by Peter David
Scotty looked utterly taken aback. His mouth moved, but no words came out of it. And then, to her surprise, he turned and walked away. For a moment, Morgan toyed with the idea of letting him just storm off, but something made her follow him. She caught up with him quickly, her towel slung over her back. “Truth hurt, Scotty?” she asked.
“What do ah look like t’ye?” he demanded, without even looking at her. Little sprays of sand were being kicked up in his wake. “Do ah look like a schoolboy?”
“No, but you’re acting like one.”
“Ah’m acting like a friend who’s concerned about ye, and all ye come back with is that ah’m jealous. What kind of codswallop is that?”
“It’s the truth, Scotty, at least so far as I see it.”
“Then ah’m afraid ye aren’t takin’ much of a look at it at all.” Finally he stopped and faced her. “Morgan . . . ah won’t lie to ye. I’ll never lie to ye. I think you’re a fine woman, and a damned attractive female. Setting aside that ye look like a woman from days past . . .”
“A former lover?”
“Ach, no. No,” and he smiled faintly at the memory. “She had her attentions focused elsewhere, poor thing.”
“ ‘Poor thing,’ meaning that she didn’t have the good sense to be enamored of you?”
“No, ‘poor thing,’ meanin’ that the affection she felt was somewhat unrequited. It wasn’t about me at’all, and why do ye keep doin’ that?”
“Doing what?”
“Makin’ it seem that every bloody thing in the world has to do with me? I warn ye about this fellow—”
“Rafe.”
“Aye, Rafe. I warn ye about him, and suddenly ah’m ‘jealous.’ ” He made finger quotation marks around the word. “I talk about Christine, and ye think ah’m talkin’ about some lost love. Damn, but ye can be a most aggravatin’ woman, Morgan. Has anyone ever told ye that?”
“Only on days when I was awake,” she said ruefully.
“Morgan . . . unrequited crushes, jealousy and such—those are all activities of the young. For the likes of Robin and ye.”
“The likes of me?” Morgan laughed at that. “Oh, Scotty, believe it or not, I’m a bit older than I look.”
“Perhaps, but not by much, I’d wager.”
“You have no idea how much I’d like to take that bet. But go on.”
He sighed, as if he was anxious to divest himself of a great weight. “All ah’m trying to say t’ye—and ah think ah’m not havin’ a great deal of success—is that when one gets t’be muh age, one tends t’leave b’hind all of the excess crap of youth. Ah say what ah mean ’cause that’s what ah mean t’say, and there’s no deep, ulterior motive. No hidden agenda. That’s simply the way it is, that’s all.”
“All right. All right.” She looked out at the “ocean” lapping up against the beach. Utterly manufactured, of course, with great wave machines propelling it toward the shoreline, but that didn’t make it any less pleasant. Since she was in her swimsuit, her feet and legs were bare, and she took a few steps toward it so that the water would lap up around her feet. “Fine, Scotty. You’ve got my attention. Why is it, then, that you don’t like Rafe?”
Scotty pursed his lips for a moment and then said, “Ye know what humans are? Human beings, at their core?”
“I have my own opinions on it, but I suspect you have an answer already in mind, so go ahead.”
“Machines,” he told her. “Finely tuned machines. Probably one of the most sophisticated machines around. Do ye know how ah figure out what’s wrong with an engine?”
“I further suspect you’re going to tell me that as well,” she said evenly.
“Ah don’t have to run diagnostics. Ah don’t need ’em to tell me that somethin’s wrong. Y’see, ah know every sound an engine makes. Ah feel it, right down to muh bones. So when something is off with an engine, ah just . . . know it. And once ah know, ah study it and look it over and see with muh own eyes where the problem is. And ah don’t just do that with engines. Ah can do that with any sort of machinery. Ah just have a sense of these things.”
“And you’re saying that you can look at a person, and know something’s wrong with that person, using that same intuition.”
“That’s exactly right,” he said. “Ah just know it. Even when ah don’t know why ah know it . . . ah still do.”
“But, Scotty, isn’t it possible—just remotely possible—that the way you perceive certain other people might be shaped by considerations that have nothing to do with the people themselves?”
“Is it remotely possible? Ah suppose so. But ah don’t believe that’s th’case in this instance.”
“Why not?”
“Because ah could tell somethin’ was up with ’im, that’s why. From the moment ah first saw ’im. He felt . . . wrong. He came by the Engineering Room, and ah did muh usual greetin’ business. The moment ah shook his hand, somethin’ felt . . . off. As if he was not happy to see me there.”
“That’s silly, Scotty. Who could not be happy to see you?”
“Ah have no idea. Ah kept trying to figure out if he was some old enemy from the original Enterprise . . . someone who’d managed to survive, just as ah had managed.”
“Scotty . . . your imagination is running wild. Don’t you see that? Rafe is just a man . . . a good man . . . a handsome, supportive—”
“All right, all right, ah get the idea.” He looked down at the water, which was starting to lap at the toes of his boots. “And ah suppose ah haven’t been exciting company. Ah can see where ye’d be interested in him.”
“Oh, Scotty,” she said in surprise. “How can you think that?”
“Because ah was foolish t’think that ah knew what ye wanted,” he told her candidly. “Maybe ah’m just too cynical or too tired or too damned old . . . but ah should have realized that ye’d be interested in romance. Me, ah was just so happy to have someone to talk to that seemed to have a brain in their head—particularly after dealing with the know-nothings who run this place—that ah gave no thought to where yer interests might lay. The day before ye hooked up with Rafe, ah remember . . . we went for a long walk on the beach, and all ah did was tell ye how the artificial wave machines worked. What a romantic time that must have been for ye.”
“Scotty, to be honest, I wasn’t really intending to look for romance.”
“Don’t lie t’me, Morgan,” he said, sounding a bit scolding. “Ye can lie t’others, and even t’yerself. But never t’me.”
“Sorry,” she apologized, and meant it. If there was one thing that this fellow seemed to have in abundance, it was pride.
“It’s just that . . . well . . . ah hadn’t really been lookin’ for romance muhself. Not that there haven’t been opportunities, ye understand. After all, ah am loaded with charisma,” he said modestly.
“That goes without saying.”
“Aye, but ah thought ah would say it anyway. Women have come through here, and don’t think ah’m not aware when they’re givin’ me the once, twice and even three times over. But at muh age, ah tend t’be more interested in what’s above a woman’s neck, not below it.”
“But romance doesn’t have to be solely a matter of what’s ‘below the neck,’ Scotty. Although, please, don’t misunderstand: Our time together has been wonderfully engaging. I mean, the chat about phase coil replication alone was enough to keep my head whirling for hours.”
“Are ye makin’ fun of me, now?”
“No, I’m quite serious. It’s just that . . . well . . . sometimes . . .” She smiled. “Sometimes a woman is more interested in looking at the stars than discussing how to navigate them. You see?”
“Aye.”
They were silent for a time, and then Scotty said, “He’s coming.”
From the way that he’d said “he,” Morgan knew instantly to whom he was referring. She turned and, sure enough, there was Rafe heading toward them. No longer in bathing attire, he was still dressed casually, and he looked rather
amused that Morgan was talking with the engineer.
“Well, well,” he called over to them. “Nik was otherwise occupied, so I thought I’d come back and pick up where we left off . . . and here Mr. Scott has already picked up where I left off.”
“Just chattin’. Ye needn’t worry,” Scotty said diplomatically.
“Oh, I wasn’t worried at all.” He drew up so that he was alongside them, without making any attempt to step between the two of them. “I wasn’t aware that your duties ever really took you out of your personalized bar, Mr. Scott.”
“Ah, muh ‘duties’ are fairly loosely defined,” Scotty assured him. “Ah can come and go as ah please. The management here is quite accommodatin’. Probably comes from muh not needin’ th’ work.”
“And yet you choose to remain here. Interesting. And you feel fulfilled?” asked Rafe.
Scotty eyed him with obvious suspicion. “The way ye just said that . . . makes it sound as if ye had somethin’ else in mind.”
“Yes, Rafe, I must admit it sounded that way to me, too.” The gaze of Morgan’s dark eyes played over him.
Rafe did not seem the least nonplussed. “Very simple. I have a rather large business endeavor. And from everything I’ve heard and read, Mr. Scott, you are a rather talented individual. My company could use a man like you. We’re doing work on computer systems that make the work of UFP scientists—even those at the Daystrom Institute—look primitive in comparison. Although I admit, of course, that Daystrom was a genius, back in the day—”
“Really. Poor fellow was comin’ apart at the seams, last ah saw ’im.”
Rafe appeared momentarily startled, and then smiled politely. “Yes. Of course. Foolish of me. You do tend to go back quite some time, don’t you?”
“Aye, that’s right. Ah do.”
Rafe studied Scotty a moment more and tilted his head thoughtfully. “Mr. Scott . . . I think you have something to say to me. Am I wrong?”
Before Scotty could reply, Morgan put up her hands, one against each of them. “Gentlemen . . . I don’t think this discussion is going to get anyone anywhere.”
“Ah was just thinkin’ the same thing. If ye will excuse me . . . ah believe ah’ve said everything ah can, or should, say on the matter. And ah have other guests to attend to.” He bowed graciously to Morgan, taking her hand suavely and kissing her on the knuckles. But she saw that his gaze was focused not on her, but on Rafe. Oh, yes, Scotty was making it abundantly clear that he had serious reservations about Rafe Viola.
Were they founded? Morgan didn’t think so. The piece of information Scotty was missing in all of this was that Morgan had lived quite a few lifetimes, and was not remotely what one would term “naïve.” She knew her way around the universe, and had met all types. Scotty might fancy himself the worldly-wise type, honor-bound to watch out for the delicate sensibilities of less experienced females. But that didn’t make his perception of things correct, and since Morgan knew that, she could respond accordingly to his stated paranoia. Simply put, she knew better than he did. She knew it, and he didn’t. Based on that alone, there was no reason she should accord any great weight to his concerns . . . at least, not to the extent that it out-weighed her own judgment.
Scotty thought himself in a better position to judge than Morgan was. Morgan knew better. Of course she wasn’t going to tell Scotty that she knew better, or why. There were some things she just didn’t feel the need to share.
Still . . .
Rafe looked to her, clear puzzlement in his eyes as he watched Scotty walk away. “Would you mind telling me what that was all about?” he asked.
“Nothing extraordinary. He talked. I listened.”
“And what did you two talk about?”
“About how nosy you are.”
He laughed at that . . . but there was just the slightest hint, Morgan thought, that he didn’t find it the least bit funny. But then the momentary doubt was gone, replaced by her endless confidence that she knew exactly what she was doing.
SELAR & BURGOYNE
“YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS,” Giniv said, standing to one side with Selar. She kept casting glances in Burgoyne’s direction. S/he was standing at the far end of the judgment grounds, engaging in a series of stretching exercises. Slon was speaking to hir in what were clearly low and urgent tones, but it was difficult to see whether Burgoyne was paying any attention to him at all. “You are not going to fight hir.”
“I do not see a good deal of choice being presented me,” Selar replied. She was no more sanguine about the notion than Giniv. “But the alternative is that I hand my child over to hir. You do not seriously expect me to do so.”
“It did occur to me.”
Selar looked at her with barely contained surprise. “It . . . occurred to you? How could it?”
“You do not seem the type to fight, Selar, but you seem even less the type to mother,” Giniv said reasonably. “Given these two observations, it seemed reasonable to—”
“I am not giving up my child.”
“You make it sound a matter of pride.”
“It is, to some degree,” Selar said thoughtfully.
“One would have thought it far more appropriate to be a matter of love.”
Selar frowned at her. “What would you have of me, Giniv? Burgoyne has sought refuge in the old ways. I cannot deny them, nor can you. I will simply have to . . . attend to this.” She let out a steady breath. “There is one fortunate aspect of this, at least. Unlike a challenge at pon farr, it is not a battle to the death.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes,” nodded Selar. “Even in the ancient times, no advantage was seen in the death of one parent or the other . . . to say nothing of risking the death of both. The losing parent was expected to abide by the decision made by force of arms . . . and, hopefully, contribute in some way to his or her child’s future. At least, that is how T’Pau explained it to us just now when we spoke privately of the matter.”
“I see. So you are saying that no one has ever died in this mad endeavor?”
Selar hesitated and then said, “Not . . . precisely. There have been a few instances. Bad falls, mistimed blows to the head. It is not an exact science.”
“Selar!”
“I have no choice,” she said tightly. “Burgoyne is not walking away from this matter. I cannot. It is settled. The traditional weapons are being brought from the city. Ideally, within a few minutes, the matter will be settled.”
“Or you will be dead.”
Selar nodded. “That would settle it.”
Slon cast a glance in his sister’s direction, saw her in conference with Giniv, and then turned back to Burgoyne. “When I steered you to the Vulcan archives,” he told Burgoyne, “it was simply to enable you to familiarize yourself with Vulcan law and tradition on the matter,” he said. “I did not anticipate that you would embark on such an obscure path.”
Burgoyne stretched, catlike, extending each finger of both hands individually. Each one seemed to grow an inch as s/he did so. “That is the interesting thing about me. I tend to do the unexpected.”
“This is not a game, Burgoyne.”
“I hope I don’t appear to think it is.”
“No. But you do not seem to fully appreciate the consequences of your actions. Weaponry is unpredictable, and this is not some choreographed or rehearsed bit of business. One or the other of you could die.”
Burgoyne did not answer immediately. Instead, s/he was busy stretching one of hir legs back and over. There was a faint cracking of bone, a small sigh of relief from Burgoyne, and then s/he started working on the other leg. “I would venture to guess that we will both die,” s/he said. “You will, too, I’d wager. Although frankly, I’m having my doubts about that T’Pau. She looks like she’ll outlive us all. Instead, the planet might crack apart and she’ll still be going about her business.”
“I certainly hope you are having fun in this matter, Burgoyne, but I am most certainly not.”
“Burgoyne.” Slon’s tone was sharper than he had intended. He steadied himself and said, “I am asking you to call this off.”
“No.”
“This is not a logical course.”
“No, it’s not. It is totally illogical,” said Burgoyne, ceasing hir warm-ups and stretching exercise. “But I’m not the one who came up with it. Your people did. And they came up with it at a time when your entire race was, frankly, a lot more interesting. No offense.”
“I could not take offense,” Slon said reasonably.
“No, you couldn’t, could you? Just another one of the things that makes Vulcans, occasionally, rather boring.” S/he regarded Slon with open curiosity. “Do you really, truly think that Xyon—that any child with my blood in him—could conceivably be happy here? Here on this world where joy, love, anger—all the things that give life its meaning, its juice—are actively discouraged?”
“It is not about matters of blood. It is about matters of breeding. To that end, yes, I believe that Xyon could indeed know happiness here.”
“I disagree. And do you know why? Because I think your whole damned race has completely lost touch with the notion of what happiness is. The closest you come to being happy is when you’re not feeling happy . . . or unhappy . . . or anything. You strive for nothingness.”
“We strive for balance.”
“Same thing.”
“No. It is not. You do not understand us, Burgoyne.”
Burgoyne nodded. “I can easily believe that.”
“You think us emotionless, passionless, heartless. We are not. There are members of religious orders on other worlds who take oaths of celibacy, as do the Deltans when they are offworld. This does not render them incapable of passions. It simply means that they contain them, bottle them. But the passions are there nevertheless, and should be neither ignored nor discounted.”
“I used to believe that. But when Selar cold-bloodedly walked off with my son, I decided I was wrong. No one who had any feelings, even contained, could have done such a thing.”