by Peter David
“ ‘Risk,’ ” he said, “ ‘is our business.’ ”
“Our ‘business’?” Selar didn’t understand. “This is not business, Ambassador. This is life.”
“The lives we lead are the most important business with which we have to deal,” he said. “If I can impart anything to you, let it be that. You must live your life, Selar, and not live in fear of it. If you committed yourself to your patients with as little confidence as you do yourself, you would have the highest mortality rate in the history of medical practice.”
There was a sound from the outer room, the patient reception area. Spock drew himself up and said, “It would be best if I left now.”
“Ambassador . . . I thank you for your efforts, but I . . .” She hesitated and then realized that it would be best to simply come out and say it. “I have not been the least convinced by anything that you have said.”
“Yes. You have been.”
She couldn’t quite believe that she had heard him properly. “No . . . I haven’t,” she said. “And I am not going to reinsert myself into Xyon’s life.”
“Yes. You will.”
“And I am not going back to Burgoyne to try to make a life with hir.”
“Yes. You are.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “And what,” she demanded, “makes you so certain, and me so wrong?”
“Experience,” he said. That being all the explanation he felt he needed, he left the examination room—and a thoroughly perplexed Selar—behind.
THE DINNER PARTY
THE SHAKESPEARE TAVERN was even more raucous, if such was possible, than it had been the time that Rafe, Nik, Morgan, and Robin had first assembled there. People were laughing, chatting, and having a great old time. Around the table, the four vacationers were likewise relaxing and soaking in the atmosphere. Drinks were in front of them, appetizers had been ordered, and there really was no reason to assume that the evening was going to be anything other than splendid.
“So you’re going to be extending your stay? That’s great!” said Nik.
“Well, it was Mother’s idea.”
“I didn’t hear you voicing any strenuous objections, dear. Then again, I’m assuming that you’ve found something here to engage your interest, right?” She winked lazily in Nik’s direction.
“It was a good idea, all right?” Robin admitted, her cheeks coloring slightly. Obviously desiring to change the subject as quickly as possible, she continued, “Nik, Rafe . . . perhaps you gentlemen and Mother and I could spend the day together tomorrow. The whole day. You know, there’s other areas of Risa that we haven’t even touched. We could get on a shuttle, or—”
“Actually, we’ve already got plans for tomorrow,” Rafe said apologetically. “Nothing we can cancel. A shame, really. We would have liked to do as you suggest, but, well . . .” He shrugged.
“That’s very much a shame,” Morgan said. “It sounded like it would have been a marvelous idea. But . . . it’s not as if you’re leaving Risa for good, right?”
“Of course not,” Rafe assured her.
But Morgan was watching his eyes very carefully. “You’re not leaving?” she said again.
He laughed softly. “Morgan, you did hear me the first time, I assume? No. No, I’m not leaving. Nor is Nik. To be honest, we’re perfectly happy to extend our own stay for as long as you’re going to be here.”
“How nice,” she said, her lips thinning. Her eyes were still locked on his. “Tell me, Rafe . . . what do you think of Montgomery Scott?”
“The engineering fellow?” Nik spoke up. “Good heavens, why get into discussing him, of all people?”
“Absent friends,” said Morgan.
Robin was looking at her mother strangely. There was something going on, and she wasn’t exactly sure what it was. “Mother . . .?”
“I’ll save you time, Rafe. As you know, Scotty seems to be not around. The thing is, Mr. Quincy’s office has no track of where either of them might be. I checked. It doesn’t seem right that they would simply disappear.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Rafe said earnestly. “I share your concern.”
“Do you.” Morgan’s face was now a mask, unreadable.
“Mother . . . what’s going on here?” said Robin slowly, beginning to draw conclusions that she wasn’t happy about. “You’re not saying—”
“Anything. I’m not saying anything,” Morgan replied coolly. “I’m simply asking, that’s all. You see . . . when someone’s been around for a while—as I have—one tends to take very little on face value. One tends to overthink. Sometimes that can be a hindrance . . . sometimes a help.”
The Klingon and human Shakespeare were having their scheduled argument. No one at the table was looking at them. Instead, their attention was fully upon Morgan.
“Where’s Scotty, Rafe? Where’s Mr. Quincy?” Morgan’s tone was very even, and very frosty.
“Morgan, as much as I adore the way you gaze into my eyes, I can’t say I appreciate the insinuation,” Rafe replied. There was just a hint of warning in his voice.
“I can understand that, Rafe,” she said sympathetically. “But here’s something you can appreciate: The eyes are the mirrors to one’s soul. And, interestingly, when someone lies, there’s frequently some dilation in the pupils.”
“Of a microscopic variety,” he countered. “Something that can’t be detected with the naked eye.”
“Ohhh, you’d be amazed what I can and cannot detect,” Morgan said.
“Robin, could you give me some idea why your mother feels the need to insult my father?” There was a hardness to Nik’s voice that Robin had never heard before.
“I don’t think she’s insulting him . . . exactly,” she said uncertainly.
“Then what would you call it?”
“I’m not sure. Mother . . .?”
“Where . . . is he . . .?” Morgan said. There was no longer any pretense of sociability in her voice.
“You know, Morgan, I’m beginning to wonder if this evening was altogether a good idea,” said Rafe. “Especially if that is the attitude you’re going to take.”
From the other side of the room, there was the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn, the rasp of metal coming out of its scabbard. They paid it no mind, caught up as they were in the tension that was now at the table. It was probably just going to be another encounter between the Klingon and human Shakespeare, and when you’d seen that once, you’d pretty much seen it all you needed to.
Suddenly, however, their attention was caught by the alarmed voice of one of the waiters, who called, “Sir! Sir! That’s the property of the tavern! Put that down before you hurt yoursel—” And if that hadn’t been enough to pull their focus away from one another, certainly the sound of a fist impacting with the waiter’s face would have done it.
Robin turned, looked, and was thunderstruck as she saw who had entered the tavern. Morgan reacted with open amazement as well. Rafe and Nik, on the other hand, looked very icily at the newcomers.
“Si Cwan!” Robin cried out. “Kalinda!”
For, indeed, it was the two Thallonians, the only surviving members of the once-sprawling empire’s royal family. It was Si Cwan who had pulled the sword from the wall, and he was standing perfectly still in the middle of the room, Kalinda at his shoulder. Both of them had fierce expressions on their faces, looking as if they were giving their full concentration to containing their anger.
“Sir! Put it down, right now!” shouted a man that Robin could only take to be on the security staff. He was a couple of feet away, and in the midst of pulling a weapon from the inside of his jacket.
Si Cwan, looking as if he had all the time in the world, lashed out with his foot. He struck the security man just under the chin, snapping his head back and sending him unconscious to the floor.
Customers cried out in panic, starting to get to their feet with the clear intention of bolting from the restaurant. But Si Cwan, in a voice that had been used to is
sue commands to armies, shouted effortlessly above the din, “No one move!” Amazingly, everyone froze where they were. Then Si Cwan extended his arm and pointed the sword straight at Rafe.
Slowly, Rafe stood, facing Si Cwan from across the room. “That was a good move, Cwan. You haven’t lost a second off your speed. If anything, you’re faster.”
“Fast enough to take you,” Cwan said harshly.
Rafe smiled patronizingly. “Not quite that fast.”
“Cwan . . . what the hell is going on?” said Robin. She and Morgan had now risen from their seats, each taking several steps away from the table. Nik had likewise risen, but had gone to his father’s side. “Where did you come from? What’s Rafe done—?”
“His name isn’t ‘Rafe,’ ” Si Cwan said, never taking his eyes off his target. “Kalinda and I have been chasing down lead after lead, following a path of destruction that this man has left behind. His name is Olivan. Sientor Olivan. He killed my old teacher, Jereme. And now . . .” He drew a steady breath. “Now I’m going to kill him.”
BURGOYNE & XYON
BURGOYNE CAME UP from the bottom of the lake, taking a deep breath of the fresh, warm air and glancing in the direction of the shoreline, where Xyon had been romping around. He had been there only a moment ago . . .
. . . and now he wasn’t.
“Xyon!” Burgoyne called. S/he wasn’t concerned just yet; s/he was all too aware just how capable hir son was in terms of handling himself, but, nevertheless, his absence was reason for pause. “Xyon!” s/he called again.
Suddenly there was a little splash of water, and Xyon’s head popped up a few feet away from Burgoyne’s. Xyon grinned gleefully, his eyes wide, as his arms and legs pumped furiously to keep him afloat.
“Well, hello!” laughed Burgoyne, and s/he glided toward him. “Look who’s taken to water so . . . swimmingly.” S/he took Xyon in hir hands and glided him to the right, then left, and then back again. Xyon giggled, the water splashing around him, and then he slapped it a few times with his palms, delighting in the droplets that splattered around.
The time that had passed since Xyon had come to him had been nothing short of idyllic. It was something to see, the way he was developing. The speed was not unusual for a Hermat, of course, but seeing it in a child with a Vulcan cast was nothing short of amazing. More and more, Burgoyne was beginning to see the wisdom of Selar’s decision. At first, s/he had wondered whether Selar wasn’t simply washing her hands of the entire situation as soon as the first problem had presented itself to her. But now Burgoyne was perceiving what Selar had seen all too readily: Despite his exterior, Xyon was far more Hermat than had originally been thought. There were the Vulcan ears and eyebrows, certainly, but the Hermat fangs were starting to come in nicely, and his first claws were already developing. If they followed the normal course, they would become brittle, fall off, and the adult version would grow out in short order.
Selar would simply not have had the emotional tools required to raise the child alone. As one of two loving parents, yes, but not alone. For the briefest of moments, regret flickered through Burgoyne’s mind, but s/he quickly discarded it. S/he had promised hirself that s/he simply would not dwell on such depressing things. Selar had made it painfully clear that she did not reciprocate Burgoyne’s affections for her, and that was that. In fact, with each passing day, Burgoyne found hirself wondering what s/he had ever seen in her anyway. Of course, when one of those things that s/he’d thought to be attractive did present itself to hir, s/he would quickly dismiss it from hir mind. Instead, hir focus was put entirely on Xyon and, yes, everything was developing correctly and expeditiously.
Everything, except one thing. Xyon displayed the characteristic Hermat exuberance, but he was surprisingly mute. Oh, he made burbling sounds, toyed with syllables. But he had not yet uttered a specific word. It wasn’t anything to concern oneself about, but it did bother Burgoyne slightly. Continuing to glide hir son back and forth, Burgoyne said, “Say, ‘Daaaaaddy. Daaaaaddy.’ ”
Xyon watched hir mouth movements carefully, entranced. He reached out and touched one of Burgoyne’s fangs gently and giggled, and then said, “Aaaaaaaaaa.” The basic sound was there, but still, “Aaaaaaa” was not a word.
“Nothing to worry about,” Burgoyne said confidently. S/he looked into those gorgeous, round eyes and then couldn’t help but add, with just a touch of melancholy, “Still . . . I wish your mama could see you.”
Xyon tilted his head slightly, as if trying to comprehend what it was that Burgoyne was talking about. “Aaaaaaa,” he said again.
“Yes. Mama.” Supporting the paddling Xyon with one hand, s/he brought one of the child’s hands up to his pointed little ears. S/he used that hand to caress the tip of the ear and said again, “Mama.” Then s/he brought Xyon’s hand over to hir own ear. “Daddy.” Although, truthfully, with Hermat physiology being what it was, s/he could just as easily describe hirself as “Mama” as well. But something in hir made hir want to reserve that title for Selar . . . even though it was more than likely that Xyon would not see her for years, if ever.
S/he wondered what Selar was going to do next with her life. Would she return to Starfleet? Stay on Vulcan? Choose a third option? For Burgoyne, it was pretty straightforward: S/he had every intention of signing back on with the first vessel that allowed families. S/he certainly wasn’t going to leave Xyon behind in the care of someone else. S/he was the child’s parent, and that was all there was to it.
Xyon looked as if he was starting to shiver slightly. Although the water was relatively warm, perhaps he was getting a bit of a chill at that. Burgoyne drew him closer to hirself and moved toward the shore with strong, powerful thrusts of hir legs. Once there, s/he wrapped hir son in a towel until the shivering stopped. Xyon cooed once more. “Daddy,” Burgoyne encouraged, but still Xyon was mute on the subject, although he did snuggle closer to enjoy the warmth of hir body.
Burgoyne headed toward the house, lost in thought. S/he found hirself wondering what hir social life was going to be like on a new vessel. Before, s/he had been totally left to hir own devices, not having any obligations or worries. S/he could do what s/he wanted, when s/he wanted. What was going to happen now, though? There would be central child-care facilities available during hir shift, certainly. But when s/he was off shift, how could s/he turn around and head out on dates or assignations? Certainly that would be when Xyon craved hir time. S/he couldn’t just ignore him while s/he satisfied hir social impulses. The odds were that s/he was going to be staying in a lot more. S/he felt just the least twinge of regret, because the life ahead of hir was going to be very, very different. But then again, why shouldn’t it be? S/he had, after all, fought with every fiber of hir being to be with Xyon. Now that s/he was, s/he’d be damned if s/he had the slightest bit of regret over it. No social life? No lovers? Fine. A very small price to pay for what would be a very joyous period of hir life. S/he would spend long and quiet evenings hearing about every aspect of what Xyon’s day was like, and telling him in turn what s/he had experienced. Naturally, s/he thought with amusement, Xyon would be speaking by that point. That was a given.
“Maaaamaaa . . .”
Burgoyne, hir nude body still cooling in the warm air, came to a dead halt and looked with delight at hir son’s face. “Did you say ‘Mama’?”
“Maaamaaa . . .” There was absolutely no question about it. He was pulling at his ear, his eyes wide, and he was squirming in hir arms. His nostrils were flaring as if . . .
Burgoyne tilted hir head back, suddenly trying to pull in the air hirself. S/he would have noticed it earlier, except that s/he had been thinking about so many other things. But yes, there it was . . . that scent. A scent that Xyon, even though he’d been parted from her all this time, had detected immediately. He was practically bouncing with excitement, so much so that Burgoyne almost lost hir grip on him. For a moment, Burgoyne considered putting him down and letting him run on his own, but then s/he realized that s/he cou
ld get the two of them there far more quickly.
Immediately s/he bolted in the direction of the house. For a heartbeat, s/he thought that there was a chance s/he had been mistaken somehow, but no. No, impossible. The scent was there, clear and strong and pure. It was she; it could be no one else.
S/he dashed into the house, skidding to a halt as s/he saw Selar standing there, her arms down at her sides, her face carefully neutral. Her gaze flickered along the lines of Burgoyne’s body, but she withheld comment. Instead, she focused on Xyon, who was twisting like mad to get to her. Burgoyne put him down, and he was across the room like a shot, practically scaling Selar’s leg. Selar lifted him, cradled him in her arms. “He is getting big,” she observed as Xyon wrapped his arms around her neck. “And he is clearly healthy. That is—”
“Maama,” Xyon said proudly, with certainty.
Selar, for all her training and discipline, was unable to keep the surprise off her face. “Yes. That . . . is correct. Mama.” She looked at Burgoyne. “Did you teach him that?”
“In a sideways manner, yes. Selar . . . what are you doing here?”
“I am holding our child.”
“Yes, I know that, but—” S/he shook hir head, still unable to believe what s/he was seeing. “But, I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” she interrupted. “I have . . . been giving a great deal of thought to things. And I believe I have come to a conclusion.”
Burgoyne could scarcely voice the words. “And that conclusion . . . would be . . .?”
She let out a slow breath. “I am a physician. It is in my nature to diagnose. I believe that I have been . . . not misdiagnosing, but overdiagnosing my situation. I have not done anything, however, to genuinely treat it. And I believe that this is an instance where the axiom, ‘Physician, heal thyself,’ is particularly appropriate.”
Burgoyne’s voice dropped to a whisper as s/he said with amusement, “Look.” Selar did. Xyon had dropped off into a peaceful sleep, content in his mother’s arms. Selar looked around, and then to Burgoyne with a mute question, and Burgoyne promptly understood and nodded. The nursery was indeed in the same place it had been when Selar was last there, and that was where Selar brought the sleeping child. She lay him gently down in his crib, keeping a hand resting peacefully on his back for some minutes. In that way, she felt the rise and fall of his back, the warmth of him, the beating of his heart.