Excalibur #2: Renaissance

by Peter David

  “And what am I supposed to do about Xyon?” demanded Burgoyne. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but what you’re telling me doesn’t bode well for our son in the least.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Why? How could I not! Look at the scenario you’ve described for me,” s/he said, leaning forward and extending two fingers. S/he ticked off the alternatives, one at a time. “You’ve outlined for me the psychological profile of someone who lives only in extremes. Either she is going to be so determined to control every aspect of his life that she is going to suffocate him, robbing him of any shred of independence that he might develop. Or else she is going to be so in dread that he will eventually leave her or reject her in some way, that she will reject him first. She will shunt him aside out of some deep-seated need to protect herself. A true parent, a real parent, doesn’t adopt such extreme attitudes. Real life, a normal life, is lived in gray areas, in the middle. But you Vulcans don’t think that way. It has to be pure logic for you, logic or nothing. You can’t live lives that are normal blends of heart and mind. You operate solely through your mind and act as if the rest of the galaxy is inferior because the rest of us poor residents there burn with passions that you can only guess at.”

  “Your fervor is appreciated, if misplaced,” Slon said easily. “I am not the enemy here.”

  “Technically speaking, you may not be. But you’re here on her behalf.”

  “No. I am not. I told you, she is unaware of my presence here.”

  “Then why are you here? To convince me to give her another chance? Or to find some way to work matters out?”

  “Matters will be worked out,” Slon said calmly. “The only question is whether they will be worked out in accommodation with everyone’s desires. I am beginning to think that may not be the case.” He paused, and then added, “You are aware that Selar is not the enemy here, either.”

  “Then who is the enemy? Me?”

  “I do not think she perceives you as an enemy. I think, in some way, she admires you your passion. Even envies you, as much as her nature allows her to do so. The situation is a tragic one, fraught with peril for all concerned. I ask you to consider carefully your next actions.”

  “I have been considering them, believe me.” S/he shook hir head. “You know . . . she once told me she thought that, considering our personalities, we deserved each other. How’s that for a ringing endorsement?”

  “She may well be correct. Then again . . .”

  Slon’s voice trailed off, and the sudden silence caught Burgoyne’s attention. “Then again what?” s/he prompted.

  “It is nothing.”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t start a thought and then refuse to finish it. It’s rude.”

  “I am simply wondering whether there is some aspect of self-flagellation in her actions.”

  “You’ve lost me,” admitted Burgoyne.

  “The loss of Voltak, considering the circumstances, would have hit anyone hard. But it may have hit her harder than most. She is, after all, a doctor. Her mate died in her presence, and she was unable to do anything to prevent it. As illogical as it may seem, it is possible that she is carrying with her some degree of guilt over the incident.”

  “You mean . . . she’s punishing herself?” Burgoyne shook hir head. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am very serious. Perhaps she feels that she is not entitled to happiness. That she is, as you say, punishing herself for her inability to save Voltak. Every time some measure of contentment is within her grasp, she pushes it away. To move on, as it were, would give her closure on the wound, and she cannot allow herself that closure because she does not feel she deserves it.”

  “That,” said Burgoyne, “would be a really screwedup attitude to have.”

  “As you say,” Slon said, offering no argument on that score.

  Burgoyne was silent for a time. “That would indeed be a tragic state of affairs,” s/he said. “But it’s not going to dilute my intentions to do something about Xyon. I just . . . I wish I knew whether what I feel for Selar is genuine or a result of the bond that was forced upon me.”

  “I will tell you this much, Burgoyne, for what it is worth: I am no expert in such matters, and I have not undergone any sort of specific training. But it is my belief that what you and Selar share could not possibly have been manufactured from thin air. If you felt nothing for her at all, the bond of the pon farr could not create something from that nothingness. An intensity of feelings for a brief period of time, yes. That is well within the bounds of possibility. But it has been many months since you encountered each other in the blinding state of passion that was the mating ritual. There has been more than enough time for emotions to cool, for matters to return to what they were.”

  “It’s more involved than that, though,” said Burgoyne. “When Xyon was being born, that bond was still in force. I felt the sensations of the labor pains. You cannot begin to comprehend how agonizing that was for me. For Hermats, the birth process is almost entirely painless. It was something not only outside of my own memory, but beyond my race’s physiology to endure.”

  “I do not doubt that. That, however, is the point.”

  “What is?”

  “By the time your son was being born, you could not have shared that degree, that intensity of bonding . . . if you did not want to. Furthermore, it had to be two-way. On some level, you desired to maintain your connection to Selar—and she with you—far beyond the requirements dictated by the bond of the initial mating. She does want you, Burgoyne. Difficulties and traumas that she cannot easily release, unfortunately, bind her. And you want her. But your own nature as a Hermat makes you uncertain of your ability to commit, and she senses that uncertainty. Did you know that, after you initially approached her, she had decided to take you up on your offer to sire her child?”

  “No, she didn’t. She went to Captain Calhoun and asked him to ‘do the honors,’ ” Burgoyne replied, unable to quite keep the sarcasm out of hir voice.

  But Slon shook his head. “No. Before she went to the captain, she was going to approach you. And she was doing so out of a fundamental sense of attraction for you that was as pure and genuine as any—pardon the expression—‘emotion’ she had ever felt. But she saw that, after you had enthusiastically presented yourself as a mate to her, you were so undeterred by her rejection that you were already taking up with . . . what was his name? Oh yes. McHenry. She saw the two of you going off together.”

  “She . . . saw us?” Burgoyne didn’t know what to say.

  “Yes. Unsurprising—you made no effort to be discreet. It was almost as if you were flaunting it. Perhaps she was concerned on some level that it was a sign of insincerity on your part, and she was put off by the attitude.”

  “Certainly she can’t fault me for that, though,” Burgoyne finally managed to say. “It is my nature.”

  “Is . . . or was? After all,” and to Burgoyne’s surprise, there was a bit of a smile on Slon’s face, “you could have had me. But you chose not to. It may well be, Burgoyne, that your nature has changed.”

  “Making me what, exactly?” S/he shook hir head, suddenly feeling discouraged. “As a Hermat, I may well no longer fit in with others of my kind. But I am hardly of a Vulcan disposition.”

  “That is true. You are unique. Do not be discouraged though, Burgoyne,” said Slon. “There are worse fates than to be unique.”

  “Such as?”

  “To be ordinary.”

  Burgoyne nodded and smiled at that. “That would be horrendous, wouldn’t it?”

  They were silent for a time, and then Slon inquired, “So, Burgoyne . . . what are you going to do?”

  “See it through. At this point, I have no choice.”

  “One always has choices, Burgoyne. Whether one chooses to see them or not is, in itself, its own choice.”

  ROBIN & MORGAN

  “SHAKESPEARE’S TAVERN” WAS ONE of the restaurants Robin had not yet had a chance to sampl
e, and she was pleased that Nik had suggested it be the one they go to. The place was made up to look like an old English-style tavern, right down to waiters wearing Elizabethan togs and waitresses costumed as tavern wenches. There were decorations on all the walls, including texts from both the human and “original Klingon” folios. There were even gleaming swords of the period mounted on the walls. Robin figured that real taverns of the era were probably a lot more run-down and less pleasant, with the free-flowing alcohol helping to camouflage the fact that the food wasn’t especially well-prepared. The Risa tavern, on the other hand, had an old-style look about it while maintaining the appropriate, modern-day levels of expectations. Most amusing of all were two actors who were assuming the role of Shakespeare, stalking the tavern while spouting off lengthy samples of the Bard’s work. The reason there were two actors was that one was human, while the other was Klingon. Or at least an actor dressed up as a Klingon, for the owners had not managed to actually locate a Klingon who was willing to go along with the charade. The fact was that the true origin of Shakespeare’s plays had become something of an issue between Klingon and Terran historians, both claiming that the other race had swiped the Master’s work—and planet of origin—without so much as a by-your-leave.

  As a result, in Shakespeare’s Tavern, the human and faux Klingon would occasionally face-off against one another and emote in their respective languages. Robin hated to admit it, but the faux Klingon seemed to show far more passion for the Klingon text than the human did for the English.

  Nik sat opposite Robin, pouring himself another glass of wine from the bottle that the wench had left on their table. He offered a refill to her, but she put a hand up, indicating that she was satisfied with what she had. He put the bottle down and smiled. “That,” he said, “is a lovely dress.”

  “Oh, this?” She looked down in apparent boredom at the garment she had acquired mere hours ago. It was a blue satin off-the-shoulder ensemble. “Yeah, I almost forgot I packed it. And you don’t look so bad yourself.”

  “Really?” He glanced at his own clothes. “Actually, I only bought this a few hours ago. Didn’t have much in the way of stuff with me to impress a young woman. Wasn’t really expecting, or looking for, romance.”

  “Me neither. Not to say that this is romance, what we have here.”

  “Oh, of course not. Much too soon. It’s our first dinner, after all.”

  “I’m glad we agree on that.”

  With mischief in his eyes, he added, almost as an afterthought, “Now . . . we’ll have to see how we feel about it after breakfast.”

  She raised an eyebrow in a mock-scolding manner. “My, my. Aren’t we presuming facts not in evidence.”

  “Oh, my God. You’re a lawyer. Check, please!” he said in feigned horror, pretending to look around for the waiter.

  She laughed at that. “Actually, since we’re angling toward asking about professions . . . I’m in Starfleet.”

  “Really?” He looked extremely interested. It was at times such as this that she wished she were capable of looking behind a man’s eyes, directly into his mind. Did he really want to know about her profession? Or was he just pretending to listen while trying to decide what she would look like unclothed? And if the latter . . . should she be angry? Or flattered?

  “Really,” she affirmed. “I’m—I was—in charge of ship’s operations aboard the starship Excalibur.”

  “Ah. Arthurian references. I’m a bit of a fan of that myself. So, are you on leave from the ship?”

  “Actually, the ship is on leave from us. It blew up.”

  “Oh. I see. I’m . . . very sorry to hear that. Was anyone killed?”

  “Amazingly, only one person. If it weren’t for that person, far more would have been. Possibly all of us.”

  “He sounds very brave. What was his name?”

  She looked up, slightly quizzical. “My, my. We’re assuming, aren’t we? I didn’t say it was a ‘he.’ ”

  He hesitated only a moment and then smiled. “You have me cold. I’m afraid I was egotistical enough to assume it was a man. Foolish, I know.”

  “I shouldn’t scold you for it; in this case, it was also accurate enough. His name was Mackenzie Calhoun. He was our captain.”

  “Well . . . not to sound cold, but . . . don’t they always say a captain is supposed to go down with his ship? So he would have just been doing his duty.”

  “I know,” she sighed. “I know. But, believe it or not, somehow knowing that doesn’t make it any easier.” Quickly she forced the melancholy mood from her. It was hardly going to make the evening go any better. She cleared her throat and said, “So . . . what do you do? For a living, I mean?”

  “I’m embarrassed to admit . . . I work for my father, actually. He’s something of an industrialist, with his fingers into dozens of businesses. I run one of them for him: a rescue and salvage operation.”

  “And that’s successful?”

  “Oh, incredibly so,” he chuckled, as if it should be self-evident. “There’s always people in need of our services. And it helps my social life as well.”

  “Social life? How?”

  “Well,” he said cheerily, “if a date isn’t going well, naturally you want someone who can rescue or salvage it. And that would be me.” He paused, and then asked cautiously, “Would . . . my services be needed here?”

  She shrugged. “Not so far. Then again, the evening’s young. It could go downhill,” she snapped her fingers, “just like that.”

  “You’ll let me know if it does,” said Nik amiably.

  A throat was cleared near them, and both of them looked up. Robin was fully expecting to see another Elizabethan-clad waiter, but instead it was a well-dressed man who stood before her. He bore a remarkable resemblance to Nik, but was older and more distinguished, with his hair carefully cropped and shaped, and crests of gray on either side. “Am I disturbing you?” he asked.

  “Hello, Dad,” Nik said, and he was promptly on his feet. He was the same height as his father. “Robin Lefler, may I present my father, Rafe Viola. Dad, this is Robin Lefler.”

  “Charmed,” he said, and bowed in a very old-world manner. He seemed ever so courtly.

  “Pleasure to meet you, too.”

  “Do you mind if—?” and he gestured to an empty chair.

  “By all means, Dad,” said Nik, indicating that his father should make himself comfortable. Rafe promptly did so. “Robin is with Starfleet, Dad.”

  “Really.” Rafe had a ready smile, but naturally Robin’s metaphorical antennae went up. There was something in the way he said that that sounded a bit . . . confused. As if he couldn’t understand why people from Starfleet would be wasting their time hanging out in a tourist resort. “How very interesting. Why are you not on a vessel somewhere?”

  “There was a . . . bit of a mishap, Dad,” Nik told him, glancing at Robin uneasily.

  “It’s all right, Nik,” she said. “I’ve had enough time to come to terms with it. You don’t have to tiptoe around it with me.”

  “Ship destroyed?” Rafe had a very direct way about him. He was a bit like Data, but without the rudimentary charm. Robin found it mildly disconcerting, but nothing she couldn’t handle.

  “Yes, that’s pretty much what happened,” she said.

  “That’s a shame. Waste of material.”

  She blinked at the apparent cold-bloodedness of that, but Nik told her, “Dad tends to think very much in terms of ‘material.’ Sometimes I think he’s on a first-name basis with every molecule in the galaxy.”

  Rafe smiled at that, and Robin couldn’t help but notice that he had a very appealing smile. “My poor son. Nik constantly has to go about making apologies for me. I freely admit I’m not always the easiest person to take. It certainly requires a good deal of patience.”

  “Don’t be down on yourself, Dad.”

  “I’m not. Just being self-aware.”

  “Well, from what Nik tells me, you don’t have anything t
o be concerned about. My understanding is that you’ve acquired some . . . company?”

  “That’s right. Apparently she’s running a bit late, because she was supposed to meet us here.” Just in speaking of her, his entire aspect seemed to change. Although the smile had been genuine enough earlier, now his whole face lit up. “She’s quite a woman. Dark, mysterious. Everything she says, you feel that there’s so much she’s leaving unsaid. Truly, she’s an endless lake of mysteries. . . .”

  “Just waiting for the right swimmer, Dad?” asked Nik in a teasing tone.

  Robin watched the two of them interact, and couldn’t help but be a little jealous. Despite what had sounded like some initial trepidation from Nik regarding his father, she envied what she saw as a solid and relaxed relationship between the two of them. Naturally, she compared it to the relationship she had with her mother, and felt that the latter was somehow . . . lacking.

  “Ah,” said Rafe, rising. “Here she is now.”

  Nik got to his feet as well, and Robin turned and looked in the direction that Rafe was facing. She froze in just that position, incredulous. Approaching them, having likewise frozen in midstep, was an all-too-familiar individual who looked equally surprised.

  Robin sighed. “You know . . . you would think that I would have seen this coming.”

  Rafe looked from one to the other. “Morgan . . . Robin . . . do you two know each other?”

  “Only all my life,” said Robin.

  “And I for not quite that long,” Morgan added.

  Nik looked puzzled, but Rafe understood immediately. “Mother and daughter,” he said. They nodded simultaneously. He turned to his son and said, “Well, Nik, it appears that we have more similar taste in women than we would have thought. At least it saves me having to make introductions.” As they sat, he added, “This is actually a pleasant bit of luck for you, Nik. They always say, if you want to see how the daughter’s going to look in thirty years, look at the mother. Here’s your chance.”