by Peter David
When she was very young, she had once said to her mother, “Mommy . . . I can’t wait to grow up so that I know everything for sure.”
And her mother had smiled down at her and she had said, “When you grow up, the only thing you’ll know for sure is how much you don’t know.” It was not a comment that she had really understood. Of course, now she did understand it. She just didn’t like to acknowledge it.
Shelby met Soleta’s gaze and then looked down. “Soleta,” she said finally, “I don’t believe for a moment that you had anything to do with the destruction of Excalibur. I also don’t believe that the circumstances of your birth are anyone’s business but yours. You’re a fine officer, and a fine—if slightly eccentric—woman. That, to me, is all that matters. I don’t see any need for pulling Starfleet into any of this. If you insist on pushing the matter, and it comes out that you’ve told me this ‘aspect’ of your background, naturally I will admit as much to Starfleet.”
“You would likely face disciplinary hearings for being less than candid with Starfleet.”
“It’s a risk I’m prepared to take. Is there anything else you want to tell me? You know . . . maybe you have an uncle who’s a Tholian. Or maybe your third cousin on your grandfather’s side had carnal knowledge of the Grand Nagus. Something like that?”
Soleta actually smiled. Shelby realized, belatedly, that she’d seen such broader signs of obvious amusement on Soleta’s face before. Soleta had usually covered them quickly, as if embarrassed by the slip. Mentally Shelby had always chalked it up to poor training as a Vulcan. She now realized that it was Soleta’s Romulan influence, for Romulans were far more open to displays of emotion, by breeding and temperament, than Vulcans were. Well, perhaps that wasn’t such a terrible thing. Rather than her Romulan heritage prompting her to betray the Federation or some similar sinister activity, it was just causing her to crack a smile every now and then. Certainly that tendency wouldn’t cause an end to life as it was known.
“Commander Shelby . . . there may be hope for you yet,” said Soleta.
“I shall take that as a compliment.”
“It was intended as such.” She rose at that point, and Shelby did so with her. Reflexively, Shelby stuck out a hand to shake Soleta’s, but instead the science officer held up her hand in a familiar V-fingered salute. “Peace and long life.”
Automatically, Shelby returned the gesture. “Live long and prosper.”
Soleta inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment of the correct response. There seemed nothing more to be said, and Soleta—characteristically—didn’t say it. Instead she strode to the door of the pub. Just before she exited, though, she turned and said to Shelby, “Captain Calhoun would have been proud of you.”
And then Shelby was alone.
She stared for a long time at the empty chairs around the table . . . at the empty glass in front of her. At the emptiness of a life which she had once thought so full.
A hand rested on the back of the chair next to her. She glanced up. It was some young officer who had just arrived with several friends. “You seem to have a few empty chairs here. Mind if I take this one? Or is someone going to be sitting here?” he asked.
He was cute. Once upon a time, when she was another woman in another life, she might actively have made a pass at him. Now all she could do was admire his “cuteness” in an abstract way, but be aware that somehow it was from a distance and not really relevant to her life.
She glanced at the chair that she had aggressively kept vacant the entire evening, and then said, “Sure. Take it. It’s just an empty chair.”
He slid the chair away from the table and Shelby stared at her reflection in the polished surface of the table until long after last call, and long after a weary bartender had ushered the last of the other customers out. Finally, she drew her coat around herself and walked off, alone, into the darkness, dwelling on the irony that—with all the people she knew who were alive—the only one she really felt comfortable having with her at that moment was the ghost of Mackenzie Calhoun.
SOLETA
SOLETA HAD BEEN BORN and raised on a colony world. The colony had been rather small, with no more than a few hundred settlers. Growing up, she had known the names of every single resident, and had not had the slightest difficulty in learning them all. And they, naturally, knew her. Soleta, the daughter of T’Pas and Volak, two of the finest scientific minds on the planet.
But the Vulcan government had eventually decided that the talents of her parents could be put to better use back on the homeworld, and so they had been relocated there and had dutifully served the needs of their people at the science academy. Deep down—way deep down, since of course it would not have been appropriate to let such anger bubble to the surface—she had resented the call of duty that had returned them to their native world. For it had been during that time of experimentation and research that T’Pas had come into contact with a little-known and quite virulent virus. It had smashed through her immune system as if it didn’t exist, and she had died in a matter of weeks. That was the last time Soleta had been on Vulcan. She had gone to her mother’s deathbed and promised her, then and there, that she would resume her Starfleet career.
She pushed the thoughts from her as the shuttle angled down toward the shimmering Vulcan surface. She fancied that she could feel the heat even from orbit. The shuttle was populated entirely by Vulcans, nineteen passengers along with Soleta descending to the arid world below. Soleta realized that she was the only one looking out her window. Everyone else was staring resolutely ahead, or reading something with the quiet focus that was so typical of the way Vulcans did everything. It was as if exhibiting enthusiasm or interest in the impending arrival might be considered gauche somehow.
“Typical,” she murmured. Then she realized that she had spoken out loud, and felt momentarily foolish. But once again, no one paid her any mind. She might as well have been invisible. Typical, she thought again, but this time made sure to keep her mouth shut.
The shuttle landed in the main Vulcan spaceport and Soleta was among the last to disembark. The moment she stepped out of the shuttle the thinner atmosphere, the heat, hit her like a hammer blow. She reeled slightly from it. Then she mentally balanced herself, determined not to let it get to her.
There seemed to be something missing all around her, and it took her a few moments to realize what it was. It was noise. She had been to any number of spaceports in her life, particularly during the years when she had wandered after taking a leave of absence from Starfleet. And whenever she had passed through one of them, there had always been a sheet of noise draped over them. People calling to one another in greeting, or others shouting for people to step aside because flight connections had to be made. Plus, of course, there were occasionally the religious nuts who were trying to convert those who were newly arrived to whatever the dominant faith was. Soleta had once been sentenced to two days in lockup after arriving on Plexus IV, since she had been unaware that refusing to stand and listen to the sales pitch for the local gods had just been made into a crime. A crime, naturally, punishable by two days of imprisonment. During those two days a reformer stood outside her cell and told her about the Plexian deities. What had made the experience truly memorable was that a day/night rotation on Plexus was the equivalent of forty-seven Standard Earth Hours.
Soleta had managed to shorten her sentence by the simple expedient of placing herself in a contemplative trance so deep that they thought she was dead. They’d carted her body out to the morgue and, once in the clear, she had risen off the slab, scaring an attendant completely out of his wits. When she quietly made her departure from the planet some two weeks later, she was mildly amused to see that she had been added to the list of gods as a minor deity. The prospect of someone being jailed because they didn’t want to listen about her divinity was not something she chose to dwell upon.
In any event, the Vulcan spaceport was a stark contrast not only to Plexus, but all other space
ports as well. The Vulcans went about their business with a minimum of discussion. There was no idle chatter, no loud explosions of sentiment or enthused greetings, and certainly no reformers, government sponsored or otherwise. Those people who were there to greet others did so with a Vulcan salute, a few softly spoken words, a nod of the head. That was all.
She saw a few humans arriving on another flight. They started barreling through the spaceport in typical human fashion, laughing and yammering about the flight. Then they noticed that virtually everyone around them was staring at them with silent, mild reproof. Their words died in their throats as, very quickly and very uncomfortably and very, very quietly, they made their way out of the spaceport.
“Soleta.”
Just her name, spoken quickly and efficiently. Her hearing was, of course, sharp enough to catch it. He had called her with precisely the amount of calculated volume required to get her attention: no more and no less than that.
She turned in the direction of the voice, and sure enough, there was her father. There was Volak. He was exactly as she had remembered him: tall, distinguished, eyes glittering with quiet intelligence. She noticed that there was a hint of gray developing at his temples.
“Peace and long life,” he said, raising his hand in the common greeting.
Soleta faced him and then, purely impulsively, she threw her arms around him and hugged him quickly.
If she had screamed out a string of incoherent profanities, she could not have gotten a more stunned reaction from the others around her. The quiet of the spaceport actually got quieter, all ambient sounds being sucked away, as absolutely everyone stared at them. The Vulcans were too controlled to express shock, disgust, or any other disagreeable emotion, but there were ways of making disapproval known.
Unlike the unfortunate humans, however, who had felt shame or embarrassment over their behavior, Soleta could not have cared less about public disapproval. She did not wish to shame her father, though, so she quickly released him and searched his face for some indication that he was upset with her.
Instead there was something akin to quiet amusement in his eyes. At least, that’s what she hoped it was. “You have not changed,” he said.
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” she asked.
“It is neither good nor bad. It simply is,” he said.
Soleta had a bag slung over her shoulder. It was no problem for her to carry; nevertheless, Volak slid the weight off her and took it upon herself. She did not bother to tell him that she could handle the weight. He must have known that. He simply chose to assume the burden himself. She found the decision charming, if a bit antiquated in its thinking.
Having no desire to subject him to further silent mortification through inappropriate behavior, she followed him out of the spaceport without offering another word. They used public transport to return to the small, austere apartment where Volak had resided ever since the death of T’Pas. Soleta had asked him once why he was relocating, considering that the previous residence was much nicer.
“That was our place,” he said simply, and that was all he had needed to say.
He had invited her to stay with him, but she had demurred. The apartment wasn’t really large enough to accommodate guests, even though Soleta’s needs would be minimal and she was capable of sleeping on the floor as easily as anywhere else. It wasn’t going to be necessary, however, since Starfleet maintained a facility for Starfleet officers who were staying short-term on Vulcan, just as they did on a number of major worlds. So that was where Soleta was intending to settle in during her stay.
“You must be hungry after your trip,” he said.
She wasn’t. “Yes, I am,” she said.
He nodded, appreciating the obvious bending of the truth, since it gave him the opportunity to prepare food for them. All the time that Soleta was growing up, her father had handled most of the food preparation in the house, since he truly enjoyed it and her mother couldn’t cook worth a damn anyway. Making food just for oneself wasn’t nearly as fulfilling as for two or more.
Minutes later, a bowl of plomeek soup was in front of her, and a large pot of vrass was simmering. Volak sat opposite her, holding his own bowl of soup carefully in his large hands. They nodded to each other slightly, the traditional greeting at a dining table, and then dipped in their spoons and started eating.
“Excellent as always, Father. Time hasn’t diminished your culinary mastery.”
“Thank you.”
“I like the gray in your hair. It makes you look distinguished.”
He looked at her quizzically. “It reflects the passage of time and the wear and tear of existence on one’s person. Anything beyond that is purely subjective and—if I may say—illogical.”
Soleta did not allow the edges of her mouth to turn up. But she did sigh heavily and say, in a voice tinged with tragedy, “It is an illogical world, Father, no matter how much we may wish it otherwise.”
“You speak blasphemy,” he told her.
She nodded. “Yes. Along with eighteen other major languages. How is work?”
“It is work,” he said. He had gone from research into teaching. “The students appear to listen and learn.”
“This year’s crop of students is on par with the last?”
“Yes, and the year before. There is a consistency.”
“Interesting,” said Soleta. “Human teachers always seem to feel that each class is of lesser quality than the year before, no matter what the subject may be.”
“That, I would think, is more of a measure of the teachers’ growing disaffection than any true decline in the student body itself.”
“You’re very likely right. So . . .” She paused, not sure she wanted to bring up the subject, but feeling that it should be broached. “Are you seeing anyone?”
Volak blinked owlishly. “I do not understand the question. I see you.”
“You understand it perfectly, Father. It has been five years. . . .”
“To the day,” Volak said quietly, “as you well know, since that is why you are here. Do you think it appropriate to discuss my social life considering that this is the anniversary of your mother’s passing?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I do.” She took another sip of the soup. She noted that it was not up to his usual standard. In fact, it was somewhat bitter. He had misjudged the ingredients, and she could not recall that happening before. She did not comment on it immediately, however. Instead she continued, “I think discussing what Mother would have wanted or not wanted is entirely appropriate. You are still young, Father, with many years left ahead of you. That is a long time to spend on your own.”
“If I have many years ahead of me, then that is certainly plenty of time to explore the concept of remarriage.”
“Except that the longer you’re on your own, the easier it’s going to be for you to settle into a life of loneliness. The humans have a saying, you know.”
“Do they.”
“Yes. They say that if you fall out of a tree, you should climb right back up.”
He looked at her askance. “Why?”
“Why should you climb back up?”
“No, why did you fall out of the tree?”
Soleta shook her head. “That is not actually the point I was trying to make, Father . . .”
“It is pertinent, however. If you have fallen out of the tree because a branch snapped beneath you, then the tree may very well be rotting or dead. Climbing into the tree once more would prove foolhardy since another fall would be the likely result.”
“All right,” Soleta said patiently, “you should climb back into the tree unless it is dead or dying. However, if you—”
“Furthermore,” Volak continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “you, the climber, might suffer from vertigo or some other psychological impediment. Or perhaps an inner-ear infection has upset your sense of balance. In such an instance, it would be as inadvisable to climb the tree again as it would be to go swimming withi
n half an hour of consuming a meal.”
Soleta stared at him for what seemed a very long time, and then she said, “If you are thrown off a horse, you should get back on the horse.”
“Why? The horse clearly does not wish to have you as a rider. Certainly the horse’s desires in the matter should receive some consideration in the—”
“Father!”
“I believe the vrass is done.” He rose from the table and went to get the pot while Soleta sat there, shaking her head in slow disbelief.
The vrass was worse than the plomeek soup. Under-cooked, excessively chewy . . . it was not remotely up to Volak’s standards. Worse yet, he didn’t seem to notice, eating it without comment.
“I take it this has been your way of saying that you do not wish to discuss the prospect of engaging in a renewed social life,” she said.
“Searching for a new mate is simply not a priority at this time,” Volak told her. “In point of fact, it may not be a priority at any time. That is, however, my decision to make. I should like to think that you would respect it.”
“Of course I respect it, Father. However, it saddens me.”
“Saddens?” He cocked an eyebrow.
“Yes, Father. Saddens. In the privacy of this, your very small apartment, I think that I, your daughter, should be allowed to admit that something about the way you are presently living your very sheltered life saddens me.”
“Of course you may admit it. But it is illogical.”
“I know. But sometimes you do things because they are illogical, and you just do not care about it.”
“That is—”
“—also illogical, yes, I know.” She shook her head. “Are you upset with me that I hugged you in the spaceport?”
“Being upset would be futile. You did what you felt was appropriate. I, and everyone else there, did not feel it was appropriate. But you have always felt it necessary to do what you thought was right. I must respect that, for it is what makes you unique. And I would not exchange that, no matter how much ‘embarrassment’ is inflicted upon me.”
