Excalibur #2: Renaissance

by Peter David

  And she, Selar, had looked at hir blankly and said, “Was your grandfather a shuttle pilot of some sort?”

  Burgoyne had stared at her for a long moment, and then a grin had split hir face. S/he rolled onto hir back and proceeded to laugh, to Selar’s utter confusion. She did not press Burgoyne on the matter because it seemed rather pointless. An out-of-context recollection of hir grandfather was a most illogical way to start off a conversation.

  For no reason, the comment had suddenly come back to Selar after having given it no thought for months . . . and the thinking behind the joke suddenly made sense. That’s what it was. A joke. The grandfather had fallen asleep at the controls of his vessel and died while slumbering, leaving the rest of the craft’s passengers to die horribly.

  It was, of course, not especially funny or logical. The death of innocent passengers, for starters, was a tragedy, not a cause for amusement. Then there was the practical aspect of it. If the pilot of any vehicle or vessel suddenly became incapacitated, shipboard computers—a basic part of any vessel manufactured for centuries now—would kick in and be able to continue guiding the vessel to safety. From a humor point of view, it made no sense at all. Which was what made it humorous: it was absurd.

  But the most absurd thing of all, and the thing that had seized momentary hold of Selar’s control, was that she had not comprehended that instantly. She herself, by her actions and reactions, was the true butt of the joke. As well she should be, for failing to comprehend such a simple and trivial display of jocularity. She felt as if she was seeing herself from outside herself, and she might well have been the most absurd figure ever to result from thousands of years of Vulcan evolution and discipline. Certainly that was worth a bit of a giggle.

  But just as quickly as she came to that realization, she brushed it off, having no desire to deal with it. Anyone who had thought they heard her laugh from within her office would have stopped and listened for some further sign of uncharacteristic merriment. They would have been disappointed, for she was in control of herself once more. And she felt that the sooner she had managed to distance herself from that inexcusable noise she had uttered, the better off she would be.

  She heard a noise from the examining room next door. Someone had entered. That was rather unusual, because she was not expecting her first patient for another twenty-seven minutes. Perhaps the arrival was early. She had no need to recheck her agenda for the day; she had glanced at it once when she had first arrived and committed it to memory, as she did every day. Today’s first patient was a new one, one Seklar by name, who had been having aches in his joints for close to a year now. If there was any aggravating aspect to being a doctor for Vulcans, it was the damned Vulcan stoicism. Here was a man who had not known an absence of pain for months, and yet he had refused to see a doctor. He had borne up under the pressure of incessant muscle aches because—since he was so disciplined—he refused to acknowledge that he might, in fact, be in need of medical attention.

  She rose from her chair and stepped into the next room. A tall, slightly stoop-shouldered, gray-haired Vulcan was standing there with his back to her. He was wearing a grayish robelike garment, and much of his hair was turning a pale white. This was definitely someone who had quite a few years on him . . . which was odd, considering that Seklar’s bio file (which, naturally, she had also studied with blithe ease) didn’t seem to indicate that he was so old. Perhaps the premature aging might be a secret to some other aspect of his condition. Even as the possibilities ran through her mind, she said crisply, “Kindly lay down on the diagnostic table and undo the front of your robe.”

  “That,” said the Vulcan, “will not be necessary.”

  The response took Selar aback slightly. “I believe that it will,” she said. “Since I am the doctor, I am somewhat familiar with this procedure.”

  “And were I the patient, I would defer to your wisdom in the matter. But I am not, and therefore am under no such constraint.”

  Until that moment, she had been busy checking her diagnostic instrumentation as she spoke. But his response brought her up short, and she turned and really looked at the man. “If you are not a patient, why are you in my examining room?”

  “I was looking for you.” His voice was a bit gravelly, but there was something in his tone that commanded her attention. When he looked at her, she felt as if she was being watched by a pair of eyes that had seen just about everything that the galaxy had to offer by way of challenge, triumph and tragedy. There was a world-weariness in those eyes, and yet just enough of a sparkle that seemed to indicate he was always more than willing to see just what else might come his way. “You are Selar. One should never jump to conclusions on these matters.”

  “Yes, I am. And who are you?”

  “My name is Spock.”

  It was as if a hammer-blow had struck her in the ribs. She knew the name instantly, of course. Who wouldn’t? Indeed, she felt a degree of chagrin that she had not recognized him at once. “Ambassador Spock,” she said. “It is an honor.” She brought her hand up in the Vulcan salute.

  He returned the gesture with a slight nod of his head.

  “May I offer you something? A beverage of some kind . . .”

  “That will not be necessary. I felt we should talk.”

  “Talk?” It took all the discipline she had to contain her astonishment. “I do not understand, sir. I am naturally gratified that you would see fit to speak with me . . . but the reasons for doing so elude me.”

  “I have heard from several different sources that you might benefit from a dialogue.”

  “Sources . . .?” Then it began to occur to her. “Slon,” she said slowly.

  “He was one,” Spock agreed readily. “We have met on one or two occasions, during diplomatic functions. He is a rather . . . interesting individual.”

  “Not precisely the word I would have used,” said Selar. “May I ask what other individuals felt that I was in need of discourse with you?”

  “T’Pau.”

  She was genuinely taken aback by that. “T’Pau? That is . . . intriguing. May I ask—”

  “I notice, Doctor, that you tend to ask permission before posing a question. That tendency could be rather time-consuming, if continued. It would very likely be of benefit to both of us if you simply posed your queries in a straightforward manner.”

  “I am simply trying to show proper respect, sir,” she said stiffly.

  Spock made a slight noise that sounded like “Henh.” “One would think that such things become more important when one gets older. I certainly thought as much. But I have come to realize that I care less and less about such niceties. Perhaps it is because, as one finds oneself with less time, one comes to appreciate the economy involved in not wasting that remaining time with endless formalities.”

  “Point taken, sir,” she said, although she did not really know if she agreed. “My office might be more comfortable than this examining room, however.”

  He glanced around. “Perhaps. But there is a certain appropriateness to discussing the matter here. It is, after all, a matter of examination.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “An examination of self, Doctor. Your insecurities . . . are not appropriate.”

  She blinked in confusion. “My insecurities? Ambassador . . . I am not insecure.”

  “With respect, Doctor, I disagree. From what I have been told by both T’Pau and Slon, you have displayed a singular lack of security in yourself, both as a parent, and as a female.”

  “Ambassador,” she said with thinly veiled annoyance, “with all the respect to which you are due by dint of your many accomplishments, I do not feel that you have the right to stand in judgment of me.”

  “I do not think the word ‘judgment’ is appropriate. I would say ‘assessment’ is more accurate. Determining the value of what you say and what you do.”

  “But—”

  He spoke right over her. “You abandoned your child.”

 
“I did no such thing, Ambassador,” Selar said. She had taken several steps back, unconsciously putting a greater distance between herself and Spock. “It was not ‘abandonment’ to realize where the greatest good for his welfare would be served.”

  “You made the judgment too hastily.”

  “Ambassador, again, with all respect—”

  “More time-consuming niceties that are of little value, Doctor,” Spock remonstrated. “Do not be concerned about respect or lack thereof. Speak your mind. As a doctor, you should know that that is the best medicine.”

  “The humans claim laughter is.”

  “That is why they live half as long as we do,” Spock deadpanned.

  Not quite sure how to take that remark, Selar wisely chose to ignore it. “Very well, then. I witnessed for myself the cruelty that children are capable of inflicting upon another child who is seen as different.”

  “As have I,” Spock said. “Firsthand.”

  Her mouth opened, then closed. “Oh,” she said softly. “Yes, of course. I should have . . . remembered that.”

  “The capacity for hurting others is the second most common element in the universe, coming only behind stupidity,” Spock said.

  “And you believe what I did was stupid.”

  “No. It was, however, unfortunate, for you sold yourself short.”

  “It had nothing to do with me, Ambassador. It was only my concern for Xyon’s welfare that motivated me.”

  “No, Doctor. It had everything to do with you.”

  “With all resp—” She caught herself, and dropped the honorific way of addressing him. “To be blunt,” she corrected herself, “while your concern is appreciated, Ambassador . . . you do not know me. You are not in a fit position to make such judgments.”

  “You believe I speak from ignorance.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Would you care to enlighten me?”

  For a moment she did not have the faintest idea what he was talking about, but then she understood. She hesitated, his piercing gaze seemingly capable of drilling a hole right through her. The truth was that she felt as if he was capable of analyzing every aspect of her soul just by looking at her, but she wasn’t about to say that, of course. So, instead, she took a deep breath and said proudly, “I have every confidence in my decisions, Ambassador . . . and nothing to hide. I would ordinarily not sanction such contact with someone whom I know so little, but out of . . . deference to you, I will accommodate whatever you feel is necessary for the efficient exchange of ideas.”

  “Very well,” he said, inclining his head slightly. He brought a hand up to her forehead, and extended his index finger. When he touched the side of her head, it was as if an electric current jolted into her. There was such strength, such force of will within him, that she realized he was holding back. He had to. Otherwise it would be too intrusive, too much. “Our minds,” he said in that low, gravelly tone, “are merging.”

  She had never had an experience quite like it before. She had not been offering any deliberate resistance . . . and yet, the moment their minds were joined, she realized that she had been doing so unconsciously. She had been more than ready to hold back certain aspects of her innermost motives, motives she didn’t even realize were there. But the instant her mind merged with Spock’s, such aspirations proved to be utterly hopeless. Typically, the Vulcan mind-meld was like the peeling of an onion, one layer being pulled back to reveal another and another, and so on. That was not the case here. It was as if a knife had been brought down, gently but firmly, into the onion, slicing right through it, revealing the core in one quick, smooth motion.

  By the same token, his revelation of self was remarkably restrained. He presented to her exactly what he wanted her to see: his own hurt, pain and humiliation, experienced as a youth when other children rained their hostility upon him.

  And then, just like that, it was over. She felt his hand behind her back, and she realized belatedly that it was because she had been about to topple over. The only thing that prevented her from doing so was Spock’s strong arm. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I am . . . feeling a bit lightheaded,” she admitted. He helped her to a chair, and she eased herself into it. She looked up at him in wonderment. “How long . . . were we merged?”

  “Two point seven seconds.”

  “Is that . . . all?”

  “Yes,” he said. “That is all that was required.”

  “Why . . . do you say it like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “As if . . . I am so shallow. As if I have no depth of character or personality at all.”

  “If that is the impression I have given you, I apologize,” he said stiffly. “It is, as I said, simply a matter of time. As one gets older, one tends to appreciate economy of movement and endeavor. I was able to discern what I needed to discern so quickly not out of any character flaw on your part, but simply because . . . I have been doing this for some time.”

  “Very well,” she said evenly. “And what have you discerned?”

  “As I suspected . . . your actions in the case of your son have less to do with him than they have to do with you. You believe that you will be inadequate as a mother in being able to help him and prepare him for the world.”

  “That, Ambassador, is simply not—”

  But she stopped. Because she knew it was pointless to deny any such assertions he might make. He had, after all, been within her mind, however briefly. He knew whereof he spoke, and continued protests would simply be . . . humiliating.

  Spock, for his part, seemed to understand her dilemma. He changed his tone to sound a little less accusatory, but the conviction and firmness of voice were still very present. “The problem, Selar, is control. For you, it is very much a matter of either/or. Either you must have total control of a situation . . . or else you do not wish to be involved in it at all. I believe this mindset was ingrained to some degree, but became exacerbated after the death of your mate. You felt—as illogical as it may sound—that by surrendering to passion, by giving up control, you were being punished by the traumatic loss of your mate.”

  “I see,” she said stiffly.

  “If you do not wish to continue this discussion—”

  “No, no. I find it . . . fascinating.”

  “You find yourself now in a similar position regarding your child. You wish to be able to control every aspect of his life—to shield him from all hurt, to plan out every aspect of his development, of his future. Yet you have come to realize that such is not possible, while at the same time thinking that that is all you have to offer him. That it is an all-or-nothing proposition. If you cannot control him or the world that he is to live in, then there is nothing at all that you can do for him. You have set yourself a goal that is unattainable, and because you now know it to be unattainable, you would cease the endeavor entirely rather than simply set new goals.”

  “And what do I have to offer him, realistically?” Selar asked. She was leaning against the diagnostic bed, trying to look comfortable when, in fact, she had never been more ill-at-ease. “All I will ever be to him is a symbol of what he can never be: truly Vulcan. Is that not what your father was to you? Was that not the core of the rift between the two of you? You would look upon him and see the Vulcan that you would never be . . . and he would see in you the human you would always be, no matter how closely you might follow our teachings.”

  The faintest hint of a smile touched the edges of Spock’s mouth. “So . . . you did discern a few things from the mind-meld.”

  “It could not be helped.”

  “Indeed not. The rift between my father and I had less to do with my biological heritage than it did my career choice.”

  “Did it? Or was your career choice predicated on the concept that you could never do what your father did . . . because you could never be what he was?”

  The faint smile faded. There was silence for a time, and Selar felt uncomfortably guilty, which annoyed her
. Naturally, she allowed neither to show.

  “Everyone,” Spock said softly, “makes mistakes. To make them from ignorance . . . is unfortunate. To make them with full knowledge is illogical.”

  “And that is what you think I am doing?”

  “Selar . . . one should never ask more of oneself than one is fully capable of giving. Do you feel that you have given everything possible in this instance? That you have done your best?”

  She looked down, looked deep into her own heart, which had just been shredded and revealed with such facility during the mind-meld. “Perhaps . . . not,” she admitted after a long silence. “But what would you suggest? Go to Burgoyne and inform hir that I have changed my mind again? How much trauma am I supposed to visit upon hir . . . and him?”

  “Burgoyne . . . is another subject entirely.”

  “Burgoyne usually is.”

  “The truth is,” Spock said slowly, “that you love hir.”

  “No,” was her immediate response, but she said it without her customary conviction.

  Spock was not the least bit deterred by the denial. “The bond that was formed between the two of you is genuine. If it were not, you would not be so daunted by it. The thing is, most of your attraction is self-referential. That is, you are struck by hir dedication to you, hir passion for you. Hir determination. Hir bravery. Hir strength of character. The problem is that you do not believe that you have anything to offer back. Your concerns are less about hir and more about yourself. You do not think yourself capable of it . . . and, of course, you are afraid of it because of what happened before. ‘Loss’ is not an abstract term for you. You do not wish to risk further hurt.”

  “Let us say . . . for sake of argument . . . that you are correct. What possible advice could you offer to address that concern?”

  “I could offer what was possibly the best advice on the subject ever given me.”

  “And that would be?”

  Once again, that hint of a smile came to him, as if his thoughts were a hundred miles . . . or perhaps a hundred years away. As if he was genuinely hearing someone else’s voice in his head when he spoke.