Excalibur #2: Renaissance

by Peter David

  No. Not just someone. Instinctively, immediately, she knew. “Burgoyne,” she whispered. She didn’t want to believe it, but it made an awful, terrible sense. Burgoyne had not been able to deal with the loss of Xyon. Whether it was out of love for the child, or a sense of humiliation that Selar had defeated hir, Selar couldn’t know. And to think that, in some small way, Selar had believed that Burgoyne had deliberately lost the battle out of a feeling of love, misplaced or otherwise. Obviously, Selar had been wrong. Burgoyne loved nothing but Burgoyne, that much was now quite clear.

  She immediately informed the authorities. Blocks were put up at the local spaceports. That could not provide a one hundred percent guard against Burgoyne slipping away with the child on a private vessel, but it would certainly prevent any departure on a commercial vessel. A search was also conducted throughout the city, although Selar didn’t really have any genuine hope that it would yield anything. Burgoyne was simply too crafty, too capable. S/he had probably gone to ground somewhere, holding Xyon tightly to hir breast and laughing over how s/he had managed to pull a fast one on Selar. . . .

  The front chime sounded at the door. With effort, Selar forced herself to turn away from the crib and walked on unsteady feet to the door. “Yes,” she called.

  The door slid open and her eyes widened as she saw Burgoyne standing there, looking nothing but concerned. There were guardsmen on either side of hir, and standing just behind Burgoyne was Slon. Was he part of this somehow? The question slammed through her mind, but she couldn’t believe it was possible. Her own brother aiding in the kidnapping of her child? She had never been close to him, but she could not believe that even he would stoop to such a thing.

  She was rather surprised, however, when the first words out of Burgoyne’s mouth were, “Where is he?”

  She blinked in confusion, but then she understood. “Of course. You would naturally take an air of aggressive concern in order to obscure your own guilt.”

  “My guilt? You’re crazy.” Burgoyne wasn’t even looking at her anymore. Instead s/he was walking around the main room, hir nostrils flaring. “I’ve nothing to feel guilty over.”

  Selar moved alongside him, limping slightly. “That is another natural reaction for you to have. You do not feel guilty because you believe that you were perfectly entitled to take—”

  “I took no one,” Burgoyne said flatly. S/he still wasn’t even bothering to look in Selar’s direction. It was as if she didn’t exist. “And frankly, the thought that you believe I would is a bit disheartening.”

  “How would you know? You have no heart.”

  That got Burgoyne to look directly at her. A long moment passed, and in that moment Selar saw a world of hurt pass through Burgoyne’s eyes. But when Burgoyne spoke next, it was in a voice that was surprisingly soft and sad.

  “Of all the lousy things you’ve ever said to me . . . that was the worst.” Then s/he went back to what s/he was doing.

  Now Slon stepped forward. “Selar . . . tell us what happened. Exactly. The authorities here told us, but I would rather hear it from you.”

  In quick, broad strokes, never taking her eyes off Burgoyne and hir curious theatrics, Selar told her brother precisely what had happened. He listened to every word, his face a mask of concentration. “There is another possibility, you know,” he said as he stepped out of Burgoyne’s way. The guardsmen were watching hir carefully, clearly not certain what s/he was doing, but not wishing to interfere.

  “And what would that possibility be?” Selar said with barely concealed sarcasm.

  “T’Fil. The nurse.”

  “That is absurd.”

  “No. It is not absurd. It is, in fact, logical.”

  “It is not logical—”

  “Consider,” said Slon, stroking his chin and speaking in a slightly singsong tone, as if he were a detective analyzing a case. “It is possible that she is not in her right mind. That some chemical imbalance, perhaps, is causing her to act in an unprecedented or peculiar fashion.”

  “Slon,” Selar began, with just the slightest hint of impatience.

  But Slon was not listening. He was far too caught up in the possibilities that he was putting forward. “You may not wish to acknowledge it, Selar, but it does make eminent sense. Consider the following potential chain of events: T’Fil has desired for some time to abscond with Xyon. When you return from the judgment, tired, injured . . . she sees her opportunity.”

  “This is foolishness.”

  “No, Selar,” Slon said, sounding a touch offended. “It is logic. Deduction. While ministering to your needs, she finds a way to put you to sleep. A drug, perhaps, or even a subtle application of the mind meld . . . possible if you were not prepared for it. She then goes back into Xyon’s room, removes the child, and departs the house. She does this secure in the knowledge that if anyone is to be a suspect, it shall be Burgoyne. Why not, after all? It is Burgoyne who has fought you, challenged you. Burgoyne is the offworlder. Burgoyne is the ‘frustrated father.’ Burgoyne . . .”

  “Suggests that you keep your voice down, or you’re going to wake Xyon,” said Burgoyne. S/he had seated hirself on the couch and was looking rather pleased with hirself.

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Selar, but there was a slight sign of hope on her face.

  For response, Burgoyne simply pointed downward. S/he said nothing further, but instead folded hir arms and sat there, sphinxlike. Selar hesitated a moment, then got down on her hands and knees and looked where s/he was pointing.

  Xyon was under the couch. His eyes were closed, and he was sleeping peacefully.

  “Xyon!” Selar was unable to contain her reflex response, and Xyon’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked several times and then focused on Selar’s face. He smiled amiably, utterly oblivious to the consternation (albeit controlled consternation) that he had caused. Selar reached under the couch, and he batted playfully at her hands as she scooped him out and up, balancing him on her leg.

  “Of course,” said Slon, unperturbed, “another possibility is that he was under the couch.”

  “How did he . . .?” She looked at Burgoyne in confusion. “How did you . . .?”

  “I scented him. I’m not on Ensign Janos’s level when it comes to olfactory skill, but I have my moments. Particularly when I’m searching out my own flesh and blood.” Burgoyne smiled at Xyon and reached out to touch him under the chin. Selar automatically started to move Xyon back so that Burgoyne couldn’t touch him, but then clearly thought better of it and kept him close. Xyon made a soft, cooing sound as Burgoyne’s finger stroked the soft underside of his chin.

  “Gentlemen,” Slon said briskly, picking up the momentary slack, “I believe your services will not be required here any more this evening.”

  The Vulcan guardsmen nodded slightly, and one of them said, “Doctor . . . the next time you report a child as missing, you may wish to check under all available furniture to make certain he is not merely hiding.”

  “I will see to that,” Selar assured them, still looking with polite confusion at her child. The guardsmen then let themselves out.

  “He is developing quite well,” Slon observed. “I have never seen a Vulcan child of such tender age balance his head—indeed, his entire body—with such confidence.” He turned to Burgoyne and said, “We are somewhat long-lived as a race, and tend to develop far more slowly in the early years.”

  If Burgoyne heard what Slon said, s/he didn’t indicate it. Instead, s/he was looking at Selar. “Do you think it possible that perhaps—just perhaps—you owe me an apology?”

  Selar took a deep breath. “I apologize, Burgoyne, for believing that you had anything to do with the disappearance of Xyon.”

  “Accepted.”

  “However—”

  Burgoyne looked to Slon with resignation. “There had to be a ‘however,’ of course. She could not leave well enough alone.”

  “However,” Selar continued, “I do not see how it is possible that Xyon
got under the couch. Is it possible that someone was attempting to take him away, but stopped short when I began to awaken and simply tossed him under there for—”

  “I believe I have a simpler explanation,” Burgoyne commented. “Put him down.”

  “Down?”

  “On the floor.”

  “Burgoyne,” Selar said impatiently, “I am not about to—”

  “Selar, please, for once in your life . . . just do something because I ask you to. Not because it’s logical, not because of any reason other than that I’m asking you to take me at my word. Please.”

  Selar, shaking her head, placed Xyon on the ground. It was, she knew, a pointless endeavor. The child was far too young—far, far too young—to do anything other than simply lie there. Within several months, he might be capable of turning himself over, but that was some time down the line. . . .

  Xyon was lying on his back, and stayed that way for exactly two seconds. And then he rolled over.

  “Fascinating,” said Slon.

  For her part, Selar could not believe it. This was something that Vulcan children simply could not do. But if that was surprising, what happened next was positively stupefying. Xyon drew his back legs up into a crouch and brought his tiny fingers down in front of him. With a slight grunt, he managed to push himself back so that his hands and feet were giving him equal balance. The posture was vaguely simian . . . or, Selar realized, quite akin to Burgoyne when s/he was moving at high speed, using all four of hir limbs.

  “This is not possible,” Selar said with such certainty that it seemed likely Xyon might actually vanish into thin air.

  Xyon stubbornly refused to acknowledge the preposterousness of what he was doing. Instead, he added to his impossible feats by moving forward quite quickly. There was some awkwardness to the movement, but there was no questioning his capacity for locomotion. He cruised around the apartment, pulling himself up every so often to get a better look at something that might have caught his fancy. As this happened, Selar simply watched as if she was viewing the activities of some alien species that was of no relation to her at all.

  “Not . . . possible,” she managed to get out.

  Amazingly, it was Burgoyne who sounded eminently calm. “It is indeed possible,” s/he said. “You see, Hermats don’t live quite as long as Vulcans. But more than that—our biology and developmental processes are different from yours.”

  “Different, yes, I can accept that, but this . . .?” She reached for Xyon and picked him up, but this time he actually squirmed in her grasp. She quickly put him down and watched as Xyon pulled himself up with more speed and confidence than he had before and started to clamber around the living room once more.

  “Why shouldn’t this be the case?” asked Burgoyne. “On earth, newborn horses stand within minutes of birth. Baby Hortas are capable of feeding themselves in no time at—”

  “This is not a Horta, not a horse. This is a Vulcan child, and Vulcan children simply do not . . .” Her voice trailed off as she moved quickly to stop Xyon from scaling a cabinet. He emitted a petulant wail and, unable to deal with what she was seeing, she brought Xyon into his room and placed him in the crib. He howled indignantly. Selar ignored him as she walked back into the living room. Burgoyne was perched on the edge of a chair, and Slon was near the door. “Vulcan children,” she said, picking up from where she’d left off, “simply do not do this sort of thing.”

  “This is not merely a Vulcan child. This is—”

  “I know what he is, Burgoyne,” she said with an annoying bit of sharpness in her voice. “That has been driven home to me very thoroughly by the—”

  Slon cleared his throat loudly and pointed. They looked where he indicated, although Selar had a sick feeling that she knew what she was going to see. She was right. Xyon had clambered out of his crib and was joyfully bounding across the floor. It was hard to believe that, only minutes ago, he had been feeling his way with his new method of locomotion. Now he was moving with utter confidence.

  Without a word, Selar walked back to him, picked him up, and carted him back into his bedroom. This time she did not come out quite as quickly as before. When she did re-emerge, her arms were empty. “He is asleep,” she said flatly, closing the door behind her.

  “You made sure of that, did you?” Slon asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Made sure?” Burgoyne didn’t quite understand.

  “Careful and subtle use of the mind meld,” Selar told hir. “Nothing intrusive.” She sat down on the chair, her hands neatly placed in her lap. “Perhaps, Burgoyne, it would now be best if you left.”

  “And what about Xyon? Are you ready to handle a child with his peculiar . . . attributes?”

  “Nothing has changed. He is a Vulcan, and will be raised as a Vulcan.”

  “Nothing has changed? Nothing has changed?” Burgoyne laughed at that. “You reported a child missing after he hauled himself out of his bed, months before a Vulcan child should be capable of such an action. And you think that nothing has changed? That, Selar . . . is illogical.” With that, Burgoyne walked out, still laughing softly and shaking hir head.

  Slon remained behind a moment, standing at a respectful distance. “Are you all right, Selar?”

  “Of course I am, Slon. The dispute is settled. I have my child. He is not missing. Nothing else need be said.”

  “Then . . . I shall say good evening to you.”

  “Good evening, Slon.”

  Slon walked out, leaving Selar to the quiet of her solitude. She sat there, trying to sort through her conflicting thoughts. At that moment, she heard a faint but persistent scratching at the door of Xyon’s room.

  She closed her eyes and said firmly, “Nothing has changed.” But she wasn’t at all sure who she was saying it for, because there was no one there to believe her . . . including herself.

  SCOTTY

  THE COMPUTER CORE was truly a magnificent achievement, and even though he had not installed it, Scotty had done so much work on it that he’d come to take something of a proprietary interest in it.

  Stretching several stories high, the core was what kept not only all aspects of El Dorado running, but also a number of other, smaller resorts. Everything, from the hotel climate to the wave generator, had its instructions filtered through this one place. So the fact that everything was not as it should be was extremely irritating to Montgomery Scott. It was, naturally, also of concern to Theodore Quincy, who was following Scotty around as he took readings, making small talk and in most ways—if not all—serving as far more of a distraction to Scott than a help.

  “It’s good to know it wasn’t just my imagination,” Quincy was saying. “A glitch here, a glitch there. Individually, they seem like nothing. But when you combine them, well . . . that’s when the trouble sets in. That’s when you get a true overview of just how things are.”

  “Aye, Mr. Quincy, ah know.” He was studying the readings off one of the check stations.

  Quincy’s voice echoed slightly in the cavernous room. “May I ask why you felt the need to come down here? After all, we have any number of access ports in the resort itself.”

  “Aye, ye do. But ah happen to be a hands-on sort of fella. Mr. Quincy.”

  “Thomas, please, Scotty. I don’t know how many times I’ve asked you to call me Thomas.”

  “Ah’d wager it’s quite a few. Very well—Thomas . . .”

  “Yes, Scotty?” Quincy replied genially.

  “Would ye get the hell outta muh way?”

  “Oh. Sorry.” He stepped aside and let Scotty get to another section of the core. Scotty rechecked the readings and then started climbing up the utility ladder built into the side. “So, Scotty . . . how goes matters with that rather charming woman? What was her name? Morgan Primus?”

  “Aye, Morgan is her name. As for how things are goin’,” He shrugged. “Ah canna tell ye. Ye can ask her . . . and her beau, Mr. Viola.”

  “Now, now, Scotty,” he said as Scott walke
d around one of the feeder cores and he followed him. “If you’re really interested in her, you shouldn’t just step aside. You should fight for her.”

  “Fight?”

  “Yes.”

  “For a woman?”

  “Exactly.”

  Scotty stared at Quincy as if he’d just grown another eye. “What would be the purpose of that? There’s always women. Lots of women. One is very much like another.”

  “That’s where I think you’re wrong, Scotty.”

  “Do ye? Do ye think I’m wrong?”

  “Definitely.”

  Scotty looked stricken for a moment. “Oh, no! That would bother th’hell out of me . . . if ah cared.” Then he went on about his business.

  But Quincy seemed disinclined to let it drop. “You can’t fool me, Scotty. The fact is, the only female you ever felt comfortable with was the Enterprise. And you never had to fight for her. In fact, when you had to stand there and watch her be blown up, years ago, that sent you into a tailspin of mourning that you’ve never quite recovered from.”

  Scotty snorted derisively. “And where did ye come up with that harebrained idea?”

  “James Kirk’s autobiography.”

  That gave him pause. “Oh,” he said softly, and was silent for a few moments. He even stopped consulting the readings on the computer core, which simply thrummed away on its own for a time.

  Scott moved up a rampway that led to the upper levels of the core. Quincy followed, but made the severe mistake of looking down. He gripped the railing unsteadily. Scotty glanced where Quincy was looking and, truthfully, couldn’t entirely blame him for his momentary swirl of vertigo. The area where they were standing was indeed quite high, and the only thing that stopped them from plummeting down into what a more fanciful individual might have considered a bottomless drop was the rampways and catwalks upon which they were standing.

  Scotty walked over to him, leaned over and let go a large wad of spit. Then he watched with interest as it disappeared into the bowels of the computer core. “Quite a drop,” he said cheerfully. “Perhaps ye shouldn’ta come along, ye think?”