by Peter David
Nothing happened.
Selar’s eyes went wide; all the training in the world could not have prevented her from revealing the surprise she felt. The muscles beneath Burgoyne’s shoulders had bunched themselves into something that almost felt like a protective grouping, pure muscle control shielding the key nerves from suffering the obstruction of blood flow that would send Burgoyne into unconsciousness. Now she had no choice. Both hands gripped Burgoyne’s throat as s/he continued the pressure of the strap on Selar’s own.
But Selar realized bleakly that Burgoyne had the advantage. Selar could barely stop her head from swimming, and she felt the strength ebbing from her. The fact was that Burgoyne was simply better built for fighting than Selar, was in better shape, was . . .
. . . was going to win. Burgoyne was going to win, and Selar was going to lose her child. A blackness settled upon Selar then, a feeling of utter helplessness such as she had never known.
“You win.”
The words had been Burgoyne’s.
Selar couldn’t quite believe it. No . . . she flat out didn’t believe it. She thought it was some sort of trick, another strategy on the Hermat’s part. But no . . . Burgoyne was releasing hir hold, pushing hirself away from Selar, and there was no spring in hir movements, no grace. S/he seemed tired and worn and just as aching and frustrated as Selar herself was. When s/he had spoken, the words had been thick and raspy, but s/he repeated—apparently just to make sure there was no mistake—“You win.”
“What?” Selar was surprised at the huskiness of her own voice, and she was having trouble getting a breath, thanks to the stress that had been put on her own larynx.
“I couldn’t hold off the nerve pinch forever,” Burgoyne said, sounding annoyed with hirself. Hir voice was unsteady, but growing in strength with every moment. “I’ve been dropped by it before. I developed a technique to resist it, but I can’t do it indefinitely. I’d rather surrender to you than be knocked cold by you. It’s more . . . dignified.” She brought hir gloved hand up and pulled the glove off.
“Are you . . . sure . . .?”
Burgoyne looked at her with undisguised astonishment. “You’d rather we kept fighting?”
“No.”
“Then that’s it,” said Burgoyne.
“Release them,” T’Pau ordered.
But Burgoyne did not wait. Instead, hir claws popped out and s/he sliced through the strap with ease. S/he got to hir legs unsteadily and then, without a word, turned and started to walk away.
Selar, much to her own amazement, called after hir. “Burgoyne . . . if you . . . if you wish to visit Xyon from time to time, you can—”
Burgoyne did not turn back to look at her. S/he did stop walking, though, and squared hir back. “Do not say that,” s/he said. “Do not say such things . . . for they are not true. Because you will be there, and you will not want me there, and that will be clear to our child. I would rather not be in his life at all, than to let him grow up watching two parents who clearly do not like each other. Tell him . . . tell him his father is dead. That is preferable.”
“Burgoyne, such extreme measures are not—”
“Then tell him that I simply abandoned you both, so that he can hate me with the same enthusiasm that his mother does.”
“Burgoyne,” she said softly, “I do not hate you.”
But s/he did not respond. Instead, s/he simply walked away, leaving only a field of Vulcans behind hir.
* * *
This time Burgoyne was not the least bit surprised, as s/he sat in the bar, to find that Slon was by hir side. He eased himself into the chair next to hir, and they simply sat there for a time, both staring forward and at nothing. The bartender, by this point, knew better than to argue with anything that Burgoyne said, and simply continued to bring hir scotch, neat.
“I know she did not win,” Slon said finally.
Burgoyne did not reply immediately. Indeed, s/he took so long that for a moment Slon wondered if s/he had heard him. But before he could repeat the comment, Burgoyne abruptly said, “Perhaps. But, you see . . . I knew she could not lose.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think . . .” S/he licked hir lips, trying to find the right words, “I think . . . I was able to handle a loss better than she. Because, without the child . . . I’ll still have my love for her. And him. But Selar, without the child, would have nothing. No concrete result of her biological need to perpetuate her species. No pleasant memories of love, since she would deny herself those. No . . . nothing. Why do that to her? To anyone?”
“You love her?” Slon was clearly having trouble understanding it. “So that is why you let her win?”
“There was no winning in this business. That’s what it took me a while to understand. For all I know, that’s what Vulcan parents learned eons ago when the idiotic tradition was first begun.” S/he shook hir head. “I had thought it just foolishness. Now I’m beginning to wonder whether there wasn’t some reason to the rhyme after all.”
“But do you still feel that Selar will not be a good mother? If so . . . how can you leave Xyon with her?”
“I don’t know that I ever felt she would be a bad mother. Just that I would be better for him. I still would have been happy if both of us worked together. I felt we had enough of a relationship that we could build upon. . . .” Hir voice trailed off. This time, without even looking at the bartender, s/he tapped the bar in front of hir. The bartender, without hesitation, produced another glass of scotch and almost put it in Burgoyne’s hand. “You know what? Dwelling on it is pointless. Selar won. I . . . did not. I leave this business, and the future of our son, to her. I can only hope that everything will turn out for the best. And as soon as I know what the best is, I will be sure to let you know.”
“Where will you go? What will you do? Will you return to your homeworld?”
“My homeworld?” At that, Burgoyne laughed unpleasantly. “You don’t seem to understand, Slon. Odd, considering your business is diplomacy. I went to any and all lengths possible in order to secure support for my claims. I got none. Instead, all I managed to do was get myself perceived as . . . an oddity. Even a freak, if I am to use the less generous phrasing. My people do not understand any sort of drive to take care of young ones. Hermat child care is done very systematically, and not for a very long duration.”
“Why not?”
Burgoyne waved off any further inquiries. “It doesn’t matter. There’s no need to go into it, really. The point is . . . I have managed to make myself somewhat notorious, even infamous, as far as my society is concerned. But, of course, I’ve no real place in Vulcan society. I would not say anything as melodramatic as that I’m a Hermat without a world . . . but there is nowhere that I am truly comfortable. At least, not for now. We Hermats have a notoriously short attention span, however. Before you know it, I will be accepted without comment among my people. They will have no awareness, or very little care, as to why I was something of an outcast for a time. In the interim, I have acquired a most pleasant domicile on Earth. I had originally thought that it would be where Selar, Xyon, and I would reside. It turns out I was wrong. Very well: It isn’t the first thing I’ve been wrong about in my life, and will likely not be the last. It’s a bit roomy for one person, but I’m sure I’ll make myself comfortable. And after a time, I’ll ship out on another starship . . . and try to put all this far behind me.”
“And you really want Selar to tell Xyon that you died? Or abandoned them?”
“Slon . . . believe it or not, you’re not making this easier on me. What I would like to do, ideally, is just accept what happened and move on. I cannot do that if I dwell endlessly on those things that I have no involvement with or control over. Do you understand?”
“I think I do,” nodded Slon.
“Really?”
“No.”
Burgoyne laughed at that, although there was not a good deal of humor in it. “You know what? I don’t think I do, either.”
“That is correct,” said Slon, clearly having no more idea why they might be there than did Burgoyne. “Is there a problem?”
“You are Burgoyne 172?” rumbled the Vulcan who had his hand on Burgoyne’s shoulder.
“Just missed hir. I’m Burgoyne 181. If you hurry, you can still catch hir.”
The Vulcans exchanged looks with one another. At this point, the eyes of everyone in the bar were upon them.
“Ah. Right. Humor-impaired. Very well, then,” Burgoyne said slowly, as if addressing a child, “Yes. I. Am. Burgoyne. 172. Now, would you care to tell me what the problem is? I have to warn you, I’m not in the best of moods.”
“You will come with me.”
“Sorry. You’re not my type, and I had a glorious evening of self-pity lined up. I really don’t know that I can get out of it.”
“You will come with us,” amended the Vulcan. He had no more sense of humor than he’d had moments before; he was just listening to Burgoyne less.
“And why am I going to do that?”
“You are to be questioned in connection with the disappearance of the child Xyon.”
The languid air that Burgoyne had been effecting immediately evaporated. S/he sat straight up, brushing the Vulcan’s hand from hir shoulder. “Xyon? Disappeared?”
“That is correct.”
“Where’s Selar?” s/he demanded tersely.
“At her domicile. We are to take you to our headquarters—”
“The hell you are,” shot back Burgoyne. “You’re taking me to her. Now. That is where we’re going, and any other destination isn’t being tolerated.”
“You are not in a position to make demands.”
Burgoyne’s lips drew back, hir fangs fully bared. “The only position you’re going to be in is prone if you don’t get out of my way.”
Immediately Slon was between them, and his voice was calm and unruffled. “Gentlemen,” he said coolly, “I am the brother of Selar. In her absence, I feel qualified to speak for her and in the interests of my nephew. If your intent is to speak to Burgoyne, it can be accomplished in any venue. Certainly logic dictates that it be done at the venue that will cause the least amount of difficulty to get to. Your headquarters, while no doubt comfortable, appear to be problematic. The residence of the mother is where Burgoyne desires to go. If, for the sake of argument, we grant that Burgoyne is, in fact, not responsible for the child’s disappearance, then forcing hir to go somewhere other than the scene of the crime—when Burgoyne’s role in this is merely that of victim and concerned parent—is certainly most illogical.”
The Vulcan guardsmen looked at one another, then the one who was clearly the higher-ranking of the two simply nodded. “Very well,” said the first one. “We shall proceed along the lines of your suggestion. We shall go to the residence of the mother.”
“Good,” Burgoyne said.
“After that, we will proceed to our headquarters. For further interogation.”
“And here I thought this was going to be a dull evening,” said Burgoyne mirthlessly.
MORGAN & ROBIN
“EXTENDING OUR STAY?”
“That’s right, Robin,” said Morgan matter-of-factly as she tidied up around the room. “I’ve talked to the resort management about extending our stay. Why? Does that present a problem?”
Robin sat on the edge of the bed, looking a bit perplexed. “Not . . . a problem exactly. I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. And, you know, you could have discussed it with me first. I mean, I might have some thoughts on the matter.”
“I didn’t think it was necessary, because I didn’t think you’d object too strenuously.” She walked over to her daughter and cupped her chin. There was a knowing smile on her face. “After all, you and Nik have . . . hit it off.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mother,” Robin said with absolutely no conviction in her voice whatsoever. And then, in spite of herself, she giggled. She actually giggled. She couldn’t believe that the sound was coming out of her mouth. As if trying to force it back down her throat, she put her hand up to cover her lips.
“Ohhh, yes. Yes, I can see that you don’t.”
“Mother! You’re embarrassing me.”
“You’re letting yourself be embarrassed, Robin. It’s not exactly the same thing.” She ruffled her daughter’s hair affectionately. “Was it nice?”
“Yes, it was nice, if you must know. And . . . thank you.”
“What are you thanking me for?”
Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, and she kept squeezing her fingers together as she spoke. “Because,” she said very softly, in a self-conscious manner, “I wouldn’t have had the nerve to ask about extending the stay just so I could spend more time with Nik.”
Morgan crouched opposite her, her eyes alight with amusement. But what she said then surprised Robin. “I hope you’re not thinking of this continuing past our leaving Risa.”
“What? Well, I . . . I hadn’t thought about it one way or the other, really,” Robin lied, badly. Trying to cover for the uncertainty in her voice, she continued, “And even if I were, for some reason . . . what would be so wrong with that?”
“Robin,” sighed Morgan, “let me give you some remarkably helpful advice: The sort of relationship one experiences in these types of situations isn’t necessarily, well . . . real. It’s very intense, and often very passionate, but once you leave the site of the encounter, well . . . passions tend to cool. Quickly. Very quickly, sometimes. Take it from someone who’s made that mistake on one or two or ten occasions.”
“Ten?”
“Well, that may be a slight exaggeration, but not by much. I would love to tell you that one learns quickly from experience. That’s not always the case, unfortunately. Sometimes you find yourself making the same mistake repeatedly just because you’ve convinced yourself that, this time, it couldn’t possibly go as wrong as it did last time. People can be very strange, Robin.”
“So I’ve noticed. So . . . are you sure that Nik and Rafe are staying longer?”
“Yes, definitely. Rafe said something about taking care of some business and exploring some options on Risa. I can’t pretend to know what he was talking about but . . . as you know . . . one should never question why good fortune has come to you, because . . .” She paused expectantly.
“Good fortune will start questioning why it came, too,” Robin said by rote. “You said that to me when I was so little. It’s amazing what people remember.”
“So,” Morgan leaned forward, “tell me the details.”
“Mother!”
“I want details,” Morgan said with an impish grin. “Come on. When you were an infant, I’d stand there looking into your crib and think, ‘I can’t wait until she’s all grown up so I can re-experience vicariously the thrill of the early days of romantic exploits.”
“That’s what you thought about when I was in my crib?” said Robin incredulously.
“Absolutely,” Morgan deadpanned. “Why? What else could there possibly be to think about?”
SELAR
SELAR STOOD AT THE CRIB SIDE, staring into the empty bed as if she could somehow force Xyon to return through sheer mental effort.
Her mind whirled back to the moments after she had returned from the judgment. Every muscle in her body had ached, and she was walking with a slight limp. She kept telling herself that all her physical distress was temporary and could be easily dealt with via simple relaxation techniques. When she limped in the door, T’Fil, the nurse, was seated in a chair and cradling Xyon in her arms.
She took one look at Selar’s banged-up condition, immediately returned Xyon to his bed, and set about cleaning up Selar’s wounds and bruises. Selar offered a token protest, but otherwise let T’Fil go about her business.
When she was done, she said, “If you desire that I stay the night . . .”
But Selar shook her head. “That will not be necessary. I appreciate your efforts in this matter. I could have tended to it myself, of course, but . . . having you tend to it was beneficial.”
T’Fil inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment and then let herself out. Selar leaned her head back on the chair and wondered distantly what it would be like to be able to be genuinely happy about the outcome. Or, indeed, genuinely happy about anything. It was somewhat ironic. Here she had won . . . and yet, in some rudimentary way, she found herself envious of Burgoyne.
She drifted off, and in her slumber, she heard some sort of distant thumping noise. She did not react to it immediately, so exhausted was she. Despite all that she knew about dealing with stress, even Selar had to admit that the pressure of the last weeks had been formidable. Now that it was over, she wanted nothing but to escape into a total lack of sensation.
But then slowly, excruciatingly slowly, the fact that there was a noise in the other room filtered from her subconscious to her conscious mind, and Selar roused herself to wakefulness. Despite the typical Vulcan down-to-the-second awareness of time, she was uncertain just how much time had passed between the sound and her reaction. She got to her feet and headed into Xyon’s room. Frighteningly, she somehow had a feeling of what she would see even before she walked in.
The crib was empty. There was no sign of Xyon anywhere.
A human mother might have called out Xyon’s name . . . a futile display since, of course, Xyon could not possibly respond. Moreover, it would simply fill the void that his absence had created, for it was painfully obvious to Selar that someone had absconded with the child.
She went to the window, found it open. There did not seem to be any sign of forced entry; truthfully, she could not be certain whether the window had simply been left open, or someone had shoved their way in.
