by Martyr(Lit)
He stood in the middle of his study, drinking in the presence of the words. The shelves were lined with scrolls of knowledge dating back to ancient times, carefully preserved. There had been a movement to transfer that information to more modern, computer-oriented means of information storage, but the Eenza
inner circle had fought that notion. There was something pure and sacrosanct about the preservation through writing, through that physical connection to those scribes who had taken the time to write down the words of wisdom those many centuries ago. It was more of a living history in this manner.
His eyes skimmed the repository of Eenza written tradition, each carefully preserved in their cylinders, but he did not focus on any one of them in particular. Instead he went to one cylinder in particular set in the lower right-hand section of the shelving. Unlike the others, however, it did not slide loose from its place in the rack. Instead he pulled on it and it pivoted on a hidden hinge. A moment later, a small section of the nearby wall swung open.
Ramed reached into the hole in the wall and pulled out a scroll, older than any of the others on the wall. He unrolled it carefully on his reading table, clipping the upper and lower ends down so that he could read it flat and uninterrupted.
It was not as if he didn't have it memorized already. He had read it so many times that every word, every syllable was seared into his consciousness. Yet for some reason he derived some degree of affirmation, perhaps, by seeing the original writing once more. Words written by the divine Suti himself, as told to him in turn by the sacred Ontear at the time when the mysterious Great Wind had come down and whisked Ontear away to whatever his reward would be.
Words that had only partly found their way into the sacred texts of Zondar.
Ramed had never been entirely certain just how the original, unexpurgated text had wound up in the hands of his family. It had been given him by his father, who had in turn been given it by his, and so on. It was not as if Ramed was a direct descendant of Suti himself; to the best of anyone's knowledge, Suti had never married, never produced any offspring. The
words of Ontear and the spiritual well-being of the Zondarians was the sum and substance of his entire life. He had never seemed to need anything more than that.
Perhaps he had passed the complete text to a trusted disciple, and he had held onto it until his passing was near, and in turn had given it to a trusted individual. It was nothing short of miraculous, really, that the scroll had found its way through the centuries to Ramed without word of its full contents filtering outside of the sphere of its caretakers.
There was something else that was in the same secret compartment as the scroll had been. It was a cylinder, about a foot long and made from wood. One side was closed off, the other end open. On the handle, a small emblem that looked like a flame was carved on it. He ran a finger over it lightly, as he had so many times before.
He extended the cylinder straight out in front of himself and pushed in firmly on the flame. And with a quiet shak noise, a sharpened rod snapped out of the end of the handle. It was telescoped in three places and extended to about a yard in length. As always, it felt incredibly light. Ramed swung it about him experimentally, satisfied at the whistling sound it made as it passed through the air. Then he lunged forward once or twice, and wondered what it would be like to drive it through the chest of a living, breathing being. Would it be possible? When the time came, would he have the intestinal fortitude to do what had to be done?
He thought of what he had just said to his wife. "All of us have our places in the grand scheme, my wife. Sometimes we are aware of them, and sometimes we are not. Nonetheless we fulfill our purpose."
He had his purpose. He had his own role that had been handed down to him. How would he be viewed,
he wondered? As one of the great heroes of Zondar? As one of the most memorable traitors? Would he be a martyr to a great ideal that he, and only he, knew to be the truth? What would they say to his wife? What sort of torment would his son be subject to?
Perhaps the course upon which he was embarking was the wrong one.
He began to tremble. Whether it was in fear, in excitement, or in religious zeal over the Tightness of his actions, he couldn't begin to say. All he knew was that he was trembling so violently, he couldn't even hold on to his weapon. It clattered to the floor, although the noise was minimal since the staff was so lightweight.
He dropped to his knees, waiting until the spasms passed. And all during that time, he prayed. Prayed to the shades of Ontear and Suti. Prayed for guidance.
"Please," he whispered to them. "Please... help me do the right thing."
He paused a long moment, then picked up the spear. He envisioned the Savior standing against the opposite wall. Standing there strong, confident. Ramed then drew his arm back, as he had so many times before, and hurled the spear. It flew lightly through the air and thudded into the far wall, the shaft quivering, the point squarely in the heart of the Savior.
"May the fates help me," he whispered. "And may the Savior, even in His death throes, have mercy on my soul."
X.
BURGOYNE SAT IN HIR OFFICE in engineering and studied the reports compiled by
Ensign Beth, looking over them again and again until it felt as if the numbers were blurring in front of hir. S/he became aware that Beth was hovering nearby, probably looking rather concerned. S/he couldn't blame her, because the information that s/he'd been handed was less than useful. "So let me see if I understand this," Burgoyne said slowly. "We not only do not know what is causing this energy wave, but now it's causing a drain on the engines."
"Not exactly a drain, Chief," Beth said. "Look, follow the power curves. The energy reserves begin to build up exponentially. They reach a maximum point of somewhere around eighteen percent above the norm, and then they drain off, reaching standard levels. As if someone were topping off a glass of water and then sipping off the top so that it doesn't overflow. Bringing it down to a more reasonable level."
"But what's causing the overage?" asked Burgoyne
in frustration. "And when it's being drained off, where is it going? You don't think..."
"Think what?" asked Beth.
Burgoyne sat back, studying the readouts with just a touch of visible apprehension. "What if we've some... thing... living in there? Something sentient."
"A sentient energy creature?"
"We ran from one not too long ago," Burgoyne pointed out. Beth was forced to agree with that reminder. "If this is somehow connected with that..."
"Is there any way that we can determine it?"
"I'm not quite sure," said Burgoyne. "At the very least, we keep observing it.
Also, we'll probably want to bring Soleta in on this. She's the science officer, after all."
"How about medical?" asked Beth. "If there's a living creature rooting around in our energy transfer ducts somehow, then maybe Doctor Selar can-"
"Let's leave Doctor Selar out of it for the time being," Burgoyne said after a moment's thought.
"Are you sure? Perhaps if we-"
Burgoyne turned, and hir canines were extended as s/he said, "Are you questioning my orders, Ensign?" Hir voice was very sharp, hir eyes narrowed and genuine anger was flashing within them.
"No! No, sir!" said Beth quickly.
There was such clear alarm in her voice that Burgoyne immediately felt chagrin.
"Sorry, Ensign," Burgoyne said, the ire passing as quickly as it had made its presence known. "It's not your fault."
"I was hoping it wasn't." Beth paused a moment, and then said, "Chief... I hope I'm not overstepping myself here, but is everything okay between you and the CMO?"
"Okay?"
"It's just that any time she's mentioned for some reason, you seem to tense up.
Personality conflict?"
Burgoyne considered several possible answers, but finally said, "You could say it's something like that."
"I know how it is," Beth said by way of commisera
tion. "Sometimes you just meet someone, and for absolutely no reason you can think of, you just connect on a negative level. You take an instant dislike to them. It's as if you have a bad history that goes back before the two of you even met."
"That is an... interesting way to look at it."
"Sometimes two people just click-like Christiano and I did," admitted Beth with a grin. "And other times, well, two people can't even work together without getting on each other's nerves."
"You're very likely correct, Ensign. It would probably serve us best if we didn't discuss it anymore." S/he went back to the energy wave readouts. "Look at this. This is interesting."
"What do you see, Chief?"
"During those periods when the energy drain slows down, it occurs when the
Excalibur speeds up. The faster we go, the slower the energy drain. And when we go in excess of warp five, there's never any drain at all. Those are the points at which the energy wave indicates growth."
"That's right," Beth said slowly.
"Of course that's right," Burgoyne said archly. "I said it. Therefore, by definition, it's right." S/he drummed hir fingers in annoyance. "I should be able to figure this out more expeditiously," s/he said. "I've just got to get my mind clear."
"What's on your mind, Chief?" asked Beth.
And for just a moment, Burgoyne allowed hir thoughts to stray to a face that had a perpetual stoic pout, framed by the loveliest pointed ears.
"Just someone I can't work with," Burgoyne said with a trace of sadness.
On the bridge of the Excalibur, Calhoun leaned forward in the command chair and said, "ETA at
Zondar?"
"Three hours, eleven minutes, sir," McHenry said crisply. As always, he didn't even bother to check his instruments. The first several times, it had been a bit disconcerting to Calhoun, and extremely so to Shelby, but by this point they were accustomed to it.
"Keep her steady on course, Mister McHenry," Calhoun told him.
"Steady on, sir."
Lefler glanced at the captain, who seemed to become involved in conversation with his first officer. Then, very casually, she sidled over from her post at
Ops and murmured, "Haven't seen you around much after hours."
"Hmm?" He looked up at her, apparently surprised that she had come over. "What?"
"I said you're something of a stranger off-duty these days. Don't see you in the team room, or any of the usual haunts. What have you been up to?"
"Oh, that," said McHenry. "I've been busy."
"Busy... how?"
He shrugged as if it was no big deal. "I've been spending a lot of time with
Burgy."
"'Burgy,' is it? Very friendly nickname to be
using." "Is it?" McHenry seemed unimpressed. "I didn't
think so especially."
"So what do you guys do? Talk?"
"No, we have sex," McHenry said matter-of-factly.
Now, Lefler didn't fancy herself as a prude, but nonetheless she was still caught a little flat-footed by
the frankness of his response. "Oh," was all she could think of to say.
"That's what you wanted to know, isn't it?" He seemed rather amused by her expression. He leaned toward her and said, "Robin, I may seem distracted all the time. I may seem in my own little world. But I'm not stupid. I know what you want to know. What's it like? What's s/he like? Right?"
Lefler squirmed slightly, suddenly feeling that she should be elsewhere.
Anywhere else, in fact, which was odd considering she usually was the most frank and open of people. She made vague gestures in the direction of Ops and said,
"I, uh... I should really get back to-"
But he put a firm hand on her wrist, and she was surprised at the forcefulness of it. The cheery manner never left his face, but there was strength in his grip that seemed at odds with the lackadaisical demeanor. "S/he's amazing, Robin,"
McHenry told her. "Very free, very open with hir body. Very eager to please, and also eager to be pleasured. The fact that s/he is both male and female probably adds to hir expertise, because s/he knows what men like and what women like.
S/he sees life, love, and sex from all angles."
"That's... uhm..." Lefler found herself completely tongue-tied. She'd always considered herself something of a free spirit, a "party girl" who was open to all manner of experimentation. "And, you're, uh... you're not distracted by the, uhm..."
"The what?"
"The, uh... hir... male aspect? That doesn't, you know... give you navigational difficulties?"
"Not especially. It's nice to have someone who knows what a man wants."
"Oh? And what does a man want?" Lefler said challengingly.
McHenry looked her straight in the eyes. "If I tell you," he said, "will you be sure to jot that down so it can be in the next newsletter."
They laughed together at that point, and then Lefler said, "Lefler's Law number fifty-two: Never underestimate a man's ability to make you laugh."
"Laughing at a man is okay," McHenry said. Then, as an afterthought, he said,
"Unless, of course, you're pointing while you're doing it. Laughing and pointing
... bad combination."
Lefler laughed more loudly at that. She took care, however, not to point.
And then she said, very softly, "Do you love hir?"
"Love?" For the first time, McHenry looked uncomfortable. "We... haven't discussed that."
"Why not? Don't you think that's important?"
"To some people, yes. Not to me. I'm not interested in falling in love. I'm not sure how Burgy feels about it; I haven't asked hir."
"Why aren't you interested in falling in love, Mark?"
He stared at her. "Tried it once. It didn't take."
"Didn't take? Why not? I mean, if you don't want to tell me..."
McHenry seemed to stare off into space for a time. This was not atypical for him, but there was a different feel to it this time. "Mark?" she prodded gently.
"Why didn't it take?"
He returned his gaze to her and smiled a sad little smile.
"She tried to kill me," he said.
Lefler's jaw dropped, and she tried to find a way to frame a follow-up question.
But then from behind her she heard Shelby's voice. "Lieutenant, is there a problem? Something I should know about?"
Lefler stood up, smoothing the front of her uniform. "No, sir," she said briskly, all business. "Just
consulting with Mister McHenry on some crosschecks."
Shelby nodded, apparently satisfied, but there was clear curiosity in her eyes.
Lefler quickly crossed back to her station and sat. Several times for the rest of the shift, she glanced in McHenry's direction. Not once, in all that time, did he meet her gaze again.
Doctor Selar had taken a brief break, returning to her quarters to get some rest. She lay on her bed, able to feel the slow percolating of her hormones within her. She knew that the Pon Farr would be back in full phase before very long. However, she didn't wish to deal with it immediately. She knew that the ship was on a mission, heading for the world called Zondar. She knew that the captain was some sort of focal point for these people, and he had to keep his mind clear and focused. It would have been irresponsible for her, she felt, to pull Calhoun into the world of the Vulcan mating ritual at this particular moment in time. She had warned him of how all-consuming the interest in sex became once the Vulcan and her selected mate were in the throes of Pon Farr, but the fact that he had joked about it led her to believe that he did not fully grasp the reality of the situation. Since she herself knew what was to be expected, therefore, she felt the onus was upon her to try and act in as responsible and intelligent a manner as possible.
She decided to meditate a bit, to give her mind and body some time to calm down.
However, a chime sounded at the door in the midst of her musings, disrupting her, throwing her off-balance. She had been reclining, but now she pulled
herself to sitting, her legs securely folded. "Come," she said.
The door slid open, and to her surprise she saw Burgoyne 172 standing there.
"Doctor," s/he said, nodding hir head slightly in acknowledgment. "They said you were here in your quarters. It's nice to see that they spoke truly."
"Yes. I came here for the purpose of being alone."
"Ah. I see," said Burgoyne, stepping in so that the door slid shut behind hir.
