Star Trek - NF - 10 - Excalibur 2 - Renaissance

by Renaissance(Lit)

  The problem was that the creature had apparently located it as well. The space between where she was at that moment and the hole up ahead-or at least where the sun was coming in through the hole-was completely enveloped by the creature. The one place it wasn't occupying was the spot right where the sunlight was beaming down onto the floor. Instead, the creature had carefully circumvented it, leaving an isolated path of safety.

  Obviously it could not tolerate the sunlight. Fine. If that was to be her one shred of advantage, then so be it. She had never stopped moving up to this point, because she didn't like her odds if she did. Now she almost skied across the remaining distance, sections of the creature rolling apart in waves on either side of her. She stepped into the "zone of safety," her feet on firm ground once more. Without this creature lining it, the floor was normal, craggy and rocky. She never thought she would be quite so happy to see sunlight as she was at that moment.

  Of course, she had no idea how long she was going to be able to stand there, but at least it was something. She could remain on that spot and shout for help until her throat went raw. At least it would beat being consumed by this... this whatever-it-was.

  The moment she was absolutely stable, perfectly still... the creature went for her.

  It was at mat instant that she realized the thing was, indeed, intelligent That it had, in fact, laid a trap for her, and she had walked right into it. Before she even had time to think about it, it was around her feet, moving up her legs, making a loud, slurping noise, like a child hi the midst of eagerly devouring and savoring, all at the same time, an ice cream bar.

  There had been any number of times hi the past when Robin felt as if her mother was going to have her climbing the walls. Never, though, had it become literal.

  In a heartbeat, Robin was climbing the walls.

  When she had first fallen through the hole, the prospect of trying to climb back to the top never occurred to her. It was far too high, and there was no way she was going to be able to find enough foot- or handholds. Now, however, she had no choice. She grabbed hold of the wall and started to climb, as fast and hard as she could. Her fingers dug, almost on instinct, into nooks and crannies that she never would have seen before. She didn't look down, but she could sense the thing bubbling around down there. It was not, thank God, climbing the walls. But it was waiting for her to lose her grip, to plunge back down into it. And she had the nauseating feeling that if she fell into it again, she was not going to be getting out anytime soon-if ever.

  Her right hand gripped a bit of outcropping, which then broke off. For one moment she was dangling there by one hand, her feet desperately seeking purchase. Then she found it, and flattened herself against the wall, gasping, steadying herself. Once she was certain that she had a firm handhold again, she continued to pull herself up. She was truly caught in a dilemma. On the one hand, she wanted to rush, to get up there and out of danger as quickly as possible. Also, she wasn't sure that her endurance, given the circumstances, was going to be up for a sustained climb. On the other hand, she knew that the more she rushed, the more likely she was to make a mistake. And this was one circumstance in which a mistake would prove costly, and even fatal.

  Through gritted teeth, she muttered, "Let's have adventures. Let's go climbing.

  Won't that be fun? My God, what was I thinking?" Her fingers were being rubbed raw, and she was terrified that, if her fingers became blood-slicked, she would be unable to hold on.

  Another foot up, and then another, and she was drawing closer and closer to her erstwhile entrance- which would, ideally, prove to be her exit. She wasn't bothering to call for help anymore; all of her focus was on keeping herself from falling. She could feel the sunlight on her face, the gentle breeze wafting down. Far below her, she could sense the thing still moving around, waiting for her to return.

  Now, however, she was coming to the most dangerous aspect of her attempt to survive. The hole was above her and a little to the right. She was going to have to twist, turn fast, kick off from the wall, and lunge for the hole in desperate hope of grabbing the edges. She was not going to have the opportunity to make a second attempt

  She steadied herself, took several deep breaths... and then made the leap. One hand missed completely, but she snagged the edge of the hole with the other. Her sense of relief lasted for exactly two seconds, and then the uncertain ground she was gripping crumbled in her grasp, and she fell, straight toward the bottom.

  BURGOYNE

  BURGOYNE HAD BEEN TO BARS and taverns all over the Federation, and s/he was most curious to see what such an establishment on Vulcan would be like.

  Unfortunately, s/he had to comb the city for hours until s/he finally found what appeared to be the only one in town. The moment s/he entered, s/he promptly understood why: The Vulcan clientele was virtually nonexistent. The bar, which was called "Offworlds," catered to exactly that which the sign suggested: people who were from offworld. There were enough patrons there, certainly, but it was almost entirely people from worlds other than Vulcan.

  Burgoyne sat down at the bar and watched the bartender go about his business.

  The bartender was Vulcan, and he mixed drinks with a quiet, straightforward efficiency. It bordered on the wretchedly boring to watch. The bartender turned to hir questioningly and said, "May I help you?"

  "Scotch. Neat." S/he paused, and added with a smile, "It's the official drink of engineers everywhere."

  "I was not aware of that."

  "It was a joke," Burgoyne said.

  "I was not aware of that, either."

  Burgoyne was about to pursue the matter, but decided that it would probably be wise not to do so. The drink was placed in front of hir and s/he downed it in one shot. "Go again," s/he said.

  The bartender had barely had time to turn away from hir, and now looked back with a mild gaze. "That is illogical. You consumed the drink in 0.09 seconds.

  Not only is it unlikely that you tasted it, but you have not permitted sufficient time for the traditional, less-than-salubrious influence of alcohol to take effect. You may wish to-"

  Burgoyne squared hir shoulders, and there was an unmistakable undercurrent of warning in hir voice. "Which part was unclear? The 'go'? Or the 'again'?"

  Without a word, the bartender poured another shot of scotch. Burgoyne was about to toss that one back, too, but something in the faintly scolding look of the bartender caused hir to hold up at the last moment and simply sip it. The bartender nodded slightly in approval and moved to another customer.

  A voice from next to Burgoyne said, "Is there anything in the universe more boring than a Vulcan bar?"

  "I'm beginning to think not," Burgoyne replied. "What the hell is wrong with these people?"

  S/he turned and, to hir surprise, saw a Vulcan sitting next to hir. He was looking at hir with a sort of amused detachment.

  "Sorry," muttered Burgoyne.

  "No, you are not. One should never apologize for candor. It is illogical.

  Moreover, it is impolite. It as- sumes that another person cannot tolerate the truth... or, at least, the truth as you perceive it."

  "All right," Burgoyne said evenly. S/he regarded the Vulcan thoughtfully. "But what are you doing here then?'

  The Vulcan shrugged. It seemed a rather odd gesture on a Vulcan. "I have nowhere else better to be."

  "I see." Burgoyne reflexively delivered the Vulcan salute of greeting. "I am

  Burgoyne 172. Peace and long life."

  "Live long and prosper. My name is Slon."

  "Hello, Slon." Burgoyne knocked back the remains of the scotch and caught the bartender's eye. This tune s/he had merely to mouth the words, "Go again," and the bartender did not bother to dispute it. But Burgoyne could tell from the faint scowl that he did not approve. "I have never encountered a bartender who was reluctant to sell drinks."

  "On Vulcan we believe in logic in all things. That would include imbibing."

  "But what's the point of that? One drinks when o
ne doesn't want to think logically."

  "Hence the notable absence of Vulcans in the bar."

  "Yes. I suppose the Romulans wound up getting all the distilling genes hi the

  Vulcan gene pool."

  "Romulans are not logical."

  "No, but they make a hell of an ale. So what do you do for a living, Slon?"

  "I am an attache for the Vulcan diplomatic corps. A sort of aide. I am between assignments at the moment, but I spend a good deal of my time off-planet. And you?"

  "I'm in Starfleet. An engineer."

  "You are not in uniform."

  "I'm... also between assignments." S/he tossed back yet another glass. This time s/he didn't even have to catch the bartender's glance. He refilled it automatically, although s/he couldn't help but notice the slight shake of his head as he did so. Then s/he turned hir attention back to

  Slon.

  Burgoyne felt as if Slon were dissecting hir with his gaze. "Are you quite all right?" s/he asked.

  "I am fit. You are a Hermat."

  "Yes."

  "I have heard much of Hermats. Is what I have heard true?"

  With a laugh, Burgoyne said, "How would I know what you have and haven't heard?"

  "I have heard that you approach subjects such as sexuality with gay abandon."

  "Interesting choice of words," Burgoyne said dryly. "I cannot speak for all of my people, but they have a tendency to... what's the best word... 'revere' it.

  I, on the other hand, approach the subject, and the practice, with somewhat more fervor. That, of course, is as opposed to Vulcans."

  "Indeed. And what know you of Vulcans?" asked Slon steadily.

  "That you..." Burgoyne stopped and looked down at hir glass. It was still full.

  S/he mentally chided herself; s/he was slowing down. Maybe s/he was getting old.

  "I'm sorry."

  "Again?"

  "This time I genuinely am. My understanding is that you typically don't like to discuss such matters with offworlders."

  "I am not typical," Slon said. "Simply curious as to what an 'offworlder' might have heard of the topic."

  S/he let out a deep breath. "Well... that you engage in the act only once every seven years."

  "That is not true."

  Burgoyne blinked at that. "What? That was what I was led to believe."

  "You refer to the pon farr." Burgoyne couldn't help but notice that Slon was speaking in a slightly lower, entre nous tone of voice. Despite his claim to being atypical of his race, it was obvious that even he respected the delicacy of the matters at hand.

  "Yes, that's right."

  "Do not confuse the concept of Vulcan romance with breeding. The pon farr exists to guarantee the perpetuation of our species. But there is no mandate that requires we live in celibacy during the intervening times. We may not approach the subject with as much fervency as do other races, but..." Slon's eyebrows knit. "You are regarding me with a most curious expression."

  "I'm still having trouble getting past 'Vulcan romance,' to be honest. It sounds like an oxymoron to me. Are Vulcans truly capable of romance?"

  "Yes."

  "But... you're not especially good at expressing such raw feelings," Burgoyne said, finding hirself intrigued by the discussion. "How do you convey romantic intent?"

  "A variety of means, as with any race. One preferred method is the lyre."

  "Oh, well, sure," Burgoyne said reasonably. "Going around and fabricating your intentions is standard for romance. Although I would have thought the renowned

  Vulcan addiction to honesty would have-"

  "Not 'liar.' Lyre. L-y-r-e. It is a musical instrument."

  "Oh. Sorry." Burgoyne flushed slightly. "A musical instrument conveys romantic interest?"

  "In the case of the Vulcan lyre, it does so quite well. Its notes are virtual love songs in and of themselves."

  "Is that what you use?" Burgoyne was not able to keep a slightly teasing tone out of hir voice. It was a tone that s/he knew all too well-reflexive and a bit suggestive.

  "On occasion, if it suits the mood."

  "And do you, Slon, have a mate to whom you were driven by pon farr?"

  "No." Slon looked down at his empty hands, and it was the first time Burgoyne realized that he wasn't holding a drink. "No... I do not."

  "Well... shouldn't you be due for that?"

  "That is... apparently not going to occur in my case."

  "Really? Why not?"

  Slon looked at hir steadily. "I have a lack of interest in reproduction that no amount of genetic tradition can overcome."

  "Ahhh," Burgoyne said, smiling. "I understand. Well, why not? Takes all kinds.

  Does your family understand?"

  "They understand in that they are able to comprehend it. My sister seems more sanguine with it. My parents... less so."

  "Moral indignation? From a Vulcan? I'm stunned."

  "No," he said, shaking his head. "Not precisely. It is more that they simply consider it... illogical. A waste of material. My parents-my father in particular-consider me of solid genetic stock, and are displeased that my genes will not be perpetuated. He has said I am doing a disservice to my race on that basis. I offered to provide a genetic contribution that could be provided to a suitable recipient, but..." Once again, that odd shrug. "He said it was not the

  Vulcan way."

  "I'm sure your race will survive without your contribution."

  "Very likely so."

  "So you yourself have no interest in romance at all."

  Slon looked at hir with genuine meaning. "I did not say that. I find you most... interesting, Burgoyne."

  "The famed Vulcan directness. At least people always know where they stand with you."

  "That," deadpanned Slon, "is part of our collective charm."

  "I can't say I'm surprised," Burgoyne said. "Vulcans by nature are an inquiring race, if you'll forgive my generalization. One doesn't have a philosophy based on logic unless one is willing to ask incessant questions about everything. And

  I've learned that a lot of people are curious about Hermats. Probably the only other race that generates that much sexual interest is the Deltans. 'Oath of

  Celibacy.' Silliest thing I ever heard. How can there be a race so formidable in the act of love that non-Deltans are driven insane from the sheer ecstasy of it?

  If you ask me, they're probably the worst lovers hi the en-lire galaxy, and came up with this entire mystique to hide behind."

  "Interesting theory. I had a friend at the University several years back who voiced the exact same opinion. I should convey your sentiments to nun."

  "You do that."

  "I shall. He is allowed visitors every Thursday at the asylum where he presently resides."

  Burgoyne stared at nun. "What?"

  "Oh, yes," Slon said, as if discussing utterly trivial matters. "You see, unlike you-obviously-he chose to field-test this theory. The results were... unpleasant."

  "Un... pleasant?" asked Burgoyne uneasily. S/he was thinking about a time when s/he had nearly had an interlude with a Deltan on a bet, until a last-minute summons back to hir shipboard assignment had forced hir to pass up the encounter.

  "Very. He simply lies on the floor of his room most days, twitching spasmodically and occasionally gyrating his hips in a-"

  "I get the idea. All right, I stand corrected," Burgoyne said. S/he shook hir head. "This has got to be one of the strangest conversations I've ever had, and

  I'm still a bit dumbfounded that I'm having it with a Vulcan in a bar."

  "If it is my race that you find disconcerting, that is, naturally, something I cannot do anything about. If it is the location that daunts you... my residence is not far from here."

  Although the steadiness of Slon's tone had not wavered, the meaning could not have been clearer. Burgoyne looked at him with interest. "Are you suggesting... what I think you're suggesting?"

  "It would seem the logical thing to do," observed Slon.
>
  "Bartender," Burgoyne said immediately.

  The bartender materialized in front of hir. "Yes?" he asked, with that same faint disapproval.

  "Check, please."