by Peter David
“I’m not following,” admitted Robin.
But Morgan said immediately, “He’s saying that the quality of those installing them is dropping off.”
He touched his finger to his nose. “Ye have it exactly right,” he agreed. “Everything is so foolproof, the systems so efficient, that a lot of people nowadays billin’ themselves as computer installers . . . why, they don’t know the least thing about what’s truly makin’ the bloody things function. They think if they insert tab ‘a’ into slot ‘b,’ why, that’s all there is to it. And, unfortunately for the folks here on Risa who were counting on their installers to do the job, they found out differently. Computer systems analysis is becomin’ a lost art, outside of Starfleet. Even in Starfleet, it’s so standardized. Same mnemonic circuits, same database, even the same computer voice . . .” He stopped talking, staring once again at Morgan.
Morgan looked at him with curiosity. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s just that . . . yer voice. Even yer voice sounds like . . .” And then he waved dismissively. “Ach, forget it. Ah’m losing muh mind and that’s all there is to it. So, in any event . . . the Risa management needed someone who understood the systems from the ground up. And how many people are there around who fill that bill, I ask ye?”
“Not many,” said Robin.
He thumped the table. “Not many indeed. There’s exactly two people still suckin’ oxygen who could get the job done the way it ought to be done.”
“Going on the assumption that you’re one,” said Robin, “who’s the other?”
It was Morgan who answered. “Spock,” she said immediately.
“Right again. Morgan, ye are quite the knowledgeable lady.”
“Well, I’ve been around a while. Picked up a few things,” Morgan told him modestly.
“Ahhh, but ah’ll bet ye haven’t been around quite as long as ah have,” Scotty replied.
“Oh, you’d probably lose that—owwww!” Robin suddenly yelped.
Scotty looked at her with concern. “Are ye okay, lass?” he inquired solicitously.
Robin was firing a dirty look at her mother, whose face had gone resolutely deadpan. She flexed her foot, the instep of which had been thoroughly crunched by the heel of Morgan’s boot under the table. “Sorry. Pulled a muscle. Nothing to be alarmed about.”
“You’re absolutely right, Scotty,” continued Morgan with a quick, satisfied smile in Robin’s direction.
“And what’s this?”
Robin looked up to see a short, avuncular fellow with thinning hair and a too-eager-to-please manner. His hands were in constant movement, his fingertips tapping against each other. “My, my, my,” he said, in a voice that sounded like an odd combination of friendly and nervous, “are we seeing a hint of romance here?”
“Romance, Mr. Quincy?” Scotty sounded somewhat surprised. “Ah’m just doin’ muh job.”
“Ah, but I’ve never seen you spending quite so much time with any one guest . . . I’m sorry, guests,” he amended, turning to Robin. “I didn’t see you there, Miss.”
“Yes, I’m just that memorable.” Robin said.
“These are special guests, Mr. Quincy,” Scott informed him. “The lassie—lass—here is from Starfleet.”
“Starfleet!” This time Quincy rubbed his palms together. “We do quite a nice business with Starfleet. Always appreciate the business. And you, ma’am? Are you also—?” He looked questioningly at Morgan.
“I’ve . . . dabbled,” said Morgan. “But it’s no longer my number-one priority.”
“Ah. Well, I’m Theodore Quincy. I’m the manager here at El Dorado. I didn’t mean to intrude . . .”
“Ah was just regaling the ladies with the explanation of how ah came to be here,” said Scott.
“Oh, well . . .!” Unbidden, Quincy snagged a chair and pulled it over. “As it turned out, we had a few initial problems with our computer systems, and we brought in Mr. Scott here to smooth out the rough edges.”
“So we heard,” Robin said.
“We were so pleased with the job he did that we invited him to spend a week or so, on the house,” continued Quincy. “And it was amazing. When people found out who he was, they were flocking to him. He became his own media event. Well, I’ll tell you, there are no flies on Theodore Quincy.”
Robin looked him up and down and saw that there were not, in fact, any insects swarming on him. So it was certainly true, although the significance of the absence of flies eluded her.
“I spoke to the owners, and before you could say, ‘Milk it for all it’s worth,’ we’d offered Scott here a full-time position.”
“It’s a lot more interestin’ than retirement, ah have to admit that,” Scotty told them. “And yet, it’s not that entirely different.”
“We immediately redid this lounge area,” Quincy said, gesturing to the bar surrounding them. “Everything from basic concept to final execution, inside of forty-eight hours. Then we installed Scotty here and the rest is history.”
Scotty winced visibly, but forced a game smile. “Ah prefer not t’think of muhself as history.”
“Oh, of course not, Scott,” Quincy immediately clarified. “You have a tremendous amount still to contribute.”
“And you find this interesting?” Morgan appeared a bit puzzled. “Standing around in a facsimile engineering bay, appealing to people’s nostalgia and encouraging people to have a good time—which they were likely going to do already—when you’re clearly capable of so much more.”
“What would ye suggest, Morgan?” Scotty asked reasonably. ‘Ah’m not exactly a spring chicken, ye know. It’s not like ah’m going to—ah dinna know—take command of a ship, or perhaps start a family.”
“I suppose. It’s just . . .” She shook her head. “It seems like a waste of material to me.”
“Ah, ye are sweet to say so, Morgan,” he smiled. “And ah admit . . . every so often, ah find muhself thinkin’ about how it would be t’be pressed back into service. I got muhself into some pretty fixes through the years, ah did. There’s somethin’ about tryin’ to string together operating systems, or jury-rigging engines while under split-second pressure with lives at stake . . .” He let out a sigh. “Makes a man feel alive.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Quincy commented.
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Scotty sighed.
“So you see, Mr. Quincy,” Morgan told him, “there’s no ‘romance’ here. Just Mr. Scott doing his job and making our first hours here at El Dorado as pleasant as possible.”
“And I trust the rest of your stay will be equally as pleasant,” Quincy said. He smiled wanly. “Hopefully you’ll be able to feel sufficiently alive without putting your lives at stake.” They all laughed at that.
They wouldn’t be laughing later.
SELAR
SELAR INSPECTED THE OFFICE with approval. Her brother, Slon, stood nearby with arms folded, watching her with his customary detached disinterest. Although Slon was her younger brother, he was a head taller than she, with a very triangular face and exceedingly curved eyebrows that gave his face a look of perpetual disdain. This could not have been more at odds with his personality, for he had a far more wry outlook to life than just about any other Vulcan Selar could think of.
“This seems quite adequate,” she said after a sufficient time of looking over the facilities.
“High praise from you,” Slon replied.
He had a tone that was slightly baiting, one that he adopted with no one else. As always, she let it pass without comment. “And Dr. Seclor was quite certain that the arrangement was satisfactory with him?”
“More than certain,” said Slon. “The timing of it was quite good, actually. He needed to take time off to recover from his bout with xenopolycythemia, but he had no wish to leave his patients and clientele in the lurch. Your expressed interest in setting up a practice here on Vulcan for a period of several months was, as I said, well-timed. Dr. Seclor is quite frustrated over h
is temporary inability to serve his community, as he has for so long.”
“Doctor Seclor should consider himself fortunate,” Selar said primly. “Less than a century ago, his ailment would have been terminal. The strain that affects Vulcans is particularly vicious. Better to be out of commission for a relatively brief time than deceased for substantially longer.”
“As always, Selar, your way with words remains uniquely your own.” He walked around the office, his hands draped behind his back. “So I can inform Dr. Seclor that you will attend to his patient list.”
“Yes. This arrangement will suit everyone’s needs. And, who knows . . .”
Her voice trailed off, but Slon was not about to let it stop there. “Who knows what?” he asked.
She did not answer immediately, but he did not push it. He knew Selar well enough to know that she would say what was on her mind sooner or later . . . and if he pushed the subject, it would be later rather than sooner.
“Perhaps,” she said thoughtfully, “it will be permanent.”
“You would leave Starfleet?” he asked. Naturally, he covered his surprise, but Selar could tell that he was caught off guard. “I had thought it was the only place where you were happy. Or, at least, what passes for happiness in you.”
“I have . . . been considering it. I do not know that a Starfleet vessel is the best place for a child to be brought up.”
“Nor do you know that it is the worst. There have been extensive studies done upon children raised in such an environment. There have been no indications that any psychological harm was done to them.”
“My child is not a study or a statistic,” Selar informed him, in that annoyingly superior tone she was so capable of adopting. “I am concerned purely about Xyon’s well-being and overall health. On that basis, I believe he would be better off being raised on Vulcan, in a Vulcan environment.”
“He is your child . . .”
Slon didn’t complete the sentence, but instead let it hang there. The lengthy pause naturally caught Selar’s attention. “You think I am wrong to desire this thing.”
“I did not say that.”
“You did not have to.”
Slon appeared less than amused. “In addition to your capabilities as a doctor, are you adding ‘mind reader’ to your list of accomplishments, Selar?”
“No. Having the status of being your sister is sufficient.” She tilted her head slightly as she regarded him. “Do you think I will be an inadequate mother?”
He took a deep breath. “I will be honest, Selar—”
“Can you be any other way?”
“No. To be honest, I have difficulty picturing you as any sort of mother. You have never struck me as the motherly type. Your possessiveness of the child seems . . . odd.”
“That,” replied Selar, “is because you have no children, Slon. You have never experienced pon farr . . . nor will you.”
“Yes,” sighed Slon, “as you and our parents never cease bringing to my attention.”
“That reminds me . . . how is your ‘friend,’ Sotok? Are you and he still together?”
“On and off . . . at the moment, off, but eventually, on, I would suspect. He is well . . . much to the annoyance of Father. He still believes that, were it not for my involvement with Sotok, my ‘true’ nature would have presented itself, and the pon farr urges would have swept me up in their inevitable tide of reproductive drive.”
Despite her Vulcan discipline, she actually felt slightly sorry for him, and allowed that to slip into her tone. “You should not concern yourself, Slon. Father may argue against the ‘logic’ of the situation, but ultimately his, and Mother’s, feelings for you are undiminished.”
“They have no feelings for me. Or for you.”
“True. That is why they remain undiminished.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You, Selar, have acquired a somewhat mordant wit.”
“I prefer to think of it as ‘bedside manner.’ ”
“And patients appreciate it?”
“No,” she admitted. “However, they place far greater concern upon the likelihood that I will enable them to remain alive. Since I am skilled at that, they overlook any other concerns regarding my conduct.”
“That is very fortunate for you. Let us hope that your patients’ general survival rate remains high. It would not be beneficial to your career if they should turn on you.”
“You,” Selar told him, “are avoiding the question.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. Answer me straight, Slon. Do you think I will be a good mother for Xyon?”
“I try to make a habit, Selar, of only presenting my opinion in those instances where I believe the questioner might act upon that opinion. I do not consider that to be likely here. You will do what you will do, as you always have.”
“But you think I am wrong to do so.”
“Not wrong for you. You will do what you feel is right.”
“You are fencing with me, Slon. That is unworthy of you. Say precisely what you mean, or cease saying anything at all.”
His eyes narrowed at that. “Very well. I think it unwise that you have elected to exclude the father from the process of raising the child.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am Vulcan, Selar. I do not know how not to be serious.”
“Your syntax is mangled, but the sentiment is clear enough.” She took a deep breath. “Burgoyne and I . . . are not a possibility, Slon.”
“Why? Do you find hir that repugnant?”
“No. No, s/he is not repugnant at all. S/he is . . .” Selar paused, calling an image of Burgoyne to her mind, and was inwardly surprised to discover that image was not altogether displeasing. “S/he is loving and caring. Protective and brave. Fiercely loyal. Very concerned about the welfare of our child. Dedicated and hardworking.”
“Ah. Very well. I can see why you have no possible future together,” Slon said with a waspish, cutting edge to his voice.
“Slon . . .”
“Is the problem Burgoyne . . . or is it you?”
“I do not have a problem,” Selar told him.
“That may very well be your problem,” said Slon. He shook his head. “I do not mean to lecture you, Selar, or to seem as if I doubt your judgment.”
“In that case, the happenstance by which you are accomplishing both of those ends is truly impressive.”
“I simply think that you are cutting off options that might be of benefit to you, and to Xyon, and that you are doing them for reasons you do not fully appreciate or understand.”
“And you do?”
“Not entirely,” he admitted. “I have known you for as far back as I can remember, my dear older sister. Our people are not compassionate, even under the best of circumstances, and you have followed that spirit to the letter. That is to be expected. But for all that . . . you have changed. You are colder, more ruthless, more uncaring than the Selar I recall. You went about your profession with efficiency because that was what the job entailed. You dealt with your drives as a Vulcan because you felt it your duty. But lately . . . I am not sure . . . you seem to use your detachment as a shield, a cloak that will protect you from harm.”
“What sort of harm?”
“I would think that you would know.”
“I do not know how I would know, Slon,” she said reasonably. “This is, after all, your own scenario that you are spinning here. If you do not know the origin of this mythical ‘harm’ from which I am protecting myself, then I do not consider myself bound by it.”
“You are not bound by it in any event,” he said. “I am simply . . . thinking out loud. That is all.”
“You would be well-advised, then, to think more softly. Quieter thoughts usually result in more accurate thoughts.”
“I shall try to keep that in mind in the future, Selar.”
ROBIN & MORGAN
ROBIN SAT UP IN BED, blinking against the darkness. She checked the chronometer and couldn’t beli
eve what it was telling her. Oh-three hundred hours? Oh-three-hundred?
She slid her legs out from under the covers. The rug was fuzzy against her feet as she rose from the bed and padded to the common area, then peered through the still-open door to her mother’s empty bedroom. “Where the hell is she?” Robin said to no one with utter incredulity. Even as she voiced the question, though, she already knew the answer: She was out with him. With “Scotty,” as she had been every night since they’d arrived.
“Half light,” she said, and the lights in the room obediently came on halfway. Just then the door to the room slid open and Morgan entered, her face a little flushed. She’d obviously been running . . . or, perhaps, engaged in some other physical activity. She froze just inside the door when she saw the look from her daughter.
“Oh. Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” said Robin. If her voice had been any more icy, mist would have floated from her mouth. “Another late night?”
There was a silence. “If you were about to use the bathroom, don’t hesitate on my account.”
“Thank you for your permission, Mother. I’m ever so gratified.” She went in and used it. By the time she came out, minutes later, Morgan was in nightclothes and sliding under the covers of her own bed. “All tuckered out?” she asked.
Morgan didn’t notice—or at least appeared not to notice—the dripping sarcasm in her tone. “A bit, yes.”
“And what, exactly, tired you out so?”
“Well, it was a busy evening,” Morgan said. “First, we got stinking drunk. And then, to work off the alcohol, we went at each other in a manner similar to crazed weasels.”
“Mother!” Robin couldn’t believe it. She wanted to slam her hands over her ears. She very nearly did. “I don’t want to hear this! I do not want to hear this!”
“Good lord, Robin, you have your father’s sense of humor.”
“Dad didn’t have a sense of humor.”
