by Peter David
And then, one day, it all changed.
Burgoyne was walking back from the lake where s/he had been swimming. As always, there was no one around, and so Burgoyne had not bothered with clothing of any kind. S/he was allowing the gentle, warm wind to dry hir for the most part, with a towel slung over one shoulder that s/he had been lying out upon while sunning hirself on a rock near the lake.
As s/he approached hir house, however, scents began to waft down the wind to hir. Hir nostrils flared, and s/he stopped where s/he was, balancing hirself on hir toes without thought, as if poising hirself to make some sort of an attack on whoever was there. All of hir defensive instincts were kicking in.
There were two scents coming to hir from the house. S/he recognized both of them.
S/he gasped, unable to trust hirself that what s/he thought s/he was detecting was genuine. But s/he was so eager to believe it that s/he tossed caution aside entirely. S/he gave no thought to the fact that s/he was nude, or that s/he might be running into some sort of danger. Instead, s/he barreled straight toward the house, moving with absolutely no noise across the desert surface other than the occasional clicking of hir extended claws, which were giving hir traction and additional speed.
S/he burst into the house and stood there, eyes wide.
Slon stood and blinked in very mild surprise. “My apologies,” he said. “I was unaware that you were going to be so informal.”
S/he paid no attention to his obvious discomfiture, or hir own undress. Instead, hir attention was riveted purely on the child, who was sitting up on the couch next to Slon. Xyon took one look at Burgoyne and made gleeful, cooing noises, his arms spinning in little circles.
He remembers me. That had been the most difficult thing for Burgoyne to come to terms with: that Xyon was not going to have any recollection whatsoever of his other parent. That Burgoyne was going to be a nonperson to him. But that was clearly not the case, at least not yet. It was painfully obvious that Xyon knew exactly who s/he was. Burgoyne went to him and picked him up, holding him tight against hirself, gasping at the warmth, the pure, vital life of him. Xyon burbled, and then began to slap at Burgoyne’s small breasts. Burgoyne didn’t understand why at first . . . but then s/he comprehended. “He wants to nurse,” s/he said with understanding. “He wants me to breast-feed him.”
“If you say so,” Slon said.
“I . . . my God, I don’t have anything . . . I mean, I didn’t give birth, so I don’t have any . . . and around the house, it’s . . .” S/he realized hir words were tumbling over each other in hir excitement. “All I have is Scotch.”
“That would not be wise,” Slon said. “Do not concern yourself. I have brought an artificial nourishment beverage with me in substantial supply. It is, after all, a lengthy trip from Vulcan, and obviously Xyon did not go hungry all this way. I have brought the formula for it on a chip so that you can program it into your replicator. I will feed him for the moment from a bottle; you may wish to attend to your own presentation.”
Burgoyne didn’t quite get it, but then s/he looked down and seemed to notice for the first time hir lack of attire.
“One of us is dressed inappropriately,” commented Slon. “If this is to be put to a vote, I would prefer that you acquire clothing rather than that I divest myself of mine. Although it is your home, and I shall abide by your rules.”
“Just give me a minute,” said Burgoyne, and s/he hurried into the adjoining room. S/he came back out moments later with a simple shift tossed over hirself and sat on the floor, staring up in wonderment as Slon bottle-fed Xyon. Xyon was clearly having no trouble with the formula; indeed, he seemed quite content with it. “What,” s/he finally managed to ask, “are you doing here? I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”
“I am here with your son.”
“Yes, I can see that. And Selar—?”
“Is not.”
“I can see that also.” S/he took a deep breath to steady the pounding of hir heart. “Look, Slon . . . you’re an intelligent man. You must know all the questions that are tumbling around in my head right now, so let’s not pretend they’re not there. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Selar,” Slon said calmly, “is still on Vulcan. Xyon is here, as am I. I will be returning to Vulcan. Whether Xyon returns with me . . . is up to you.”
“To me?” S/he was having trouble wrapping hirself around what s/he was hearing. S/he wanted to believe s/he was interpreting it correctly, but almost didn’t dare. “Why . . . up to me? Selar . . . wait. Selar knows you’re here, doesn’t she?” s/he asked with sudden suspicion.
“Of course. You could not possibly think I kidnapped my own nephew.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“Perhaps this might help you in your thought process,” said Slon, and he handed a computer chip to Burgoyne. S/he held it up, and knew it immediately for a mail card. Hir eyebrows puckered questioningly, but Slon was as readable as a rock. So s/he went over to hir computer screen and popped the chip into the slot.
Immediately an image of Selar appeared on the screen. She looked no different than she ever did. Her manner was calm, detached. She might just as easily have been commenting on the unchanging weather of Nevada.
“Hello, Burgoyne,” she said. Burgoyne wasn’t sure, but there seemed to be just a hint of strain in her voice. Her outward manner, however, remained unchanged. “By this point you are, most likely, trying to determine whether I am aware that Xyon is there with you, and that Slon has him.”
“She’s good, I’ll give her that,” admitted Burgoyne.
“The answer to both of those questions is: Yes. I am quite aware. It was, in fact, my suggestion. Actually, I suppose ‘suggestion’ is too mild a word, considering the circumstances.” She paused a moment, as if steeling herself, and then continued, “I have given great thought to the matter, and have decided that—if you are still interested—Xyon will benefit more from being in your care than in mine.”
Burgoyne couldn’t believe it. S/he turned and looked at Slon questioningly. Slon simply nodded and then pointed at the screen, indicating that Burgoyne should pay attention to the rest of what was being said.
“You will notice,” she said, with remarkable clinical detachment, “that Xyon is continuing to develop at an accelerated rate. My studies and tests indicate that that acceleration will slow as he grows older . . . which is fortunate, since at this speed he would be an old man by age five. Nevertheless, this aspect and . . . others have forced me to conclude that Vulcan may not be the right environment for him. I think he may not fit in here very well. I have done a good deal of self-evaluation as well, and have concluded that—if he does indeed encounter the problems I feel he will—that I lack the emotional and maternal capabilities required to see him through his trials. It is an unfortunate admission to make, but I have always prided myself on knowing my capabilities. I think you will be better suited to meet his emotional needs than someone for whom emotions are an . . . inconvenience at best. As for me, I will be remaining on Vulcan. I think it the best place for me for the time being. I will very likely return to Starfleet active duty at some future date. But, naturally, I will not want to risk interfering with your childrearing, should you choose to return to shipboard duty as well. So, I will make certain to request that I not be assigned to the same vessel as you. I know that, being an emotional individual, you might consider that request some sort of personal slight, should you hear of it. So I believed it best to inform you of it now. That way you will be able to take it in the spirit in which it is intended.
“Naturally, you will not raise Xyon as a Vulcan. I ask, though, that you respect aspects of our culture enough to teach him some of our history and philosophies. Considering the amount of time you spent in our library, I suspect you have already familiarized yourself with much of it, and will be able to use it in a more constructive endeavor than trying to defeat me in combat.” She hesitated then, as if trying to decide whether she could continue. Finally she sai
d, “It is my belief that you could have won our battle. I believe you chose not to. The fact that you made that choice . . . makes it easier for me to make this one. Teach him my name, Burgoyne, and make certain that he knows who his mother is . . . and who he is. Peace . . . and long life.” She held her hand in the Vulcan salute.
“Live long and prosper,” s/he replied, returning the gesture. Selar, naturally, could not hear hir, since the message was prerecorded. Yet she nodded ever so slightly, as if reacting to Burgoyne’s response, before the picture faded out.
There was silence for a time, broken only by Xyon’s occasional gulping as he drank down his nourishment. Then, slowly, Burgoyne turned to Slon. “Is this for real?” s/he asked.
“You still doubt it?”
“I . . . suppose I don’t, no. It’s just hard to believe, I mean . . .” S/he shook hir head. “What brought this on?”
“She did not go into specifics with me. She simply told me what she had decided, and asked me to bring Xyon here.”
“Why didn’t she tell me ahead of time?”
“Because she said she wanted you to react with your gut instincts when Xyon was already here. She said she has little use for instincts herself, but that you seem to function best when you depend upon them. For what it is worth, I think that is an accurate enough assessment.”
“So . . . what do I do now?” Burgoyne was staring numbly at Xyon, not quite sure what to think.
“You do as she suggests: you follow your instincts. Do you want him?”
“Of course I want him!”
Slon nodded approvingly. “You see? You answered that with immediacy and conviction. That alone should provide you with the answer you seek.”
“I . . . suppose you’re right. May I . . .?” S/he gestured with hir arms, and Slon understood. He rose and, without missing a beat, eased the still-drinking Xyon over into Burgoyne’s arms. Burgoyne slowly rocked the child as, apparently oblivious to the change in “ownership,” he continued at his bottle. He was holding it in his own hands, rather than requiring someone to hold it for him. “Incredible. He feels like he weighs nothing.”
“I know. You would almost think his bones are hollow. But he is very strong, very resilient.”
“You sound almost proud,” observed Burgoyne.
“I am his uncle, after all. That would certainly be my prerogative.”
“You’re right. Slon . . . did you have something to do with this? With getting her to change her mind?”
“No. It was entirely her doing, her initiative.” Slon stood there and watched hir for a few moments more. “Curious.”
“What?”
“I am not exactly expert in the realm of emotions, as you might surmise. But I cannot help but think that your reaction is a bit . . . muted.”
“It’s just that . . . well . . .” Burgoyne looked down at Xyon as if s/he couldn’t quite believe that he was really there. “When this all started . . . when I got this house, made plans . . . it was never with the thought that I was going to be Xyon’s sole parent. Even if I had won the judgment, I was then going to do everything I could to get Selar to be there right alongside me, raising Xyon the best we could. I never wanted to be the one parent in his life.”
“My understanding is that Hermats are not raised by a father and mother.”
“That is correct. To be blunt, part of the reason I’m now something of an outcast in some quarters is precisely because I wanted to provide that sort of life for my son. I was looked upon by many of my own people as a freak, a misfit.”
“Ironic, considering that Selar was worried that that would be the way that Xyon would be perceived.”
“Maybe we deserve each other at that.” Burgoyne noticed that Xyon was drifting off to sleep. Gently s/he removed the bottle from his mouth. Xyon’s lips fluttered slightly, but otherwise he continued to sleep soundly.
“Are you saying you are sorry that you will be raising Xyon?”
“No. I’m saying I’m sorry that we—Selar and I, together—won’t be.” S/he eased hirself onto the couch. Xyon stirred a little, but Burgoyne rocked back and forth, and Xyon drifted back to sleep.
“After everything that happened, you still love her.”
Burgoyne nodded. “Stupid, isn’t it?”
“No. But it is illogical.”
“And I’m worried.” Burgoyne looked up at him. “I’m worred what Selar is going to do now. I’m worried that she’s going to beat herself up over this. Second-guess herself, make herself feel as if she’s inadequate.”
“I would not worry about that happening.”
“You wouldn’t?” Burgoyne felt a bit relieved. This was, after all, Selar’s brother. If anyone knew how she was likely to react in any given situation, it was he.
“No,” he said confidently. “I believe it is already happening.”
“What?” That was certainly not the answer Burgoyne had been expecting.
But Slon nodded slightly. “I am seeing it already. In her bearing and posture, in the things she says. She is having difficulty coping with her decision, even though she is confident of its correctness. And moreover—”
“Moreover what?” Burgoyne was beginning to feel frustrated. It was as if s/he had to fight for every scrap of information.
“I do not wish to instill within you false hope . . . but it is my belief that she feels deep affection for you. So much so that she does not know what to do with it or how to handle it. That makes matters very problematic for her. I am not saying she loves you. I do not think she would know what to do with the feeling if she had it. I am simply saying she is very confused.”
“Well, that makes two of us.” Burgoyne now looked a bit uncertainly at Xyon. “Maybe I’m . . . maybe I’m not doing the right thing by taking Xyon. Maybe—”
“You should force him back upon a mother who is in turmoil?” Slon shook his head. “I do not see the logic in that plan.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Be as good a parent as you possibly can. It is Xyon who needs you now. Allow me to attend to Selar.”
“Attend to Selar?” Burgoyne regarded Slon with open curiosity. “What have you got up your sleeve? I mean, what have you got planned?” s/he amended quickly when s/he saw Slon looking blankly at his sleeve and the arm that occupied it.
“Planned?” Slon said blandly. “I did not say I had anything planned. However . . . I do have some . . . interesting connections. As does T’Pau.”
“Connections? T’Pau? What does she have to do with any of this? What connections? What are you up to?”
“Up to?”
“Stop that! Stop repeating what I say while adding this whole inscrutable Vulcan attitude that you revel in. If you’re planning something, just come out with it and tell me!”
“There is really nothing to discuss at this point,” Slon told hir firmly. “I will simply say this: There are always . . . possibilities.”
THE AMBASSADOR
IF BURGOYNE’S DAYS HAD BEEN one much the same as the other, so, too, had it been for Selar. Patients came. Patients went. They got cured or got sicker, they lived or they died. Doctor Selar made her best efforts in all cases, but her clinical detachment seemed to have become even more detached. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about what happened to them. It was that they had ceased to be living, breathing individuals in her eyes. They were instead simply . . . objects. Problems to be solved. A series of ailments to be diagnosed, ministrations to be tended to, cures to be prescribed. They were an endless parade of problems. Nothing more than that.
She did not think this especially odd, or sad, or anything. It simply . . . was.
Every so often she would go into the room that had served as Xyon’s nursery. She would stand there for a time, thinking about the life that he was now leading on Earth. She wondered if he remembered her at all. He probably would . . . at least for a brief time. Would he forget her after weeks? Months? Certainly a year or so from now, only the face
and voice of Burgoyne would have any meaning to him.
Burgoyne . . .
She found herself thinking about hir more and more these days. She found that she would watch other Vulcans engaging in something as simple as walking, and she would be comparing those movements to the way that Burgoyne carried hirself. There was a grace, an elegance to Burgoyne’s movements that she really hadn’t appreciated until after Burgoyne was out of her life. It was . . .
Sad?
Whenever her thoughts would wander in that direction, she did everything she could to shake it off. Burgoyne was gone, that’s all, just gone out of her life, and no amount of regrets was going to benefit anyone. Besides, she did not have regrets. She was Dr. Selar of Vulcan. All her training, everything that she was, everything that she knew, taught her that decisions were arrived at in a solid, logical manner. Once the decision was made, no amount of second-guessing or reconsideration was worthwhile. She had done what was best for Xyon. For Burgoyne. For herself.
She sat in her office and laughed.
At first the sound was so odd that it didn’t immediately register on her what it was. She had never heard her own laughter before. When it leaped out at her in that manner, it prompted her to put her hand to her mouth, as if she had just, against her will, called T’Pau by a profane epithet. She had no idea what had prompted her to act in such a manner.
She had been thinking about Burgoyne. That much she knew. Something s/he had said, or something s/he had done. Selar couldn’t remember clearly now what it might have been. S/he had said or done it many months ago, and at the time, Selar had just shaken her head and let it pass without comment. But now, unbidden, it had come back to her . . . what was it . . .?
“When I die . . .” Burgoyne had said. What was it . . .?
They had been lying in bed together, and Burgoyne had suddenly propped hir head up on one hand and looked at Selar with what appeared to be utter sincerity.
“When I die,” s/he had said abruptly, with no preamble whatsoever, “I want to go like my grandfather did: peacefully, in his sleep. Not screaming, like his passengers.”