by Peter David
“I am the manager of the El Dorado,” Quincy told him, trying to stitch together his flagging resolve. “I am responsible for all aspects of the operation . . . even the somewhat dizzying ones. I just . . . well, I’ve never actually stood all the way up here, and it can be . . .”
“Nauseating? Vomitous?” Scotty suggested. “Vertiginous, maybe?”
“Scotty . . . please . . . you’re not helping,” said Quincy, and he sounded so pathetic that Scott couldn’t help but ease up on him. “I just . . . wasn’t prepared.”
“Ah, well, that’s the difference between us. Ah prepare for everything.”
“I see. So . . . how long do you think it’s going to take you to find the computer problems and fix them?”
“A week,” Scotty told him.
“A week! Can’t you get it done any sooner than that?”
“I’ll try,” Scotty sighed heavily. “But ye know . . . it’s not as if ah have a reputation as a miracle worker.”
“You do! You absolutely do!”
“Ach! Ah do? Well, then,” Scotty said lightly, “ah will have to do all ah can t’live up to that reputation, won’t I?”
He started tracing the logic circuits, and was beginning to feel a slow crawl of apprehension, even as he gave no hint from his manner that anything was amiss. He was becoming convinced, however, that the computer problems were not simply random occurrences. Something, or someone, was not only causing them, but also making it difficult for Scotty to track exactly what was happening. His frustration level was beginning to rise; he felt as if he were battling some invisible enemy.
To try to calm himself down, so as not to fly off the handle while he worked, he started talking to Quincy, although he didn’t actually look in Quincy’s direction. “Ah suppose,” he said slowly, “that there’s something to be said for what ye said before. Ah mean, what Captain Kirk said. Ah have to admit . . . when ah saw ’er blown outta the sky, well . . . Ah knew the captain did what he had to do, but that didn’t make it any easier. When ah watched her go, it was like somethin’ inside me died along with her.” He continued monitoring the neuronet impulses and noted, with interest, that the polarity of the neutron flow had reversed. “And now ah’ve wound up here, dislocated from muh time, dislocated from . . . muhself. It figured that Morgan would be th’ first woman t’stir me back to what ah was, because she looks like . . . I dinna ken how to say it . . . a figure from the past. Makes me almost wonder whether what ah feel for her is genuine . . . or just a ghost. Then again, sometimes ah wonder whether ah’m a ghost as well. Ye know what ah mean, don’t ye, Mr. Quincy. Hope ah’m not bending your ear too much.”
Then he stopped. Checked the readings he was seeing. Double-checked them and couldn’t believe it.
“Mr. Quincy,” he said, his voice trembling with a combination of confusion and anger, “ah find it hard to believe . . . but ah believe you’re bein’ robbed blind. Someone has been—”
He turned to face Quincy just in time to see the man tumble over the railing. Scotty gasped and lunged for Quincy, but it was too late; the El Dorado manager was gone, tumbling end over end toward the bottom of the computer shaft, hundreds of feet below. Even as he fell, the full truth dawned on Scotty, an instant mental flash photo developing: Quincy’s head had been at an odd angle, indicating that his neck had been broken before he fell. Someone had silently, effortlessly, come up behind him and snapped his neck without Scotty noticing, or Quincy managing to get out so much as a single word of warning.
And even as Scotty’s mind processed that information, he came to the inevitable conclusion that the exact same thing was about to happen to him.
From the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of someone who seemed to be there. Once upon a time, young Montgomery Scott would have stood his ground, relied on his fists and determination, and been reasonably certain that if he went down, he would go down fighting. But that was many decades ago, and even if he had been in his right time, he was still beyond his time for such things.
There is a moment when each man knows that it is his time to go—and let it be on his own terms. This was such a moment for Montgomery Scott.
He did not hesitate. With a movement that would have been admirable in a far younger man, Scotty vaulted the railing, hurling himself into space. Within seconds he had vanished into the dimness of the shaft, nothing but a huge drop yawning beneath him.
His assailant—or at the very least, the one who would have assailed him had he remained where he was—stood there for a long moment, staring down into the pit and seeing nothing of the man who had thrown himself into it. “Die fighting or die not fighting. Same thing either way, I suppose,” he said to the emptiness around him. “At least you don’t have to wonder anymore, Mr. Scott. The matter is settled: You’re officially a ghost.”
SELAR
IT WAS THE TAUNTING that attracted Selar’s attention. It was, after all, a most unusual noise to hear on Vulcan. Indeed, the sound of it made Selar realize just how quiet life in the city was. That was . . . unusual. She had grown so accustomed to a fairly steady chatter of voices back on the Excalibur, wherever she went. There were people laughing, talking, voices raised in argument or anger, happiness or sadness, a constant stream of background noise. On those occasions when she would go to cities on far-off worlds, she would find the same thing. By contrast, Vulcan seemed to exist under a muffling blanket.
She stopped in her path and turned her attention to the source of the sounds. Other Vulcans passing her on the street cast brief and vaguely impatient glances in the direction of the taunting voices, but otherwise ignored them. Selar, on the other hand, felt the need to see what was happening. The noises were coming from just around the corner up ahead. She rounded it quickly, and then stopped.
She saw a small group of Vulcan schoolboys. Whoever was their teacher when it came to logic, decorum, and deportment was apparently not doing their job, for these boys were acting in a most inappropriate manner. They had formed a loose circle, and were calling out insults. “Freak,” they were saying, and “Misfit,” and “Thin blood.” There was someone in the middle of the circle, another boy, and he was trying to push past them. Because there were so many of them and only one of him, they were easily thwarting his attempts to get past them. He was becoming more and more agitated, running into them with full force. But he was not making any headway. They would shove him back, shove him down, and continue to shout out their contempt for him.
What could this child have done? Selar wondered, even as she moved forward quickly. She drew near them and called out, sharply but firmly, “What do you think you are doing?”
This drew the boys up short. They looked up at her, and one of them said in utter deadpan, “We are speaking with one of our classmates.”
“This is not speaking. It is torture. Furthermore, it is unworthy of being called Vulcan.”
“So is he,” said the boy, pointing in an accusatory fashion.
She looked where he was pointing. In the midst of the group was one boy, the one whom they had been apparently berating. For just a moment his face had been twisted in raw anger and humiliation. But then, when he saw that an adult was looking at him, he drew himself up straight. It was as if a shroud passed over him. The only indication of the turmoil within him was his trembling lower lip. Apparently aware of how it was betraying him, he sank his teeth into it to still it.
At first glance there was no hint as to why the others would be picking on him the way they had been. But then Selar was able to pick out a few telltale signs . . . the shape of the brow, the fainter complexion. The child was a half-breed . . . part Vulcan and, unless she was mistaken, part human.
“This is a private discussion, ma’am,” he said stiffly.
“This is not a discussion. This is a beating. You should all of you . . . all of you . . . be ashamed of yourselves. The reason for it is not relevant.”
“It is relevant,” one of the boys said reasonably. How absurd,
she thought, for a bully to be explaining the logic of his actions. “He is . . . not one of us.”
“In what sense is—no,” she abruptly said. “I will not argue the merits, or lack thereof, of your contention. That would be foolishness. Instead, I will simply point out that no one should ever undertake any action without considering what the desired outcome will be. You feel your classmate is not ‘one of’ you. By engaging him in this violent pursuit, what did you think to accomplish? Did you hope to convince him to depart Vulcan? Did you hope to kill him? What was your goal?”
The boys looked at each other in discomfort. “We . . . did not have a particular goal in mind. We simply desired to—to—”
“Show your contempt?” Her voice was nearly dripping with sarcasm. “Is that what you desired to do? In a manner similar to the way that I am now addressing you?”
“Yes,” said another one of the boys evenly.
“That is not acceptable.”
“With all respect, ma’am,” said the boy whom they had been tormenting, “this is not your concern.”
“I am making it my concern,” Selar said firmly. “Come with me. Now.”
“But . . .”
Her eyes narrowed. “Now.”
Clearly realizing that it was pointless to argue with an adult so determined to thrust herself into other people’s business, the boy cast a glance at the others, who were still blocking his way. They parted silently and he walked past them. The moment he was clear of them, he began to walk away very quickly. Selar paused long enough to say to the others, “You are to give great consideration to the inappropriateness and illogic of your actions,” and then she moved off after the swiftly departing boy.
“Wait,” she called after him, but the boy quickened his pace. Selar almost had to break into a run to overtake him. Seeing that the woman was bound and determined to catch up with him, and knowing that the only way to avoid it was to break into a sprint, the boy instead slowed down so that Selar drew alongside him.
“What do you wish to say?” he asked, not really sounding as if he wanted to know.
“What is your name?”
He stopped altogether and turned to face her with his arms resolutely folded, as if to say that he was not going to provide her with a scintilla of information more than he absolutely had to. Apparently his name was not among those pieces of information he felt any need to share.
“Very well,” she said when it became clear that he was not going to volunteer his name. “Why did those boys behave that way toward you?”
“They hate me.” He said it so matter-of-factly, so without any passion at all, that it was disconcerting to Selar—all the more so because the child’s emotions were perfectly readable upon his face. Yet he was containing it all.
“Why would they hate you?”
“Because I am half-human.”
She hesitated, and then said, “Is your mother human . . . or your father?”
“Does it matter?”
“I . . . suppose not. Listen—”
He took a step back from her and said sharply, “Thank you for helping me. You did not have to. It was a kindness. I do not know why you did it; I do not much care. I am leaving now. Please do not try to stop me.” Then he headed away from her, walking rather than running.
She stood there and watched him go, feeling frustrated that she was not in pursuit of him, but unclear on what she would do if she did manage to catch up with him again. Then something else occurred to her, and she turned and quickly retraced her steps. Within moments, her longer stride had enabled her to catch up with the other children who had been tormenting the boy. They saw her coming. Children on every other planet in the Federation would probably have tried to bolt. But these boys were able to discern that the longer-limbed Selar would likely be able to overtake them without much difficulty, and so they simply stood there. Trust Vulcan children to react in a logical, rather than a childish, manner. But that did nothing to explain their earlier actions.
“Do you wish to speak with us?” the biggest of them—who had been one of the more vicious in taunting the boy—inquired.
“I want to know why you were harassing that boy.”
His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to assess her for a moment. “Do you have a half-breed of your own?”
It was all Selar could do not to be staggered by the incisive question. When one got down to it, of course, it seemed a logical deduction to make. Nevertheless, it still caught her off guard. She rallied so quickly, though, that the boy did not see an instant’s hesitation or even reaction on her part. “I suggest you answer the question,” she told him, “unless you desire to have me accompany you back to your parents’ homes and inform them of your actions.”
“I think they would likely approve,” said the boy.
“Would you care to find out for sure?”
It was an interesting moment of gamesmanship, but ultimately it was the boy who wilted. Not overly, nor in a big way, but it was clear that he had suddenly lost his taste or interest in trying to show just how tough he actually was. “He is a half-breed. He was . . . pretending to be a Vulcan. We did not like that.” The others nodded in a most sullen manner.
“ ‘Pretending’ to be a Vulcan?” She wasn’t quite sure she was hearing him properly. “What do you mean, ‘pretending’?”
“He is not one of us. He pretends to be—tries to act like us, behave like us. But it’s . . . it is . . .” He seemed to be casting about for the word.
One of his friends supplied it. “Insulting,” he said tersely.
“ ‘Insulting’? The boy has Vulcan blood in him. That entitles him to respect.”
“Perhaps. But it doesn’t entitle him to act as if he is the same as us.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She crouched so that she was on eye-level with them. They stared at her, sullen, annoyed that this adult had chosen to stick her nose into their business. “Have you learned nothing of the acceptance of others?” she asked. “Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations. Does that mean anything to you?”
“IDIC celebrates individual life forms, coming together into one great life form, all of us part of the whole. That . . .” the boy pointed in the general direction of the young Vulcan boy Selar had assisted, “is not an individual. He is a half-breed, a mix, neither here nor there. He is not one of us, but acts as if we cannot tell the difference. As if we are stupid. But we are not stupid; we are Vulcans. And he is not. Not really.”
“Yes, he is. He is Vulcan.”
Another of the boys stepped forward. He spoke in a slightly lower voice than the others, sounding almost professorial. “If one looks out the window at the morning, and sees a sun blocked by clouds, would you say that it is a sunny day, considering that the sun is up there, and only obscured? Or would you say that it is a cloudy day?”
“A cloudy day, I suppose. But that is not the point—”
“Yes, it is,” said the pedantic lad. “The Vulcan philosophy, the Vulcan mindset . . . these shine out through the quadrant like a beacon of reasonableness and rational thought. And the . . . the confusion and disorderly conduct that comes from a human mind, that is the cloud, blocking the golden glow of the sun. When the sun is gone, only that which obscures it is left, and that is what is commented on. A half-breed is not Vulcan, cannot ever be Vulcan, because all his best qualities are going to be diminished by that which is undesirable.”
“Humanity is not undesirable. True Vulcans see worth in all races, including humanity. Perhaps most particularly in humanity. We made first contact with them, and they are now one of the dominant species in the United Federation of Planets.”
“Yes. We know.” The boys shared a look of mutual incredulity. “Most . . . illogical.”
“It is not illogical,” Selar said, suddenly feeling rather old and, even more, rather tired. “When you are older, you will understand that.”
“Perhaps that will seem to be the case,” replied the boy. “The
n again, it is sometimes the case that one’s reasoning faculties become impaired as one gets older, due to various illnesses. What may seem like understanding may simply be a deterioration of common sense.”
Selar stared at them for a long moment, and then said, “Your behavior . . . is inappropriate. Wholly inappropriate. If you refuse to comprehend that, then there is nothing that I can say.”
“And you have said it rather well,” replied the boy. With that, the Vulcan youths headed on their way. Naturally, there was no chortling or self-satisfied snickering as they did so . . . but there could have been.
Selar was sitting in her living room, repeating the incident with the half-breed Vulcan boy and his charming classmates. Xyon sat across from her, watching her with wide eyes as she finished the narrative.
“I never though of my people as snobs before,” she said after a long silence.
“They are not snobs. They are children. That’s all,” Xyon replied.
“But I cannot simply ignore what they did, how they acted. That is what you are going to be faced with.” She sat forward, her fingers interlaced. “What am I to do? About you? About this situation?”
“Why are you expected to do anything?” he asked reasonably. “The situation is what it is. I am what I am. The decisions have already been made, the path chosen. There is nothing left but to walk it.”
“I do not agree. If—”
There was a chime at the door. Selar started to rise, but Xyon had already hopped off the couch and was padding over to the door. “You look tired, Mother. Let me attend to it. Open!” he called.
The door slid open and the Vulcan boys poured in. Their voices were loud, almost deafening, so much so that Selar had to clap her hands to her ears to cut out the pain.
“Freak!” they shouted “Misfit! NonVulcan! Impure!” They circled Xyon, howling at the top of their lungs, their derisive laughter filling Selar’s head, filling every molecule of her being. She could no longer see Xyon, for the other boys had completely obscured him from view. Their chanting, their derision, became louder and louder, even though the increased volume seemed impossible.
