by Peter David
“Apparently not.” He leaned forward, and there was something about his manner that prompted Kalinda not to pull her hand away when he took it. “Kalinda…I’m going to give you food and drink. Eat it and drink it please.”
“Xyon, haven’t you heard anything I’ve said?”
“Yes. All of it.” He stood, brushing off the knees of his pants. “Lyla.”
Her voice sounded in the cabin. “I’m here, Xyon. I’ve been keeping myself incorporeal. I thought it might lend to the air of privacy I thought your discussion required.”
“That’s the AI I’m used to seeing.” He sighed heavily. “Chart us a course to New Thallon. Take us back.”
“Really?” Kalinda tried to stand, but her legs weren’t working properly and she slid back down to the floor.
“Really,” he said.
“Xyon, I—”
“No.” He raised a hand, stilling her. His jaw was tight, and although he was trying to make his tone sound light, he wasn’t entirely succeeding. “You win. Okay? You win. I just…I think it’d be better if we didn’t belabor it. I understand you. I heard you. I’m doing what you wanted. Right now…let that be enough, all right?”
She nodded.
A few minutes later, she was drinking water as if she were holding the last bit of it left in the galaxy, and was in the process of devouring the simple foodstuffs that Xyon had provided her.
For his part, Xyon stared out at the stars. He’d always loved them, felt attracted to them.
It was a harsh reality to realize that, no matter how much you think that something burns for you and only you, it actually doesn’t care about you at all. That the siren song one is hearing is entirely in one’s own head. He could lust after the stars and reach out to touch them all he wanted…but ultimately, he would just wind up getting burned.
U.S.S. Excalibur
i.
Xy, the Hermat/Vulcan half-breed who had once more commonly gone by the name of “Xyon,” lowered his rocketball paddle and looked at his father. “My namesake is alive? Is that what you’re telling me?”
The break in the action gave Burgoyne 172 a much needed breather. S/he was lightly clad in black shorts and a black T-shirt, and s/he sagged against the wall gulping in lungsful of air. S/he started to say “Yes” but the word didn’t come easily, so s/he settled for nodding.
Hir son took in this information in a stoic manner that Burgoyne knew he’d gotten from his mother. “That’s interesting,” he said finally. “Is he coming here? Is the captain planning to try and hook up with him?”
“Actually,” said Burgoyne, having retrieved hir breath, “we’re going to look for him. He’s in Thallonian space, hiding out after having kidnapped Si Cwan’s sister, Kalinda.”
Xy regarded hir with those luminous eyes of his. “You named me after a kidnapper?”
“He wasn’t a kidnapper at the time. He was a hero.”
“Yes, a hero who sacrificed his life to save the Excalibur.”
“Right…except…”
“Except he didn’t.” Xy smiled.
“Not as such, no. Apparently he just allowed all of us to think he was dead, but he really wasn’t.”
“Well, this is just looking better and better, Father, I have to say. A kidnapper and a liar. What, wasn’t there a mass murderer whose name you could have attached to me?”
“I’m starting to reconsider it, actually.” S/he thumped the surface of hir paddle. “Your serve. Let’s go.”
The glowing ball ricocheted off the walls of the rocketball court with a speed that mere human eyes would have had the devil’s own time being able to track.
There was nothing slow in Burgoyne’s movements. Three years had not taken the slightest edge off hir agility or catlike speed. Whatever way Xy returned the ball, Burgoyne was able to be there to intercept it and send it howling back ninety-nine times out of a hundred.
Xy, however, didn’t miss even that one time in a hundred. Also, Xy’s reach was longer than his father’s, since he was a good six inches taller. It was those few inches that made all the difference.
The youthful mixed breed, at a biological age of approximately twenty-six, had all of the best physical aspects of both his parents. His limbs were sinewy, his coordination sure and precise. His skin glowed with health; he possessed a dark tan that seemed to hark back to his Vulcan ancestors and their days of desert dwelling under a broiling hot sun. His ears were long and elegant, his chin tapered, and his hair was rust-colored and a bit shaggy.
For someone who was, as measured by the calendar, four and a half years old, it was quite impressive.
Burgoyne made one final lunge at a ball that was almost out of reach, caught it, and sent it back at high speed against the wall. The ricochet brought it back to Xy who, in a fiendish cross-up, barely tapped it. It bounded lightly back, and Burgoyne, who’d been anticipating yet another powerful slam, completely overshot it. Burgoyne slammed into the wall, absorbing most of the impact with hir shoulder, while the ball rolled away across the floor.
“Father! You okay?” called Xy. He was next to Burgoyne in a heartbeat, his expert fingers checking over the impact area on his father’s body for any sign of breakage.
Burgoyne laughed at Xy’s display of concern. “I’m fine, Xy, really! I’m fine.” S/he forced hirself to stand, wavering slightly before regaining hir balance.
“That’s a relief,” sighed Xy. “I’d hate to have to tell Mother that I’d damaged you.”
“Yes, well,” and Burgoyne laughed again, but this time with much less genuine amusement, “I doubt she would have been all that upset about it.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Xy, the situation between your mother and me…it’s nothing new.” S/he stretched hirself, catlike, shaking out the shoulders to make sure there was no serious injury. “It’s not as if you weren’t aware…”
“I know, I know. It’s just that…”
“Just that what?”
Xy shook his head. “I didn’t want to burden you.”
“I’m your father. I’m here to be burdened. Come on, out with it.”
“I was…well, Mother’s at it again, and I was hoping…”
The Hermat moaned softly. “Why are you burdening me with this?”
“Father!”
Burgoyne made hir way to a shielded seating area at the far end of the rocketball court, and Xy followed hir. “We’re not playing anymore?” asked Xy.
“Shoulder feels iffy,” said Burgoyne, whose shoulder was actually feeling fine. S/he just didn’t want to continue getting trounced by hir son. “So what’s your mother been saying?” s/he asked as s/he sat.
Xy kept the rocketball balanced on the flat of his paddle. “She wants me to undergo a series of genetic reconstructive treatments based upon the work of a scientist named Randisi, except Randisi’s work has already been discredited by both the Krellner Institute and the Starfleet Surgeon General’s office.”
“Still,” said Burgoyne, “genetic reconstruction might be the key…”
“I’ve gone that route, Father,” Xy said in frustration. “Don’t you think I have? Don’t you think I made genetic research the top priority while I was getting my degree? I mean, it’s not as if I don’t have a lot at stake personally. The fact is, there’s nothing in any sort of legitimate field of study that applies to my personal situation. There’s been no research on Vulcan/Hermat hybrids because there haven’t been any before me. The most I can possibly be is a test case to guide researchers who may come after me and are intrigued by my condition. Which is why I keep a daily journal of my activities, development, everything. I just don’t understand.”
“What, Xy? What is it you don’t understand?”
“I don’t understand,” he said in frustration, “why Mother can’t accept the realities of my condition. I have. You have.”
“I haven’t.”
Xy looked at his father in surprise. “You…you haven’t?”
“No,�
� Burgoyne said firmly. “I’ve learned to live with it. I’ve learned to be grateful for the years we’ll have together, however unfairly few they’ll be. But I can’t accept it. I can’t say, ‘I’m all right with this.’ ” S/he paused and then said, “I’ve had a lot of late-night talks with the gods. A lot. And I’ve found them to be so decidedly one-sided that I’ve come to the realization they’re probably not listening…or even there.”
“Father…”
“So don’t tell me,” Burgoyne said with unexpected heat, as s/he worked to push back the moistening in hir eyes, “that I’ve learned to ‘accept’ it. Your…situation…is not acceptable to me, and even long after you’re gone, I still won’t accept it. What I have learned to accept, however, is my utter inability to do anything about it. That’s the difference between your mother and me. She won’t accept even that.”
“But it’s poisoning us, Father. Don’t you see that?” he asked, desperation tinging his voice. “It’s getting so that every time Mother looks at me, I feel as if she’s not seeing me. She’s just seeing this…this failed project. And because she never lets her anger out, it’s just getting worse and worse and—”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Would you?”
“I said I would.”
Xy reached over and put his arms around his father, holding hir tightly. “Thanks, Father. I mean it. Thanks.”
And Burgoyne, who lately had been demanding of hir gods what the hell kind of purpose s/he could possibly serve in a world where s/he was so helpless to aid hir own son, sunk hir small fangs into hir lower lip and said, “That’s what I’m here for.”
ii.
Dr. Selar looked up in surprise when Burgoyne entered sickbay. Of course, for Selar, surprise meant that her left eyebrow was slightly raised. Astonishment was her left eyebrow completely raised, and total, mind-numbing shock warranted both eyebrows raised…but for no longer than a second. Two seconds at the outside.
Two other medical technicians were on duty. One was running systems checks, while the other was giving a routine physical to Ensign Sigerson. Selar, for her part, was standing in the lab section, taking notes on the development of a culture she was growing. “Are you ill?” she asked without preamble.
“Hello to you, too,” replied Burgoyne. “No, I’m not ill. I feel fine.”
“Then you may leave.”
“I…appreciate your giving me permission to do so, but there’s some things we need to talk about.”
“You may feel completely free to send me a memo in regards to whatever those might be,” Selar told hir.
S/he looked her up and down. “You seem more tired than you used to.”
She stared at him blankly. “What?”
“More tired. Around the eyes.”
“That is none of your concern, Commander.”
“Are you getting enough sleep?” s/he asked.
“That is none of your concern, Commander.”
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re like a broken record?”
This was enough to prompt Selar—who had gone back to what she was doing—to look at him once more. “No. No one has. What is a ‘broken record’?”
“I’m not sure,” Burgoyne admitted, “but it’s a phrase Shelby used once or twice when Captain Calhoun was being particularly stubborn about something.”
“It is most likely some sort of reference to a corrupted computer file,” Selar said, “and of no interest. Good day, Commander.”
“Selar, I love a good brush-off as much as the next dual-sexed individual, but we really need to—”
“Good day, Commander,” she said again in as clear and blunt a manner as she could.
Burgoyne seemed to consider the situation for a time. Selar, having said all she needed to say on the matter, was back at work.
Suddenly Burgoyne turned and called out, “Excuse me. Everyone. Dr. Selar and I need the sickbay for a few minutes. Everyone else, please clear out.”
There were confused stares from the other medics. If Burgoyne had been trying to get Selar’s full attention, s/he had more than succeeded. “What do you think you are doing?”
Burgoyne ignored her and instead clapped hir hands briskly. “That was not a request, people.”
“You cannot simply come into sickbay and order my personnel out. Everyone,” Selar said in a commanding voice, “stay where you are.”
“Oh dear,” Burgoyne said dryly. “It appears I’m thwarted. If only I outranked you…oh! Wait! I do! In fact,” and s/he looked around in a manner that was clearly not enduring any backtalk, “I outrank everyone here. There’s a word for refusing to obey a direct order from a superior officer on a Starfleet vessel…now, what’s that word…it’s right on the tip of my tongue…”
“Commander,” Selar tried to interrupt hir.
Burgoyne snapped hir fingers, apparently “remembering.” “Mutiny! That’s the word. And there’s this thing we do when mutiny is involved…some sort of trial…”
“Commander!”
“I’ve got it! Court-martial! That’s it!” There was no hint of joviality in hir manner. “We court-martial people who are in mutiny! So…anyone who’s interested in being court-martialed, stay right where you are so I can get all your names for the official record.”
That was more than enough for the staff of sickbay. Within seconds the place had emptied out, leaving Burgoyne and Selar staring at each other.
“May I assume you believe that you are amusing?” Selar asked him.
“I like to think I have my moments.”
“And you may go right on thinking that,” she told him. If she were any race other than Vulcan, her annoyance would have been radiating from her. As it was, she simply stood stock-still, her arms folded tightly as if she were physically restraining herself. “Very well. You have your much desired privacy. What do you want?”
“I need to talk to you about Xy.”
“What about him?”
“He says you’ve been giving him a difficult time.”
“Define.”
“He says you won’t leave him alone about some sort of genetic thing…”
“If you wish to discuss such matters with me,” she said icily, “you might at least take the time to familiarize yourself with them so that you may speak with authority rather than ineptitude. He is no doubt referring to the Randisi studies…”
“Which he said have been discredited.”
“Randisi made some errors, but there is potential…”
“He feels as if you’re…you’re shutting yourself off from him. That…”
“I cannot be responsible for his feelings,” Selar told him flatly. “I am too busy trying to be responsible for his life, particularly since he appears to have abrogated all responsibility in that department.”
“That’s not true…!”
“It is an accurate summation,” said Selar, sounding like an automaton, “of his current state of mind. Since he is making no effort to save himself, the responsibility has fallen upon me. I am the chief medical officer of this vessel. The health of all crew members is my obligation. I will not set aside that obligation simply because my son feels put out over it.”
“Selar…!” Burgoyne was clearly trying to find some different way to approach what was, to Selar, a very simple matter. “He feels like he doesn’t have a mother!”
This struck Selar as very curious. “Did he say that, in exactly those words?”
“Not exactly, but the general meaning…”
“I do not deal in generalities, Commander, except in the aspect of general health of—”
“He said that he feels as if, every time you look at him, you see a failed project. And that it’s poisoning your relationship…or whatever tattered shreds are left of your relationship. That’s what he said. Exactly.”
Selar had picked up a medical padd. She was holding it in front of her, her arms crisscrossed. It might as well have been shielding her heart. “I see.”
“Well what?”
“Selar—!” Burgoyne was looking more and more exasperated.
“Commander…”
“Stop calling me ‘Commander,’ dammit! We may not be lovers anymore…it may be you can’t even stand to look at me, I don’t know. But at the very least, you could call me ‘Burgoyne.’ ‘Burgy’ even.”
She began again. “Commander…”
“Oh gods…”
“Xy…is unique. He absorbs knowledge faster than any living, breathing creature on two legs. He absorbed the curriculum of Starfleet Academy in eight months. His medical degree took a year, and that was only to give the slightest nod to proper form, since he’d really learned all he needed to learn in half that time, rather than the required six years.”
“I know all this, Selar. What’s your point?”
“The point is that he has given up, Commander. The most incredible mind of his generation… possibly any generation…has given up.”
“He hasn’t ‘given up,’ Selar,” Burgoyne said desperately. “He’s simply come to terms with the fact that his brilliance comes with a heavy price. It takes him months to cover physical and mental development that others require years for. That’s…that’s miraculous. But, like most miracles, it’s destined to be short-lived…as is he. We can’t know for sure how short a time it will be. Average Hermat life span is forty years…Vulcans live over two hundred. It could be longer, shorter…”
“You know it will be shorter, Commander,” said Selar, her voice alone dropping the temperature in the sickbay down by two degrees. “His hyperfast development was in evidence almost from the day he was born. He has vast potential, and that is being cut short by some sort of…bizarre anomaly of our two genetic codes. His contribution toward solving that anomaly could be invaluable. It could make all the difference. He refuses to do so. That, Commander, is illogical. So if it is all the same to you, I shall persist in my course to endeavor to find a cure for him. Unless, of course, you intend to ask me not to do so, and court-martial me should I refuse to comply.”