by Peter David
“I have cast no alliance with anyone,” said Slon. “However, Burgoyne had no one to accompany hir through this experience. I saw no harm in volunteering my services in that regard.”
“Your overwhelming compassion is duly noted, Slon,” Selar said.
Giniv heard it first, but Selar and Slon both detected it moments later. Burgoyne took a few seconds longer, but in short order the sound had reached hir as well. It was the faint jingling of bells, as if a procession of some sort was heading their way. “The Judgment Council?” s/he asked. Slon nodded curtly.
“Who do you think has been assigned to it?” Giniv asked.
“There is no purpose to speculation,” Selar said. In point of fact, she was wondering as well, but she was not about to admit to any sort of curiosity . . . or to anything. She was determined to play every aspect of the coming confrontation as coolly and sanguinely as possible. She was Vulcan. She wanted to bring her child up in the Vulcan way. Therefore, it was absolutely imperative that she remember, at all times, her own upbringing and training. Granted, no one could possibly think that a Vulcan child should be raised in anything approximating the situation Burgoyne would have to offer, but Selar was going to make absolutely certain that no one thought her anything but the ideal mother.
Burgoyne’s nostrils were flaring. “Someone old,” s/he said, sniffing the air. “Someone very old.”
“How can you tell?” asked Slon, intrigued.
“The years surround her like a fine wine.”
“Silver-tongued, isn’t s/he?” Giniv murmured to Selar. Selar said nothing.
The group was approaching slowly in the distance, the tinkling of the bells getting louder. The judgment place itself was nothing impressive: A wide, flat area, paved with stone polished to a gleaming, pale blue. There were stone seats carved into surrounding rock from which spectators could observe what transpired. Dead center of the area was a pedestal upon which the person who stood in judgment would look down upon those who were being judged.
They drew closer still. There were a goodly number of retainers, escorts, and guards, but it was clear just who was the center of attention. It was a wizened woman, walking in the exact center of the group. Selar, Giniv, and Slon recognized her instantly, and Giniv let out a most uncharacteristic gasp. Selar fired her a look that silently scolded her for the breach of etiquette, but she understood exactly why Giniv had reacted in that way. Truth to tell, it was all that Selar herself could do to restrain her surprise.
“Who is she?” asked Burgoyne.
“That is not simply a she, Burgoyne,” Slon said. “That is living history.”
The Vulcan woman known as T’Pau made her slow way to the center of the judgment place. Everyone stood in respectful silence, and even the bells began to diminish in their jingling until all was quiet.
Selar was reasonably certain that she had never seen such an elderly Vulcan in her life. Her skin looked drier than the driest deserts of the world, and she moved with the air of someone who was concentrating every moment on not inadvertently falling and snapping a bone like a rotted twig. And yet, for all her apparent frailty, the woman seemed to radiate power. When she spoke, there was nothing the least bit feeble in her voice. It was deep and quite strong, with the occasional over-enunciation of Vulcans schooled in the planet’s ancient dialects.
“We have the two people in question?” she inquired. But there was something in her voice that did not sound very much like a question, but rather an order. As if to say that, if the people of the hour were not present, then there were going to be some rather serious consequences.
“I am Selar,” she said formally. “I am summoned. I am here.”
“I am Burgoyne 172. I am summoned. I am here.” They had both walked forward so that they were now a short distance from T’Pau. Even with the elevation, she was barely an inch higher than either of them. Nevertheless, she seemed to be looking down upon them from an almost dizzying height.
For a time, nothing was said. T’Pau simply stared at the two of them, her gaze swiveling from one to the other and back again. She was heavily robed, and the day was dry, even sweltering, but she did not appear to show any signs of the heat.
“Thee has . . . a dispute.” she stated finally. “There is a child. A half-breed. Yours . . . and yours,” and she nodded to both of them.
“I can present medical documentation, T’Pau, indicating a preponderance of the child’s genetic structure is Vulcan,” Selar started to say.
However, she only got as far as “I can present—” before T’Pau silenced her with nothing more than a look. “I did not ask you . . . did I?” T’Pau said.
“No, T’Pau.”
“The offworlder knows to wait. Why does thee not?”
Selar felt herself beginning to color slightly in her cheeks. But, with long practice at hiding such things, she took control of her chagrin. She said nothing in response. The absence of a reply appeared to be exactly what T’Pau desired. She waited a time more before continuing. “There is more to a Vulcan . . . to any living being . . . than the body,” she said. “There is . . . the katra . . . the soul. Does he have the body of his mother . . . but the soul of his father? That . . . we cannot determine. Even a mind-meld will not determine such a thing, for we speak of matters . . . beyond the mind. Beyond our ability . . . to know.
“Where . . . then . . . does that leave us?” T’Pau paused a moment and regarded each of them in turn. “Speak to me,” she said to Selar.
“The child was born of my need,” said Selar. “The child is Vulcan. Whatever contributions his father may have made . . . a way must be chosen in which the child can be raised. That must be the Vulcan way. Whatever instincts come from his Hermat ‘heritage,’ they are ways that lead to impulsive behavior and lack of self-control. Xyon’s best interests can only be served by maintaining him fully in an environment that is conducive to those teachings and that development. Burgoyne desires to have him half the time. That is unacceptable. A choice must be made for Xyon here . . . now . . . as to what his life’s path will be. He cannot be exposed equally to two cultures and told that both apply equally to him. As his Vulcan parent, I must choose the method in which he will be shaped. And that way . . . is the Vulcan way. Here. On this world.”
She continued to speak, laying out her case point by point for many minutes. She kept waiting for T’Pau to interrupt, to ask her a question or challenge something that she was saying. But T’Pau did nothing except listen. Her face was utterly inscrutable, her eyes like two dark stones set in her face, showing about as much compassion as a rock might feel. Then again, she was T’Pau. Her mind could have been a roiling fury of tumult, and one would not have known it to look at her.
When she had concluded, T’Pau then turned to look at Burgoyne. “And thee . . .?” was all she said.
Burgoyne took a deep breath, and then coughed slightly. Taking a deep breath on Vulcan was not quite as easy as it appeared; for offworlders, the heated air could be very trying on the lungs. Selar wondered if Burgoyne’s time on the planet had made the adjustment any easier for hir.
“Xyon is mine as well as hers,” Burgoyne said.
And then s/he stood there.
Selar and Giniv exchanged a puzzled glance. They waited for Burgoyne to continue, but nothing more was forthcoming. Even Slon looked a bit surprised.
T’Pau arched an eyebrow. “Is that all?” she inquired.
“Madam,” Burgoyne said with a slight bow, “there are only two oratorical paths open to me. The first is to explain the shortcomings I feel characterize Selar’s mothering techniques . . . and Selar as a person, in general. I . . . was prepared to do so. But I find now that I cannot. I would rather not. So that path is closed to me. The only remaining avenue is to argue for my rights as—in this case—the father, although, admittedly, the concept of ‘father’ is one that my own race does not quite recognize. Even if I did that . . . it would not matter, would it?” S/he paused, and when T’Pau d
id not respond immediately, s/he prompted again, “Would it?”
“No,” T’Pau said slowly, dragging one syllable into three. “It would not. Because you are an offworlder, you have no truly recognized rights in this matter. When it comes to matters of who is the proper guardian for a Vulcan child, the answer according to law is a Vulcan. There is no disputing that.”
“Then why are we here?” Slon blurted out. Despite his veneer of stoicism, he seemed a bit annoyed. “Was all this just . . . just some sort of ritual?”
“Rituals,” T’Pau told him, “are the very essence of society. The Judgment Council did not consider the offworlder’s claim to have merit on its face, but was willing to assign me to hear the plea and judge accordingly.”
“With all respect, T’Pau,” Slon said, squaring his shoulders, “that does not seem fair. Your mind was already made up.”
“Has the offworlder lost the power to speak for itself?” asked T’Pau.
“Hirself,” Burgoyne corrected reflexively.
T’Pau leveled a gaze at hir. “You are male and female . . . and neither. ‘It’ is the proper word. We have no use for semantic games on Vulcan.”
Burgoyne’s jaw twitched reflexively—in contained anger or mortification, Selar could not tell. But she was surprised to discover that she actually felt some small degree of pity for Burgoyne. She had no idea why she should. After all, it was Burgoyne who had decided to press the matter. Everything that had occurred, s/he had brought on hirself. Selar’s conscience should have been perfectly clear.
For a long moment, nothing was said. It was as if something was waiting to spring, some invisible beast of prey that no one was capable of perceiving, but which was lying in wait there all the same.
“If that is all that remains to be said on the matter,” T’Pau said finally, “then the course is clear. My judgment—”
“That is all that is to be said . . . but not done,” Burgoyne suddenly interrupted.
T’Pau clearly did not appreciate being cut off in the middle of a sentence. Her face darkened, but rather than verbally castigate Burgoyne, all she said was an icy, “Yes?”
“I claim the Ku’nit Ka’fa’ar.”
“What?” Selar looked blankly at Giniv, who seemed equally puzzled. The words were confusing to her. She recognized them as ancient Vulcan, but she was not fluent in that particular aspect of their tongue. She couldn’t make out the meaning of them. “S/he claims the what?”
Slon likewise appeared perplexed. Even the ceremonial bell-bearers who circled the judgment center were baffled.
Only T’Pau understood. And she did not appear to appreciate it at all.
“Offworlders,” she sighed. “Half-breeds. I have some small experience with both . . . and always, always, very little goes smoothly with either. You truly seek the Ku’nit Ka’fa’ar?”
“It is a ritual, T’Pau,” Burgoyne said evenly. “Only moments ago you spoke of the importance of rituals. The Ku’nit Ka’fa’ar has never been officially repudiated. You’ve never turned your backs on it in any sort of formal manner.”
“Because it is a ritual that is obsolete . . . that has not been used in millennia. . . .”
“The specifics of it may be moot . . . but it still exists. And the Ku’nit Ka’fa’ar makes no mention of offworlders . . . only parents.”
“At the time, there were no offworlders, so there is no reason for them to be mentioned in the description of the rituals, one way or the other.”
“True,” said Burgoyne. “But silence in the matter implies consent. Because offworlders are not specifically forbidden . . . we are implicitly allowed. No one here is disputing that I am, in some measure, Xyon’s parent. This qualifies as a dispute under the Ku’nit Ka’fa’ar, and if you are the civilized society that you claim yourselves to be, you must honor it.”
Even from where she was standing, Selar could practically feel daggers flying from T’Pau’s eyes into and through Burgoyne, but the Hermat simply stood there, patiently, as if s/he had endless amounts of time to do so.
“She may refuse,” T’Pau said finally. “She has that option.”
“Yes,” Burgoyne said. “She may. In which event, the child goes with me automatically. You know that.”
“That is correct.”
“That is correct?” Selar had gone from not understanding what she was hearing to not believing what she was hearing. “T’Pau . . . what is Burgoyne talking about? What is the Ku’nit Ka’fa’ar?”
T’Pau did not seem particularly anxious to answer, but she did so anyway. “The forging of our society to the philosophies of Surak . . . was not an easy process. There was . . . resistance. It is natural that such would be the case, for we were a barbaric and warlike people. That was our way of life . . . and there was no desire to change it, even though Surak showed us the way. There were many tribal leaders who resisted as well, for their strength and power derived from our barbarism, and they feared—rightly so—that they would lose their leadership if a new belief system took hold. Surak’s philosophy . . . destroyed as much as it created. Tribes, families were split apart, as some followed him while others remained behind. And the children—particularly young children—presented a dilemma. In many instances, one parent would desire to follow the teachings of Surak, while another fought to maintain the old ways. From these disputes came the Ku’nit Ka’fa’ar . . . the “Struggle for the Way.”
Selar suddenly started to get an uneasy feeling. “ ‘Struggle’ in what sense?”
“These were barbaric times, remember. One’s worth was measured not in the ability to think, but in the ability to defend by force of arms. The parent who was stronger . . . was considered the parent who was worthier.”
That was when Selar understood, and she could see from Giniv’s expression that she likewise comprehended. And from Slon’s next words, it was clear that he got it as well.
“You cannot be serious,” he said, although it was unclear whether he was addressing Burgoyne or T’Pau. “This . . . this is not a challenge in a mating ritual, where individuals are not in their right mind and the only way to settle matters is by trying to bash each other’s heads in. These are rational, thinking people, and there has to be some other way—”
“There isn’t,” Burgoyne said, and s/he sounded a bit regretful. S/he looked sadly but with conviction at Selar. “I wish there were.”
“Selar,” said T’Pau, and from the sound of her voice, she wasn’t simply speaking, but rather making a pronouncement. “The challenge of the Ku’nit Ka’fa’ar has been made. So as it was in the ancient times . . . so is it still, as we remember who we are and the times that forged us. The challenger believes that its philosophies and intentions for the raising of your child together are preferable to those that you would impart to it. You must display strength of mind through strength of sinew, or, in failing to do so, forfeit your child’s future to the other parent.”
“This is insane,” Selar said. “You are telling me that it has gone beyond merely splitting our time with the child. That it is now all-or-nothing.”
“That is correct.”
“That if I do not fight Burgoyne . . . I lose Xyon.”
“That is correct,” T’Pau said again.
“Insane,” Selar repeated. “I will appeal this to the—”
“There is no appeal. There is none who knows the rituals better than I, and none will contradict me,” T’Pau told her, and her eyes were as cold as the depths of space. “This is what matters have come to, Selar. The challenge has been issued. Accept it, and fight for your child. Refuse . . . and the child goes with the off-worlder. Choose . . . now.”
MORGAN
“I DINNA LIKE ’IM.”
Morgan had been lying out on the beach, sunglasses shielding her eyes. It was, of course, yet another glorious day on Risa. Rafe had been lying next to her, and they had been idly holding hands and chatting about nothing of any major consequence. All in all, it had been extremely pleasant.
Then, commenting that he had promised to spend time with Nik, Rafe excused himself and padded off across the sand. Morgan watched him go, rather pleased. He certainly had a good look about him when he was walking away.
So she was understandably startled when the familiar voice with the even more familiar brogue spoke from about a foot away. She peered over the sunglasses and up at Scotty. From the angle at which she was looking up at him, his body was in silhouette, and it seemed as if he was blotting out the sun.
“I beg your pardon?” she said.
“I’m tellin’ ye as a friend . . . ah dinna like ’im.”
“Odd way of saying hello, Scotty.”
“Hello. Ah dinna like ’im.”
“Would the ’im in question be Rafe?”
“Aye.”
She stared up at him for a few moments. “Are you going to sit?” she inquired.
“Are ye gonna reply to muh question?”
“Question? Was there a question in there? I just heard a statement. You said you didn’t like him. Which, oddly enough, doesn’t factor in all that much, considering that you’re not the one who’s seeing him. Why don’t you like him—and furthermore, why am I bothering to ask you why you don’t like him, because it’s none of your business!”
“Hey, Scotty!” called several guests as they walked past. Scotty tossed off a salute to them and turned back to Morgan.
“Ah’m making it muh business,” he said.
“How very considerate of you. Do you do that for all the guests?”
“Ah would like t’think,” Scotty said, “that we’d moved a bit beyond th’ greeter-and-guest relationship.”
“Have we?” Her eyebrows puckered in surprise. “To be honest, Scotty, I wasn’t getting that impression at all.” She stretched, and then stood. She couldn’t find it in her heart to be annoyed with him; deep down, he really was sweet, and he certainly meant well. He was just . . .
Jealous?
How charming. How utterly charming.
“You’re jealous,” she said.