Renaissance

by Peter David

  “Ah, yes. Your father,” said Scotty in an oddly noncommittal tone. “A most interestin’ fellow. Offered me a position with your company, he did.”

  “How exciting! Are you going to take it?”

  “Ahh, at my age, laddie, ah dinna take well to the notion of a full-time boss. Ah like settin’ muh own hours and bein’ not truly answerable to anyone if ah dinna feel like it.” He shrugged. “Ye canna teach an old dog new tricks, I suppose.”

  “Could we stop talking about dogs, please?” Robin inquired. She glanced into the simulator. “So what’s wrong with it?”

  “With the ride? Nothin’, now. Ah have it straightened out.” He looked with faint irritation back at the ride, as if there was something within that was personally offending him. “Some computer core glitches that should not have occurred. Ah dinna understand it … and that fact alone is enough t’have me a bit worried. Or at the very least, annoyed. I dinna like the notion that computers are pulling surprises on me in muh old age.”

  “Well, that’s going to happen,” Nik said pleasantly. “After all, that’s what humans do. Surprise each other, constantly. And the closer computers come to duplicating the human brain, the more likely they’re going to be to pull a few surprises on us.”

  “Ye say that as if it’s a good thing,” Scotty said dryly. “Ah’m still not certain what the attraction of this contraption is. Those miraculous holodecks they have these days would render such quaint notions as ‘thrill rides’ obsolete, wouldn’t ye think?”

  “Not necessarily, Mr. Scott,” said Nik. “The bottom line is that people like things that are unique, things they can’t find anywhere else. The fact that something is hard to find can be more enticing than the thing itself. People will come to Risa to do things they don’t do elsewhere, and if that means riding an old-style simulator ride, well … they’ll try it for the novelty.”

  “Ah suppose ye have a point,” he admitted. “Well … it’s fixed, in any event. If ye two would care to try it; ye’d have the whole thing to yourselves.”

  “You’re sure it’s fixed,” Robin said uncertainly.

  “What, a wee bit of genuine uncertainty, and now ye have cold feet?” Scotty said in a mocking tone.

  Galvanized into action by his words, Robin stepped into the simulator ride. Nik was right behind her, but when she turned back she saw that Scotty had stopped him and was murmuring something into his ear. She thought that rather odd, and when Nik finally did climb in next to her, she said, “What was that about?”

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “He said, ‘Be good to that little girl.’ Did he think I was going to hurt you or something?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it,” she said with a shrug. “He’s got some old-style ideas. But, y’know … who’s more entitled?”

  The simulator itself was designed to be evocative of a shuttlecraft. Naturally, however, it had more seats. The view screen made it look as if the shuttle was inside a hangar bay, which was mildly disconcerting for Robin, since it made her feel—just for a moment—as if she were back on the Excalibur. The “shuttlebay” launch door was open and a starfield was visible through it, although when Robin studied it for a moment she realized that it didn’t look right. Obviously, it was not an actual array of stars; the computer had just formed a particular grouping that some designer somewhere had decided was going to be aesthetically pleasing.

  “Think we can find a seat?” he joked.

  “Shouldn’t be too difficult.” She sat down dead center in the shuttle, providing the best view of the front screen. He sat next to her, and after a moment his hand strayed over and rested on her lap. She didn’t do anything to move it off.

  The voice of an unseen “pilot” said, “Shuttlecraft Magellan to bridge. Requesting clearance to depart to explore space anomaly.”

  And from the bridge came the response, “Bridge to Magellan. Cleared for departure.”

  The shuttlecraft jolted ever so slightly, which immediately annoyed Robin. Shuttles simply didn’t jolt, unless the helmsman was incompetent. There was no reason for it. But then she reminded herself that the audiences for these rides were not people who had extensive familiarity with the realities of shuttles. They were for audiences who spent most of their time planetside. The extra little “push-off” would give them the additional feeling that they were being propelled into space.

  Nik draped an arm around her and she nestled back into it as the “mission” played itself out. From a technical point of view, it actually made a certain degree of sense. The narrative of pilot to bridge, and the ongoing pilot’s log, indicated an investigation into a spacial anomaly that might, or might not, be a black hole. The readings were too indeterminate for the long-range sensors, and a closer look was required. Naturally it was a very “dangerous” mission, since the slightest miscalculation could cause a precipitous tumble into a black hole’s gravity well, and before they knew it they could be spiraling down over the hole’s event horizon. In theory, that would be pretty much the end of that. This, of course, was not going to be the case. Robin knew that intellectually. Yet she found it interesting that part of her was reacting with a sense of concern. The simulation felt realistic enough to her that it almost seemed as if she really was going out on some sort of a survey mission. Once more she started thinking about the departed Excalibur, and it saddened her.

  Nik put his other arm around her, looking at her in concern. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. I’m just … thinking about things.”

  “Anything involving me?”

  “No. Sorry,” she admitted.

  “Well, then … we’ll have to change that.”

  “What do you—?”

  He answered her question before she could finish it as he brought his lips down upon hers. They had kissed before over the previous days, but that was as far as it had gone. She had not wanted to rush matters, and besides, there were … other issues for her. Other places, other people being carried around in her head, including one particular scarlet face that she could not erase from her consciousness.

  But here, in the “shuttle,” she felt to some degree as if she was in accustomed territory. She was starting to relax into the familiarity of it, and with the relaxation came the ability to enjoy the emotions that were bubbling within her.

  His hands began to move across her as the shuttle continued its “mission,” and her instinct was to resist. But the things he was doing, the places he was touching, felt so good, and the first instinct was washed away by a desperate need to surrender to what she was feeling. Robin had always been a creature of impulse, with a tendency to then second-guess herself endlessly. This time, however, she was determined to do anything other than second-guess.

  Even so, as their lips parted for a moment, she whispered, “This is crazy …”

  “What makes it crazy?”

  “We’ll get caught … the ride’ll break down or something …”

  “That doesn’t make it crazy,” he said softly. “Just risky. And adventurous. But … if you tell me to stop … I’ll stop.”

  He paused for a moment, waiting for her to speak.

  The recorded “pilot” suddenly called out, “We’re getting some sort of readings … it’s time to probe further.”

  “Well?” prompted Nik.

  She smiled, and said in a voice that felt choked, “You heard the man. It’s time to probe further.”

  Within moments the shuttle had run afoul of the black hole, but neither Robin nor Nik was paying the least bit of attention. Their clothes were scattered around the interior, their glistening skin pressed against one another, Nik still in his seat and Robin facing him. Their breath came in short gasps, their names were whispered in each other’s ears, the blood was pounding through the both of them. Suddenly the “pilot” called an alarm. “Oh … my God! It’s … it’s right in front of us! Trying to pull away … full reverse thrusters!”

  “No … no reverse …�
�� Robin moaned.

  “We can’t resist …” the “pilot” shouted. “We’re … we’re going in …!”

  The world seemed to stretch and pull around them, like taffy, and Robin felt as if all her senses were overloading. The sensory apparatus of the simulator was more than just visual; it managed to stimulate all the sensory nerves, to convince the brain that everything around them was in the grip of some greater, overwhelming force. As it so happened, for Robin Lefler that was exactly the case. And she let herself be carried away with it, away and down into the heart of the black unknown, calling out, crying out and not caring who heard….

  When the door cycled open, Scotty was standing there with arms folded, watching with curiosity. Robin and Nik stumbled out, and they looked extremely disheveled. Their faces were flushed, and Robin’s hair looked a bit damp. “Are ye all right?” asked the engineer.

  “Fine,” Robin managed to gasp out. “We’re … we’re fine.”

  “Are ye sure?”

  “Oh, we’re sure. Fine. Better than fine,” said Nik, with a glance toward Robin.

  “Was it operating correctly?”

  “Better than correctly. It was …” She cleared her throat, steadied herself by leaning on Nik’s arm. “It was … very intense.”

  Scotty stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Funny. Ah would’ve thought that a Starfleet veteran would consider it more of a routine jaunt … putting aside, of course, the preposterousness of getting out of a black hole. Hard t’believe that anything ye experienced in there is more stimulating than what ye’ve done on a bridge.”

  “Ohhh, you’d be amazed,” said Robin. She and Nik walked away, arm in arm, leaving Scotty to shake his head and mutter something about “tourists.”

  Once they were away from the simulator building, Nik turned her around, took her in his arms and kissed her. She insinuated her body against his and held the kiss passionately for what seemed forever. But when they parted, he was looking at her a little oddly.

  “I’m just curious,” he said.

  “And did I sate your curiosity?”

  He laughed. “I meant … curious about one thing. When you were … and we … you know … I thought you shouted out something like, ‘Oh, Cwan.’ What did that mean?”

  For just a moment she froze, and then—feeling a dizziness behind her eyes—she said, “Uh … no. No, I was saying, ‘Oh, come on.’ To myself. To encourage myself to relax.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t quite appear to understand. “Do you usually shout encouragement to yourself during those times?”

  “Uhm … yes. Yes. Always. So … got any plans for the rest of the evening?” And she steered him quickly off into the night.

  BURGOYNE

  BURGOYNE TOOK A STEP BACK, which was exactly the wrong thing to do; all it did was pull the strap tight and bring Selar a step closer to hir. Selar, for her part, didn’t hesitate. She snagged the strap with both hands and pulled as hard as she could. If she had been struggling with another opponent, it would have yanked him right off his feet. But Burgoyne was both barefoot and surefooted, and despite the smoothness of the ground beneath them, didn’t budge so much as an inch.

  They stood there for a moment, facing each other, the strap taut between them. And then Burgoyne lunged straight toward Selar. Selar tried to sidestep, but there was simply no way she could avoid the charge. The two of them went down in a tangle of arms and legs.

  Burgoyne’s throat was exposed and, seizing the opportunity, Selar tried to clamp the Vulcan nerve pinch on hir. She wasn’t certain if that was in the rules. If it were, then she would win; if it weren’t, it would buy her time and breathing space. But the glove on her hand was too thick, and she wasn’t able to get a proper grip. She tried to bring her other hand up, but Burgoyne was alert to the strategy now, and s/he kept Selar’s hand at bay by the simple expedient of extending hir own arm away from hir, so that Selar’s arm was likewise kept away.

  Selar swung her gloved fist as fast and as hard as she could. She was slowed in speed because of the weight of the glove, but what she lacked in velocity, she made up for in impact. Burgoyne’s head snapped around, and for a moment hir eyes crossed slightly. Selar struck hir again. Burgoyne rolled over onto hir back, dazed, and Selar whipped the leather strap around, trying to snag Burgoyne’s throat with it.

  Burgoyne got hir fingers up there fast, intercepting the strap before it could settle around hir neck. S/he ducked hir head down and out and scrambled to hir feet. Selar thought s/he was going to try to pull away, but she was mistaken. Without slowing hir forward motion in the slightest, Burgoyne rolled and yanked hard on the strap. Selar was yanked completely off her feet and hit the ground violently.

  Burgoyne did not hesitate. S/he drove forward with hir powerful legs and swung hir gloved fist in an uppercut, just as Selar was trying to get to her feet. It knocked her back, and the only thing that stopped Burgoyne from putting a quick end to it was Selar’s legs, coiled like two springs, which caught Burgoyne’s chest and managed to shove hir back. Ironically, it was Burgoyne’s own backward motion from the enforced retreat that brought Selar to her feet.

  Suddenly Burgoyne started to run. Not just run: sprint. S/he turned hir back on Selar and started dashing all over the arena. With Selar attached to her by the tether, she had absolutely no choice but to follow. She tried to bring Burgoyne up short, but Burgoyne already had a head of steam going and wouldn’t be slowed. Burgoyne dashed to the edge of the arena and then started running as fast as s/he could along the perimeter, Selar being hauled haplessly behind. The Vulcan had to run just to keep up, and even then she wasn’t able to, as Burgoyne outsped and outdistanced her. Soon the inevitable happened: Selar missed a step, tripped herself up, and sprawled. And still Burgoyne didn’t diminish hir efforts, continuing to pull and yank Selar along behind as if wrestling with a mule. Selar tried to get up, tried to get to her feet and continue in desperate fashion after Burgoyne, but she kept falling, grunting every time her knees would bang into the ground.

  It was torture to watch as Burgoyne relentlessly pulled Selar along. Slon looked away, unable to continue seeing it. Giniv flinched, and she likewise wanted to look anywhere but in front of her. Even the attendants seemed to wish that they could be elsewhere. Only T’Pau, face utterly inscrutable, never shifted her gaze from the proceedings.

  And suddenly Giniv called out, “Stop! Stop this! Selar, surrender!” For that was all it would take. One or the other of them either had to be unable or unwilling to continue the battle. Once that occurred, the dispute would be settled.

  T’Pau fired Giniv a stony glance, but if there was any look that was filled with more anger or disgust than T’Pau’s, it was Selar’s own.

  “Never!” she shouted, and then she threw herself flat on the ground, concentrating all her mass and weight as if she were a recalcitrant human child, refusing to take another step and frustrating her parents’ best efforts to get her to budge even a little further.

  The move caught Burgoyne slightly off guard, but only slightly. S/he skidded to a halt, and suddenly s/he backflipped through the air in a move of such astounding agility that even Slon gasped (although he quickly stifled the inappropriate sound). With a thud, Burgoyne landed squarely on Selar’s back. Quickly, s/he looped the strap around Selar’s throat, going for the same strategy that Selar had attempted earlier.

  Selar couldn’t get a breath as the strap constricted around her. She grunted, coughed, tried to pull in air, couldn’t. She sensed the world starting to black out around her, and then the pull of the strap lessened ever-so-slightly on her throat. “Surrender,” Burgoyne whispered in her ear. And for just a moment, Selar considered the notion.

  But then an utterly inappropriate, but thoroughly understandable, fury overtook her, and Selar grunted, “Never.” Before Burgoyne could reapply the suffocating tightness of hir hold, Selar—with tremendous effort—managed to turn herself over so that she was facing Burgoyne. She struck Burgoyne once, twice, three tim
es on the side of the head with the weighted glove, and Burgoyne’s eyes seemed to be swimming in hir head. That was when Selar clamped down on Burgoyne’s throat with her gloved hand, and with the other hand snagged Burgoyne’s exposed shoulder and applied the Vulcan nerve pinch.

  Nothing happened.

  Selar’s eyes went wide; all the training in the world could not have prevented her from revealing the surprise she felt. The muscles beneath Burgoyne’s shoulders had bunched themselves into something that almost felt like a protective grouping, pure muscle control shielding the key nerves from suffering the obstruction of blood flow that would send Burgoyne into unconsciousness. Now she had no choice. Both hands gripped Burgoyne’s throat as s/he continued the pressure of the strap on Selar’s own.

  But Selar realized bleakly that Burgoyne had the advantage. Selar could barely stop her head from swimming, and she felt the strength ebbing from her. The fact was that Burgoyne was simply better built for fighting than Selar, was in better shape, was …

  … was going to win. Burgoyne was going to win, and Selar was going to lose her child. A blackness settled upon Selar then, a feeling of utter helplessness such as she had never known.

  “You win.”

  The words had been Burgoyne’s.

  Selar couldn’t quite believe it. No … she flat out didn’t believe it. She thought it was some sort of trick, another strategy on the Hermat’s part. But no … Burgoyne was releasing hir hold, pushing hirself away from Selar, and there was no spring in hir movements, no grace. S/he seemed tired and worn and just as aching and frustrated as Selar herself was. When s/he had spoken, the words had been thick and raspy, but s/he repeated—apparently just to make sure there was no mistake—“You win.”

  “What?” Selar was surprised at the huskiness of her own voice, and she was having trouble getting a breath, thanks to the stress that had been put on her own larynx.

  “I couldn’t hold off the nerve pinch forever,” Burgoyne said, sounding annoyed with hirself. Hir voice was unsteady, but growing in strength with every moment. “I’ve been dropped by it before. I developed a technique to resist it, but I can’t do it indefinitely. I’d rather surrender to you than be knocked cold by you. It’s more … dignified.” She brought hir gloved hand up and pulled the glove off.