Being Human

by Peter David

  “Or to me,” said Si Cwan sincerely. “But the bottom line is . . . there really isn’t anything to keep me on the Excalibur. With Kalinda found, and the Danteri offering me the opportunity to take greater steps than ever to reestablish the Thallonian Empire . . . name me one reason, just one, to remain with the Excalibur.”

  She smiled wanly, although she didn’t look especially happy. “Well, you’ve got me there, Cwan. If you can’t think of one damned thing, then I don’t think I can, either.”

  He stepped down from the chair, walking over to Robin, and he rested his hands on either shoulder. She looked up at him, unflinching. “Look, Robin . . . I haven’t completely made up my mind yet. But I just felt that, out of deference to our long relationship, and the many times you’ve helped me in the past, that I owed it to you to tell you exactly what my current frame of mind is. Don’t you think we owe total honesty to one another.”

  Something seemed to click into place behind her eyes. She suddenly seemed to be standing a little straighter, and her voice was a bit more confident. “Yes. Yes, we do. And I . . . should be honest with you. As honest as you’ve been with me, correct?”

  “Absolutely. I’m glad we had this talk, Robin. But now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “What?” She looked puzzled. “But—”

  “End program,” he said, and the long-gone palace of Thallon shimmered out of existence. He turned back to her. “I’m sorry . . . I did not mean to come across as rude. Was there something else you wanted to say?”

  “Well . . . yes, I didn’t think that the discussion was over, but if you’re in a hurry . . .”

  “I’m afraid I am,” he said. “You see, I promised XO Mueller that we would spend some . . . personal time together.”

  “Oh.” She sounded very quiet.

  “Yes, she’s . . . a rather intriguing woman. I never interacted with her much back on the Excalibur, but here . . .”

  “Well, by all means,” Robin said, “I wouldn’t want to keep you from that. It sounds very . . . stimulating . . . intellectually.”

  “I think it might be.” He hesitated. There seemed to be something else that should be said here, but he wasn’t entirely certain what that might be. “Do you . . . wish to come along? To join our . . . discussions?”

  “Oh, no, no. No, no, no,” she said with a laugh that was just ever so slightly tinged with bitterness. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. I don’t think I’d exactly fit in . . . in all honesty. That is what we’re trying to be, right? Honest with each other?”

  “Well . . . yes.” He looked at her askance. “Robin . . . is there anything else you wanted to say . . . ?”

  “No, not at all,” she said, heading quickly for the door. “Go. Have fun with Mueller. I’m sure it’ll be very entertaining for both of you. As for me, there’s only so much honesty I can take in one day.” And she was out the door before he could stop her.

  EXCALIBUR

  i.

  CALHOUN COULD NOT RECALL a time when the atmosphere in the conference lounge was so uneasy. There had been any number of times that they’d been dealing with potentially hostile beings with whom they had been forced by circumstances to work with peacefully. Calhoun had faced individuals whom he had wanted to kill, or who had wanted to kill him, or both. He had sat across the table from people who possessed weaponry or vessels that were capable of blowing the Excalibur to scrap metal. In all those instances, however, he had been backed up by a crew with a united purpose: to pull together and get the job done. Even when he and Shelby had been at their most fractious, he had always known she would ultimately be there for him. And even when there were occasions that she one hundred percent disagreed with him, when they were in front of the crew, she had always been consistently supportive . . . most of the time.

  But the situation with which he was faced now was unique in his experience.

  He was seated in his customary spot at the far end of the table, and at the opposite end was a being of such phenomenal power that she had been able to stop the ship dead in space. Yet she was attired in a manner more appropriate for more than a millennia ago. Not only that, but she was leaning on the arm of Mark McHenry. She had insisted he pull his chair over and sit right next to her, and she had then looped her arm around his in a manner that could only be described as possessive. She rested her head on his shoulder, looking charmingly girlish in a way, if she hadn’t been capable of crushing the ship with a thought.

  Soleta, Kebron, Burgoyne, and Selar were also present. The two Vulcans were making absolutely no attempt to hide their priorities: Soleta was taking scientific energy readings off her, while Selar was studying the readouts from a medical tricorder. The woman calling herself Artemis didn’t seem to notice . . . or, if she did, she certainly didn’t appear to care. She just sat there with a small smirk, as if to say that no matter what anyone else said or did, she was secure and content in her power over the situation.

  Kebron sat there, rock steady . . . although Calhoun was concerned that Kebron had been hurt. There appeared to be flakes of skin falling away from around his throat (or lack of throat, as the case may be). That concerned Calhoun, since Kebron’s hide had always seemed more or less impenetrable. Although Kebron had been hammered by Artemis’ attack, it didn’t seem so catastrophic that he would have been badly injured. Still, the skin irritation didn’t appear infected (whatever a Brikar infection might look like). And the skin beneath was the same color as Kebron’s original hue. So maybe it wasn’t so bad. What was more disturbing, though, was the way that Kebron was looking at McHenry. He wasn’t just watching him carefully; he was glowering at him. One of Kebron’s greatest strengths had always been his relative unflappability. He’d been a virtual engine of destruction when the situation had called for it, but he never allowed his passions to color his actions. For whatever reason, he was taking this McHenry situation personally. That could prove dangerous, and he realized he might have to take Kebron aside and speak to him privately.

  Burgoyne seemed rather focused on McHenry as well, appearing sympathetic to his obvious discomfort. Immediately Calhoun realized why: Burgoyne and McHenry had been involved at one point. Although Burgoyne was most definitely, and happily, with Dr. Selar now, nevertheless there still might have been some old feelings left rattling about in Burgoyne’s mind.

  “We need to get several things sorted out,” Calhoun said slowly, “before we go any further. First: The assault on my bridge crew . . .”

  “You assaulted Marcus,” she replied.

  There were blank looks.

  “That would be me,” sighed McHenry.

  “ ‘Marcus?’ ”

  “Don’t start, Burgy.”

  Artemis ruffled her fingers through McHenry’s hair. He flinched away slightly at it. “Now, of course, naughty Marcus was actually trying to get away from me. Trying to take this vessel and send it in the other direction. Naturally I didn’t approve of his actions. But on the other hand, I disliked the way you were treating him . . . and so I stepped in.” Then she looked at them, glowering, and for a moment Calhoun felt as if storm energies were gathering in the room. But just as quickly, they passed, and she simply concluded mildly, “I do not suggest,” and she fired a very specific, and warning, look to Kebron, “that you try such things again.”

  Kebron said nothing.

  “Second,” Calhoun resumed speaking, “you have released my ship?”

  “Of course we have, Captain,” said Artemis. Her voice was deep and throaty, and also maddeningly attractive. She spoke with an airy confidence, and worse, she spoke like someone who had the power to back up that confidence. “We have no reason to continue to hold it. After all, if we are so inclined, we can recapture it at any time.”

  “We?” Burgoyne asked, which was exactly what was going through Calhoun’s mind.

  “Yes. ‘We.’ ” She smiled ingratiatingly. “Certainly you did not think I came alone.”

  Soleta lowered her tric
order and, placing it on the table, interlaced her fingers. “It might not seem an unreasonable surmise,” she said. “After all . . . your twin brother contended that he was alone.”

  Artemis was appreciatively startled by Soleta’s remark. She released her hold on McHenry’s arm and placed her full attention on Soleta. “You know of him? You know of Apollo?”

  “It was not a difficult incident to research,” Soleta said, eyebrow raised. Across from her, Selar was still studying her medical tricorder. Every so often she shook her head slightly as if she could not give credence to what she was seeing. “When one asks the computer to check all incidents of Federation vessels coming into contact with Greek gods, there is—believe it or not—a very short list. To be specific: There was exactly one instance, logged by Captain—”

  “Kirk,” Calhoun said immediately. “James T. Kirk.”

  All eyes turned to him. “That’s right, Captain,” said Soleta. “You also researched—?”

  “No. But I remember Jellico mentioning the incident some time ago. It was his opinion,” Calhoun said levelly, “that Kirk’s log entries regarding his encounters with Apollo were . . . dubious. How like Kirk to wait the better part of a century in order to have the last laugh.”

  “Kirk would have been a safe bet in any event,” said Burgoyne. “Did you ever read his entries in comparison to other vessels? I did. On any given stardate you would have Captain Smith saying, ‘Mapped a new star today,’ and Captain Jones writing, ‘Brought an ambassador to negotiate a peace treaty,’ and Captain Kirk would be saying, ‘Fought a giant amoeba that was going to eat a star system.’ It was insane.”

  “Thank you for the history lesson,” Selar said sharply, lowering her tricorder long enough to glance at her mate.

  “The point is,” Calhoun said, “yes, we do know of your brother, thanks to the encounter on—”

  “Stardate 3468.1,” spoke up Soleta. “And on that occasion, Apollo stated that he was the last of a race of beings who had come to Earth millennia ago and put themselves across as gods to the inhabitants of the time. He endeavored to force the crew of the Enterprise to worship him in a manner similar to their ancestors.”

  “I assume the request did not go over well,” Burgoyne said.

  “You assume correctly,” said Soleta.

  “It was . . . a tragic situation,” Artemis spoke up. A slight bit of her high-handedness seemed to be gone as she spoke of that long-ago encounter. “My brother . . . of all of us, he was the most worshipped. Even more so than Zeus. He was the god of the sun, the god of the prognostication. Humans were devoted to him. All he desired from those . . . those ingrates on the Enterprise, was that they attend him in the way that their ancestors had. If he had come to you—if he had requested that you bend knee to him in the manner that your ancestors had—what would you have said?”

  “They weren’t my ancestors,” said Calhoun immediately.

  “Not mine,” “Nor mine,” Soleta and Selar told her. This was promptly followed by “Count me out,” from Burgoyne, and a grunt acknowledging the obvious from Kebron.

  “My my.” Artemis seemed amused by the revelation. “Perhaps they’re making humans of less sturdy stuff nowadays.”

  Soleta did not appear the least bit amused. “ According to log entries, Apollo claimed that he was the last of his kind. That the rest of you had ‘spread yourselves upon the winds’ and were carried away. Was he deluded? Lying? Or are you lying?”

  Artemis fixed a glare upon Soleta, even though the edges of her mouth were upturned in what could barely be called a smile. Calhoun made a mental note that problems between this “Artemis” and Soleta could likely be considerable. “You,” Artemis said to Soleta, “remind me somewhat of Pan. But Pan was a bore. I never liked him much.”

  “Your opinion,” Soleta replied, “might be of concern to me if my job were to provide you with entertainment.”

  “The day is young,” said Artemis, the non-smile widening. “You may yet provide some.”

  “All right, that’s enough,” Calhoun said with sufficient sharpness to snap Artemis’ attention over to him. She looked him up and down, obviously trying to size him up, get a feeling for the type of man he was. Calhoun was not especially interested in giving her the time to do so. He was already viewing her as a potential opponent, and as such he considered it necessary to keep her off balance as much as he possibly could. He didn’t have much choice in the matter; he was still sensing the fractured relationship between his own crew, and he certainly did not need to have things aggravated. “I will not have my people threatened, Artemis.”

  “Nor was I threatening them,” she said mildly.

  “Then I would be most obliged if you would answer Lieutenant Soleta’s question.”

  Artemis nodded slowly. She now wasn’t sitting next to McHenry at all. It was almost as if she’d forgotten that he was there. “Very well,” she said, even more softly, less officiously than before. “You see, one of my provinces is truth above all . . . and in the spirit of that, I suppose I owe you the truth.

  “My brother was not mad . . . not in the traditional sense, the sense that you would understand. But he was desperate . . . and despondent. As I told you, he had the most worshippers, so the loss of them as your people ‘matured’ hit him the hardest. He would sit there in his home on Pollux IV, brooding and frustrated. Believe it or not, Captain—all of you—my people truly did have other interests to pursue. There is a galaxy of life out there, and many ways for our people to divert ourselves.”

  “Your people. What precisely are ‘your people’?” asked Soleta.

  That seemed to perk Artemis up as she warmed to the subject. “The name we use for ourselves . . . you would not be able to pronounce it. Think of us simply as ‘the Beings.’ ”

  “And you formed the basis for Greco-Roman myths?”

  “More than that, actually, my dear captain. My beloved brother was actually somewhat modest. Greek, Roman, Egyptian, Norse . . . our people, my people, were the basis for all of them. Some even ‘played’ multiple roles. For instance, we have one among our number: Loki. Perhaps you have heard of him.”

  Soleta nodded. “A giant and a shapeshifter in Norse mythology. Associated with trickery.”

  “Yes. Except the frozen north truly was frozen, and Loki enjoyed getting away from that territory during the height of winter. So at those times he would roam the American West. There he became known as the coyote god. He adopted other personas in other regions. perhaps I will introduce you. I suspect you might well get along with one another . . . for I believe, Captain, that you can be a very tricky man.”

  “I prefer the term ‘resourceful.’ ”

  “As you wish,” she said lazily. She rose from her chair and began to walk in leisurely fashion around the conference lounge. She didn’t appear to walk so much as glide, each move suffused with sensuality. Calhoun found it impossible to tear his gaze away from her looks. There was something incredibly captivating about her beauty . . . and yet, although he wasn’t certain why, it seemed . . . off somehow.

  “In any event, my beloved brother always had an appreciation for the . . . dramatic, shall we say. He told your Captain Kirk heart-wrenching tales of how we,” and she said it in a breathless manner to heighten the drama, draping her arm across her forehead like a bad actress, “how each of us, despondent over not being worshipped, spread ourselves onto the winds of nothingness and vanished.”

  “And that wasn’t true?” asked Calhoun.

  She dropped the overacting poise and smiled. “It was true as far as it went. We did depart. But it wasn’t out of ennui or depression. We were just tired of Apollo. Of his endless moping about and waiting for humanity to climb into space-going vessels and come out and find us again. Earth was an entertaining dalliance, to be sure, but hardly the be-all and end-all of an immortal being’s soul. Let’s be realistic, after all. We moved on to our business . . . and left Apollo to his. Ultimately, he chose the way out that he ha
d originally ascribed to us. That was his choice. I . . .” She hesitated, and for a moment her pomposity wavered. “I . . . do miss him. I wish he had not allowed himself to dissipate. But it was his choice, and I am afraid I have no option before me save to accept it.”

  “You are too perfect,” Selar said abruptly.

  Artemis turned to face her, her head cocked slightly as if in thought. “How charming for you to say that.”

  “I mean that literally,” said Selar, snapping closed her medical tricorder. “Your face, your body, are perfectly symmetrical. That does not exist in nature. There are always some minor variances. But not in your physiognomy. The left side of your face is identical to the right; the rest of your body follows suit, as near as I can determine. It suggests that what we are seeing of you . . . is a construct of some sort. Not your real appearance.”

  Calhoun noticed Soleta appearing to react to that statement, as if it crystallized something she was already pondering. But Artemis, for her part, only seemed amused as she looked Selar up and down.

  “My ‘real appearance.’ As if embellishing one’s appearance is somehow limited to me. Your ‘real appearance,’ Dr. Selar, is obscured by carefully groomed hair . . . by makeup . . . by clothing. I do not see you volunteering to appear relatively naked and honest to your fellow crewmen. Nor do you see me carping about that decision. If you, a mortal, are to be allowed your indulgences, then please be so kind as to allow a goddess hers.”

  “You,” Selar replied, looking unimpressed, “are not a goddess.”

  “Met many for comparison, have you?”

  Suddenly Selar’s tricorder was no longer in her hand, but instead in Artemis’. She was turning it over and over, studying it with great interest. Immediately the doctor started to get up from her chair to take it back, but Calhoun stopped her with a crisp, “Sit down, Doctor. Artemis . . . return that to Dr. Selar. Now.”

  McHenry stiffened, as if concerned that Artemis was going to lash out at Calhoun for the tone of his voice. Instead Artemis simply smiled . . . and then her hands flexed. There was a sharp crack, a crumbling, and just like that the tricorder was shattered shards in her palms. Bringing her hands forward carefully, she allowed the pieces to slide out from between them, collecting as a small pile of useless rubble on the table in front of Selar. “As you wish, Captain,” she said, looking quite pleased with herself.