by Peter David
“Actually, I have a funny feeling that, in thirty years, Ma’s going to be looking better than I will.”
“Isn’t that a sweet thing for her to say, Morgan?”
“Oh, yes, Rafe . . . very sweet.”
A waiter strode up to them. “Good morrow, lords and ladies. Is your food order to be . . . or not to be?”
“That is the question,” Morgan said readily.
“Perhaps you’d be interested in Italian. See, on this side of the menu, there’s the Montague specialties . . . and on the other side, the Capulets. We wouldn’t recommend ordering some from each, though. They don’t tend to get along.”
“Why am I not surprised?” said Robin.
There was a sudden cry of battle from the middle of the restaurant. The human Shakespeare was facing off against the Klingon Shakespeare with great ire. “How dare you?” he was shouting.
“What’s the problem?” the waiter called over. Robin tried to figure out whether this was simply part of the “show,” or whether there was some genuine problem.
The human Shakespeare pointed accusingly at the Klingon. “He caved in my skull!”
“It looks fine from here,” said the waiter.
Clearly annoyed, the human Shakespeare held up the shattered remains of a human skull.
“Alas. Poor Yorick,” the waiter said mournfully.
“Can we go to a different restaurant?” pleaded Robin.
“Oh, Robin,” her mother scolded her. “What happened to your sense of fun?”
“Maybe,” Nik suggested, “it deserted her when she fell down a hole and nearly got herself killed.”
Morgan turned and looked at her with undisguised interest. “You did?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“How very exciting!”
Robin couldn’t quite recall the last time she’d seen her mother so enthused. Was that what it took to get a real rise out of her? A risk to life and limb? “Actually,” Robin said, “that’s more or less how Nik and I met. He saved my life.”
“Well done, Nik!” said Rafe approvingly.
“Tell us all about it, Robin.”
But then, before Robin could open her mouth, she spotted someone at the far side of the room, someone whom she had not been expecting to see . . . and yet, someone whom she had been wondering about from the moment she had had Morgan introduced to her as Rafe’s significant other.
Montgomery Scott had just entered, alongside Mr. Theodore Quincy, the El Dorado manager. Quincy was chatting animatedly, and Scotty appeared to be listening. But his gaze immediately fastened on Morgan. His face was, for the most part, unreadable, but Robin could swear that the edges of his mustache drooped ever so slightly. It was obvious to Robin that he was . . . annoyed? Hurt? He was definitely feeling something, but it was hard to tell what. Just as quickly as he had noticed Morgan and fixed his gaze on her, he looked away, shifting his attention once more to whatever it was that Quincy was going on about. They were shown to a table and spent the rest of the evening there. Every so often, Robin would steal glances over there to see if he was looking Morgan’s way. But either he was far too crafty to be noticed, or he simply wasn’t paying her any mind.
The only time that Morgan and Robin had to chat privately was when they opted to use the restroom. The moment they were alone, Robin said to her mother, “I thought you were involved with Scotty.”
“ ‘Involved’? Robin, that’s a very strong word, particularly considering this is simply a vacation.”
“You went dancing with him!”
“No . . . I never said that. Scotty and I just talked, and then he turned in early. I went dancing with Rafe. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Robin. I’m . . . having fun.”
“Fun. Did you see the way Scotty looked at you when he spotted you sitting there with Rafe?”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Yes, you did.”
“All right, I noticed. But what would you have me do, Robin? I ran into Rafe at one of the casinos, and he seemed charming, debonair. He seemed interested in talking about me.”
“Really. And what was Scotty interested in talking about?”
“Engines. Machinery. Computer systems. He appreciates me for my mind, and considers me knowledgeable enough to be able to keep up with him. He told me how nice it is to be able to talk to an older woman who actually cares about the same things he cares about.”
“Well, that sounds . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“I hope the word ‘romantic’ wasn’t the one you were searching for, because I can tell you with utter conviction that it’s anything but that.”
“But he was so . . . sweet.”
“Fine. You date him.”
“I’ve got Nik.”
“Have you?” She arched an eyebrow. “Just how much have you ‘got’ him? Have you and he—?”
“Mother!” Robin once again found herself astounded at the direction the conversation was going. “For heaven’s sake! This is our first date!”
“I thought,” said Morgan, washing her hands, “that you met when he saved your life.”
“That wasn’t a dating thing, though! That was a . . . a saving my life thing. So this is really our first date. And I’m sorry, but I just . . . well, I mean, Mother, I shouldn’t have to explain it beyond that. It’s only a first date.”
“Don’t sell a first date short, Robin,” said Morgan, drying her hands.
“What do you mean by that?”
Morgan smiled enigmatically. “Where do you think you came from?” Shaking the last bit of moisture off her hands, she walked out of the restroom.
“That was more than I needed to know,” said Robin.
THE JUDGE
THE INTERVENING WEEKS between Burgoyne’s arrival and the actual time of judgment were not easy for Selar.
She endeavored to pursue her normal life’s activities without any outward—or even inner—acknowledgment of what was going on. She was made aware, through intermediaries, that Burgoyne had filed the appeal, gone through various sources, and made a direct challenge for hir rights as the parent. It was a rather unusual situation for the Judgment Council to be confronted with and, naturally, being Vulcans, they approached it in a methodical, particular and—ultimately—logical manner. Such things, of course, took time.
Selar kept waiting for Burgoyne to show up again at her doorstep, to see the child once more. She was somewhat surprised, however, to receive a message early on in the process from hir. It was simple, succinct, and to the point: Burgoyne had no desire to create a series of confrontational situations. S/he felt it would serve no one, and was content to let the process unfold in the standard and accepted manner. S/he wished to make it clear that in no way did it indicate a diminishment of hir interest in Xyon . . . or, in a way, even in Selar herself. “Perhaps this will be an instance,” Burgoyne concluded, “in which absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“I would not count on that,” Selar said, but naturally there was no response, since the message was simply a recording. Selar shut the recording off and prepared to delete it from her computer files . . . and then, for no reason that she could really discern, elected to keep it. She told herself that perhaps, at some point in the future, it could be used as some sort of evidence. This, of course, did not explain why, every so often, she felt the urge to play the recording and just watch Burgoyne speak. It was an annoying thing for her to do, and she couldn’t understand why she did it . . . even as she did it.
She only saw Burgoyne once during the intervening weeks. As Selar was rounding a corner one day, on her way home, she spotted Burgoyne emerging from a library. S/he didn’t spot Selar, being apparently lost in thought. Selar intended to go on her way once Burgoyne was gone, but instead found her feet directing her—almost as if by their own accord—to the library. There she asked the curator what it was that Burgoyne was looking into.
“Ancient Vulcan traditions in general,” replied the curator. “I do not know s
pecifics.” The vagueness was frustrating to Selar, but there wasn’t really much more she could do about it. She wasn’t about to start trying to duplicate Burgoyne’s research and investigate which stores of information s/he had accessed. After all, just how obsessive was she going to be about this, anyway?
She continued to be impressed by Xyon’s development. He seemed an exceedingly happy child. She found herself glancing at other small children as she encountered them in her daily activities, mentally assessing them and comparing them to her own. She couldn’t help but notice that the Vulcan children seemed almost uniformly dour. The reason for this quickly became evident. When she was walking around with Xyon outside and he would be clucking or cooing, other Vulcans would glance at him, and her, with what could only be termed disapproval. She knew, intellectually, that they had every right to scowl. She knew what the Vulcan way entailed. Indeed, wasn’t part of the entire point of her willingness to struggle with Burgoyne over custody precisely because of her dedication to that tradition? She knew that she should be as quick to discourage Xyon’s burbling as other Vulcans were to make clear their own dissatisfaction with her. There were, after all, ways in which these things were done.
No Vulcan child learned overnight the discipline of logic and control. It took many, many years of teaching and reinforcement. But it was never too late to start. Yet, even though she knew that, Selar still had difficulty with the concept of silencing her child. How could she teach him what to be . . . if all she tried to do was stifle who he was? If nothing else, she did feel some degree of (inappropriate) smugness that, for all the “acceptable” dourness of their mien, the Vulcan infants seemed to be lagging behind Xyon in terms of dexterity and awareness. It enabled her to chalk off some of the clear sentiments expressed by others as a form of (equally inappropriate) envy.
Then, one day, she received word from the Judgment Council. It surprised her in a way; when nothing had happened after so much time, she had almost felt as if nothing was going to happen. It was certainly an illogical way to assess the situation, and upon receiving word from the Council, the folly of that illogic became clear.
An adjudicator had been assigned to the case. This came as a bit of a surprise to Selar, who had truly hoped that Burgoyne’s claims would be rejected out of hand. But she quickly adapted to the situation. If this was going to be the way of it, then she would simply deal with it.
There would be no attorneys present; Vulcan law did not require it, and Vulcans traditionally disdained such options that were so prevalent in other cultures. The reasoning was that any capable Vulcan should be perfectly able to express his or her own case in the view of his or her peers. The humans had a saying about someone acting as their own lawyer typically having a fool for a client. That, however, stemmed from the notion that someone representing his or her self would be unable to view his or her own case or predicament in a dispassionate way. Obviously, that thinking did not apply to Vulcans, the most thoroughly dispassionate of individuals.
Burgoyne, being an offworlder, would be far more likely to make certain that s/he had an attorney present to state hir position for hir. That, however, was not the case; according to the information she’d received from the Judgment Council, Burgoyne had waived the opportunity for representation. It would just be Burgoyne against Selar, each putting forward their case to the best of their abilities.
Tradition, however, did dictate that participants in disputes could, and should, bring a companion along to provide counsel, support, and guidance. Selar intended to do just that. In a way, she felt a bit sorry for Burgoyne. S/he would have no one to be by hir side.
A bit sorry . . . but not very much.
The Vulcan sun was unconscionably hot that day, even taking into account the world’s general tendency toward an arid climate. As Selar walked toward the center of the judgment grounds, she took a deep breath of the burning air and wondered briefly how she could ever have left Vulcan in the first place. This was her home, first and foremost. It had made her who she was, was a part of her no matter how far she might wander. She almost felt ashamed for having abandoned it in the first place.
Standing next to her in the judgment grounds’ center was Giniv, her close friend. Giniv, with a saturnine face and slightly stocky build, had always been there for her and, frankly, Selar had never quite understood why. When they were quite young, Giniv had just attached herself to Selar, and Selar had never felt strongly enough about it to tell her to go away. So Selar had tolerated her presence, and that tolerance had actually developed into a form of friendship. Or at least as close to friendship as Selar ever let anything become.
“Will your parents be in attendance?” asked Giniv. They had not spoken for some time, merely stood there in the silence, waiting for others to arrive.
“They very likely would, had I informed them of the occasion,” replied Selar.
“You did not tell them?”
Selar looked at Giniv with raised eyebrow. “I believe I just said that.”
“Why did you not tell them?”
“To what end? To disrupt their lives for no reason? Certainly nothing will come of this. Burgoyne has made an appeal to the Vulcan Judgment Council. It is true that the Council is sending an adjudicator here to the judgment grounds to hear the case. But my conclusion—indeed, the only logical one—is that it is being done merely as a matter of form, and largely out of deference to Burgoyne’s status as a Starfleet officer. The Council prefers to maintain solid relations with Starfleet at all times. Otherwise, they would likely have dismissed hir claims expeditiously.”
Giniv considered the matter a moment. “What if you are wrong? What if matters are not as perfunctory as you believe they will be?”
“That will not matter. The fact remains that involving my parents would be a needless hardship for them.”
Giniv made a noncommittal noise that caught Selar’s attention. “You disagree?”
“I simply speculate as to whether you have not informed your parents because you do not wish them to meet Burgoyne. That you may be embarrassed in some measure because of your choice of mate.”
“Burgoyne is not my mate,” Selar informed her.
“S/he is the father of your child.”
“That does not make hir my mate.”
“What does it make hir, then?”
“An overly familiar acquaintance.”
Clearly Giniv did not agree, but before she could pursue the matter, they were startled to hear a voice say, “Good morning, ladies. Hot day, isn’t it?”
Burgoyne was standing a short distance away. Hir arms were folded, and s/he was studying Selar with an open and frank stare. The uninhibited nature of the scrutiny made Selar feel uncomfortable, but she was not about to admit that.
In the meantime, Burgoyne turned hir gaze to Giniv. “I am Burgoyne 172.”
“Giniv,” said Giniv. “I did not hear you arrive. That is surprising; my hearing is rather acute.”
“That’s because’a your ears’a are so’a cute.”
Giniv stared at hir blankly, and then looked to Selar. Selar gave a very slight shrug.
“All right,” said Giniv uncertainly.
“Burgoyne,” Selar said, “it is not too late to withdraw your claim and avoid embarrassment.”
The two of them, rather unconsciously, were circling one another like two stars.
“Are you concerned that you will be embarrassed?” Burgoyne sounded rather interested in the notion.
“I have no such concerns for myself. Allowing oneself to be embarrassed is an emotion. It is of no consequence to me. You, however, might feel differently.”
“I feel that I’m doing what I have to do.”
“As do we all, Burgoyne.”
“How did you get here without my hearing you?” said Giniv, who apparently had not quite managed to work her way past that.
Before Burgoyne could respond, Selar said, “Burgoyne can move very quietly if s/he chooses.”
“Thank you,” said Burgoyne.
“It was not a compliment. Simply an observation.” She inclined her head toward Giniv. “In case you are wondering, Giniv is here as tradition dictates. A trusted friend may be in attendance to witness the events when there is a dispute brought to the judgment grounds. I regret that you have no one of whom to avail yourself.”
“Do you? I didn’t know you cared.”
“I do not wish hardship upon you, Burgoyne. You may or may not believe that, but it is true.”
“Well, I appreciate that. But, you know, Selar . . . it is illogical to assume things.”
“What do you mean by—?”
Then she saw someone else approaching. Her eyes narrowed. “Slon . . .?”
Slon nodded slightly, walked over to Burgoyne, nodded once again and then stood by hir side. Selar looked from one to the other, her face visibly darkening. Her voice was so icy that, considering the heat in the air, it was surprising there wasn’t mist coming from her mouth. “What,” she said slowly, “is this about?”
“We made each others’ acquaintance,” Slon told her.
“In . . . deed.” The temperature dropped another ten degrees.
In a low voice, Giniv said, “Did they—?”
“I neither know nor care,” replied Selar, making absolutely no effort to keep her voice down. She was even more annoyed to see that Burgoyne was actually smiling. Presumably s/he thought she was annoyed by hir little “alliance” with her brother. Well, that was just another mistake on Burgoyne’s part. One of many.
“You seem annoyed, Selar,” Slon observed.
“You know better than that,” she corrected him archly. “I find it curious that you would cast your alliance with . . . hir.”
