in the bar.”
“Yes. I suppose the Romulans wound up getting all the distilling genes in the Vulcan gene pool.”
“Romulans are not logical.”
“No, but they make a hell of an ale. So what do you do for a living, Slon?”
“I am an attaché for the Vulcan diplomatic corps. A sort of aide. I am between assignments at the moment, but I spend a good deal of my time off-planet. And you?”
“I’m in Starfleet. An engineer.”
“You are not in uniform.”
“I’m . . . also between assignments.” S/he tossed back yet another glass. This time s/he didn’t even have to catch the bartender’s glance. He refilled it automatically, although s/he couldn’t help but notice the slight shake of his head as he did so. Then s/he turned hir attention back to Slon.
Burgoyne felt as if Slon were dissecting hir with his gaze. “Are you quite all right?” s/he asked.
“I am fit. You are a Hermat.”
“Yes.”
“I have heard much of Hermats. Is what I have heard true?”
With a laugh, Burgoyne said, “How would I know what you have and haven’t heard?”
“I have heard that you approach subjects such as sexuality with gay abandon.”
“Interesting choice of words,” Burgoyne said dryly. “I cannot speak for all of my people, but they have a tendency to . . . what’s the best word . . .‘revere’it. I, on the other hand, approach the subject, and the practice, with somewhat more fervor. That, of course, is as opposed to Vulcans.”
“Indeed. And what know you of Vulcans?” asked Slon steadily.
“That you . . .” Burgoyne stopped and looked down at hir glass. It was still full. S/he mentally chided herself; s/he was slowing down. Maybe s/he was getting old. “I’m sorry.”
“Again?”
“This time I genuinely am. My understanding is that you typically don’t like to discuss such matters with offworlders.”
“I am not typical,” Slon said. “Simply curious as to what an ‘offworlder’ might have heard of the topic.”
S/he let out a deep breath. “Well . . . that you engage in the act only once every seven years.”
“That is not true.”
Burgoyne blinked at that. “What? That was what I was led to believe.”
“You refer to the pon farr.” Burgoyne couldn’t help but notice that Slon was speaking in a slightly lower, entre nous tone of voice. Despite his claim to being atypical of his race, it was obvious that even he respected the delicacy of the matters at hand.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Do not confuse the concept of Vulcan romance with breeding. The pon farr exists to guarantee the perpetuation of our species. But there is no mandate that requires we live in celibacy during the intervening times. We may not approach the subject with as much fervency as do other races, but . . .” Slon’s eyebrows knit. “You are regarding me with a most curious expression.”
“I’m still having trouble getting past ‘Vulcan romance,’ to be honest. It sounds like an oxymoron to me. Are Vulcans truly capable of romance?”
“Yes.”
“But . . . you’re not especially good at expressing such raw feelings,” Burgoyne said, finding hirself intrigued by the discussion. “How do you convey romantic intent?”
“A variety of means, as with any race. One preferred method is the lyre.”
“Oh, well, sure,” Burgoyne said reasonably. “Going around and fabricating your intentions is standard for romance. Although I would have thought the renowned Vulcan addiction to honesty would have—”
“Not ‘liar.’ Lyre. L-y-r-e. It is a musical instrument.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Burgoyne flushed slightly. “A musical instrument conveys romantic interest?”
“In the case of the Vulcan lyre, it does so quite well. Its notes are virtual love songs in and of themselves.”
“Is that what you use?” Burgoyne was not able to keep a slightly teasing tone out of hir voice. It was a tone that s/he knew all too well—reflexive and a bit suggestive.
“On occasion, if it suits the mood.”
“And do you, Slon, have a mate to whom you were driven by pon farr?”
“No.” Slon looked down at his empty hands, and it was the first time Burgoyne realized that he wasn’t holding a drink. “No . .
. I do not.”
“Well . . . shouldn’t you be due for that?”
“That is . . . apparently not going to occur in my case.”
“Really? Why not?”
Slon looked at hir steadily. “I have a lack of interest in reproduction that no amount of genetic tradition can overcome.”
“Ahhh,” Burgoyne said, smiling. “I understand. Well, why not? Takes all kinds. Does your family understand?”
“They understand in that they are able to comprehend it. My sister seems more sanguine with it. My parents . . . less so.”
“Moral indignation? From a Vulcan? I’m stunned.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not precisely. It is more that they simply consider it . . . illogical. A waste of material. My parents—my father in particular—consider me of solid genetic stock, and are displeased that my genes will not be perpetuated. He has said I am doing a disservice to my race on that basis. I offered to provide a genetic contribution that could be provided to a suitable recipient, but . . .” Once again, that odd shrug. “He said it was not the Vulcan way.”
“I’m sure your race will survive without your contribution.”
“Very likely so.”
“So you yourself have no interest in romance at all.”
Slon looked at hir with genuine meaning. “I did not say that. I find you most . . . interesting, Burgoyne.”
“The famed Vulcan directness. At least people always know where they stand with you.”
“That,” deadpanned Slon, “is part of our collective charm.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Burgoyne said. “Vulcans by nature are an inquiring race, if you’ll forgive my generalization. One doesn’t have a philosophy based on logic unless one is willing to ask incessant questions about everything. And I’ve learned that a lot of people are curious about Hermats. Probably the only other race that generates that much sexual interest is the Deltans. ‘Oath of Celibacy.’ Silliest thing I ever heard. How can there be a race so formidable in the act of love that non-Deltans are driven insane from the sheer ecstasy of it? If you ask me, they’re probably the worst lovers in the entire galaxy, and came up with this entire mystique to hide behind.”
“Interesting theory. I had a friend at the University several years back who voiced the exact same opinion. I should convey your sentiments to him.”
“You do that.”
“I shall. He is allowed visitors every Thursday at the asylum where he presently resides.”
Burgoyne stared at him. “What?”
“Oh, yes,” Slon said, as if discussing utterly trivial matters. “You see, unlike you—obviously—he chose to field-test this theory. The results were . . . unpleasant.”
“Un . . . pleasant?” asked Burgoyne uneasily. S/he was thinking about a time when s/he had nearly had an interlude with a Deltan on a bet, until a last-minute summons back to hir shipboard assignment had forced hir to pass up the encounter.
“Very. He simply lies on the floor of his room most days, twitching spasmodically and occasionally gyrating his hips in a—”
“I get the idea. All right, I stand corrected,” Burgoyne said. S/he shook hir head. “This has got to be one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had, and I’m still a bit dumbfounded that I’m having it with a Vulcan in a bar.”
“If it is my race that you find disconcerting, that is, naturally, something I cannot do anything about. If it is the location that daunts you . . . my residence is not far from here.”
Although the steadiness of Slon’s tone had not wavered, the meaning could not have been clearer. Burgoyne looked at him with interest. “Are you suggesting . . . what I think you’re suggesting?”
“It would seem the logical thing to do,” observed Slon.
“Bartender,” Burgoyne said immediately.
The bartender materialized in front of hir. “Yes?” he asked, with that same faint disapproval.
“Check, please.”
“Ah. I thought you were going to ‘go again.’ ”
“I think I am, indeed,” Burgoyne said, “but not with you.” And s/he smiled invitingly at Slon, the alcohol giving hir a distant but nevertheless distinct and pleasant buzzing sensation.
ROBIN
SHE’D FALLEN ABOUT TWO FEET when suddenly a rope was dangling right in front of her.
Robin reacted purely from instinct as she snagged the cord that had miraculously dropped in her face. Her grip wasn’t immediately solid, and as a result she skidded a few feet down it, the rope tearing up her palms something fierce. She yelped, but also redoubled her efforts and managed to slow and then stop her descent. She dangled there, swinging back and forth, uncertain just how far above the gelatinous mass she was and afraid to find out.
And then, from above her, a voice called down, “Do you have a grip on it?” It was a strong voice, a masculine one. Of course, at that point, Robin would not have cared if the owner of the voice sounded as if he had been inhaling helium. As long as he was stopping her from falling, that was all that mattered to her.
“Yes!” she called up to him.
There was a pause. “Ah. You’re a woman,” came the thoughtful response.
Dangling as she was, Robin didn’t exactly like the sound of that. “Do you have a problem with that?” she shouted. It would be just her luck that her potential savior was a homicidal maniac with a lousy social life who felt that all women deserved whatever happened to them.
“No, not at all,” came back the reasonable reply. “Women tend to be lighter than men. I was just figuring that it was going to be easier pulling you up. Are you slim?”
“Yes, I’m slim.”
“How much do you weigh?”
“108,” said Robin.
There was a pause. “Really?” came the voice.
“Yes, really!” Robin said, starting to get irritated.
“You sound heavier.”
“Oh, thanks a lot!”
“No offense. I just want to make sure I can do this. And I don’t want any surprises. And some women tend to—not to be indelicate—lie about such things.”
“I don’t believe this,” muttered Robin.
“So are you sure you’re—”
“Yes! I’m 108! And in case it matters, I’m 5 6, brunette, a Virgo, and I like reading children’s poetry and taking long walks on beaches in light rain, okay?”
There was another pause. “What color are your eyes?”
“What?!”
“Just kidding. Hold on.”
The rope lurched slightly, and then started to pull up steadily. She held on tightly, wrapping the rope between her feet for extra assurance. She could have sworn, in the fever of her imagination, that the creature below was making some sort of vaguely disappointed slurping noises.
And then, the next thing she knew, she had been pulled up and out into the sunlight. She blinked against it as she hauled herself the rest of the way to safety, getting herself clear of the crumbled ground so that more of it wouldn’t open up beneath her. Standing several feet away, holding the far end of the rope, was her savior.
He extended a hand. “Here. Let me help you up.”
She didn’t react immediately. She was too busy staring at him. Damn, but he was one of the most handsome men Robin had ever laid eyes on. He had strong, chiseled features, and his eyes were ocean blue. His nose was slightly large, but the imperfection only seemed to add to his features rather than detract from them. He had thick eyebrows, and a mouth that seemed made for smiling, which he was doing at the moment and doing extremely well.
The hand remained extended, and she remembered only belatedly to take it. She winced as the firm grip ached against her still-injured palms, and he helped her to her feet. She was impressed by his strength: He had lifted her up as if she weighed next to nothing. Which, she reminded herself, she had told him she had. No use mentioning those extra pounds she had picked up since coming to the resort.
“Are you going to be ok
ay?” he asked.
“Sure, sure . . . now.”
“I take it you weren’t exactly expecting to explore the subterranean aspects of Risa in that way,” he commented, pointing at the hole.
“Definitely not,” she said.
“Sorry that you hit a hot hole.”
“A what?”
“A leftover from Risa’s more unstable days,” he said. “It used to be more geologically unstable than it is right now. There are a few areas where the ground just sort of separated, became unsafe, and created what would best be described as camouflaged crevices. Pretty hazardous.”
“I should say so,” said Robin. “They should put up signs to warn people off.”
“You mean like that one there?” he said, and pointed. Sure enough, Robin had walked right past a sign informing anyone wandering into that area that they were about to enter treacherous ground, and would do so at their own risk. But Robin had been so busy looking toward the skies that she had been paying no attention at all.
“Wonderful,” she muttered.
Her unexpected rescuer looked down at her boots and his brow furrowed. “What is that stuff on your feet?”
“What?” She looked down and saw traces of the gelatinous mass on the soles of her boots . . . and, more alarming than that, the bits of the mass were starting to move around on their own. She could swear that she was beginning to see traces of eyes developing on them.
Immediately Robin dropped to the ground and yanked the boots off her feet. Then she tossed them both into the hole. The young man watched in mute surprise as he saw what appeared to be otherwise perfectly good footwear disappear into darkness. “What did you do that for?” he asked. He didn’t sound particularly upset or even mystified. Just interested.
“Trust me,” she said flatly, “you don’t want to know.” She stretched her toes in her stocking feet.
“You’re going to continue to explore like that?” he asked.
“Noooo . . . I’ve had it with exploring, if it’s all the same to you,” she said with alarming heartiness. “Didn’t occur to me to bring a spare set of boots, so I’m going to troop back to the hotel, where gelatinous masses are safely contained in dessert cups. Because frankly, if it weren’t for you . . .” She looked at him curiously. “Say, where did you come from, anyway?”