Renaissance

  This was the lirpax, a modified version of an even more devastating weapon called a lirpa, which Selar had only seen in museums. An actual lirpa’s edge was razor-sharp, and there was no padding on the bludgeon. The lirpax was designed to stop and stun; the lirpa was created to kill.

  She saw that Burgoyne was hefting hirs experimentally, sweeping it through the air. S/he twirled it around a few times, swung it back and forth.

  And then s/he tossed it aside. It clattered across the polished ground and rolled to a stop at the far end.

  T’Pau looked at the discarded weapon, and then turned her flinty gaze on Burgoyne. “Is your lirpax inadequate in some way?” she inquired.

  “I don’t like the weight of it,” said Burgoyne. S/he bowed slightly. “No offense. I know, I know … you can’t take any offense.”

  “You wish another brought?”

  “No. I’ll be fine without it.”

  Selar’s eyes narrowed. “What do you think you are doing, Burgoyne? What do you hope to prove? If you wish to provoke sympathy—”

  “That would be an error on my part; yes, I’m quite cognizant of that. I know what I’m doing,” Burgoyne said easily. S/he was reaching down and removing hir boots.

  “Is there some purpose to this?” asked T’Pau.

  “Just trying to be comfortable.” Hir boots removed, hir toes stretched individually in much the same way that hir fingers had. S/he took a few steps back and forth, balancing on the balls of hir feet.

  “It is obvious why you are doing this,” said Selar.

  “Is it? Enlighten me.”

  “So that, when you lose, you will be able to claim that it was because you did not wield a weapon.”

  “I wield my body and my mind. Those are two weapons right there. Overdependence on weapons outside of those tend to make me sloppy. I can’t afford sloppiness right now.”

  “If this is your choice, it will be honored,” T’Pau said.

  Selar could not quite keep the irked tone from her voice. “What of my choice,” she said, “not to battle an unarmed opponent?”

  “If thee chooses not to battle … then thee forfeits,” T’Pau said.

  “Then I do not really have a choice.”

  “No,” affirmed T’Pau.

  For a moment, Selar considered tossing her own weapon aside, to show that two could play at that game. Then she saw Burgoyne extend hir fingers, saw the claws on the ends of each finger, and decided that that plan of action might not be such a good one. She gripped the lirpax more tightly and set herself.

  T’Pau stepped away, clearing herself from the area of combat. She looked stonily from one to the other, and then she barked an order for them to begin.

  Selar approached cautiously, learning the wielding of the lirpax as she went. The entire business had an air of unreality to it. She felt as if she were dreaming, her consciousness thrust into a primitive ancestor. She swung the lirpax cautiously this way and that, learning what it took to maneuver the weapon without losing control of it. If she kept it too close to her body, that would allow Burgoyne to get within striking distance. If she swung it too far, she risked overbalancing and allowing it to fly out of her grip.

  Immediately she saw the cunning of Burgoyne’s casually tossing the weapon aside. The lirpax, like the lirpa, was designed to thwart an attack by someone using a similar weapon. There were certain moves, defenses, thrusts, blocks and countermoves, all of which would come naturally with two identically armed combatants. But Burgoyne was empty-handed. That meant the attack could come in any form. S/he was not aided by the weapon, but neither was s/he hampered by it.

  Burgoyne moved comfortably, cautiously. S/he continued to maneuver on the balls of hir feet, arms hanging loosely. S/he feinted slightly with hir upper body, but it did not even seem a serious fake. It seemed to Selar as if s/he was toying with her, and if Selar were capable of allowing herself irritation, she would have felt it now.

  Selar felt hampered by her own upbringing. She was trying to see logic in Burgoyne’s movements, even though they appeared random. It was likely that very randomness was the plan. Burgoyne knew that Selar sought order, logic, and sense in everything. So s/he reasoned—correctly, it seemed—that Selar would spend so much time overthinking and analyzing the situation that she would be vulnerable to attacks that bordered on the arbitrary. To a certain degree, s/he was right.

  Which meant that Selar had to make sure that s/he turned out to be wrong.

  At which point, Selar let out a most unVulcan, bellowing challenge. Until that moment an utter silence had fallen upon the place of judgment, and the noise was so unexpected that it momentarily froze Burgoyne in surprise. That was precisely what Selar had hoped to accomplish.

  She came in fast, driving forward with the blunt-bladed end, swinging it like a scythe. Burgoyne backed up, hir feet padding noiselessly on the gleaming floor, and s/he seemed to elongate, pulling hir stomach in and just avoiding the swish of the blade. Selar swung it back and forth, like a deadly pendulum, and Burgoyne backed up all the way to the edge of the arena.

  “To step beyond the borders is to lose,” T’Pau informed hir from a safe distance.

  Whether Burgoyne had actually intended to step out of bounds or not was unknown, and now would never be known. S/he stopped an inch shy of stepping out, and then leaped high. Selar tried to bring the weapon up and around to swing up at hir, but the weight of the bludgeon at the other end impeded such a quick shift in the way she was gripping it. Before Selar could readjust, Burgoyne was sailing over her head, and s/he swung hir right heel down and around, slamming it against the side of Selar’s head. Selar went to one knee, pain exploding behind her eyes. She heard Burgoyne land, heard the quick shuffle of feet, and swung the lirpax’s bludgeon end around in a desperate guess as to where Burgoyne was going to be coming from.

  She guessed correctly. The cudgel end struck Burgoyne squarely in the stomach, and the Hermat stumbled back, gasping, having left hirself momentarily open and not having gotten away with it. Selar struck again, this time slamming Burgoyne in the upper right shoulder with such force that Burgoyne backed away. Hir right arm was hanging limply at hir side, and s/he was desperately flexing hir fingers, trying to restore feeling.

  Selar swung the lirpax up like a lance and charged with the bladed end, and it was only at the last moment that she realized that Burgoyne had tricked her. Burgoyne was not as injured or even as semi-helpless as she had thought. Burgoyne moved to one side with the grace of a dancer, and hir perfectly functioning right arm snared the lirpax just under the joint of the blade. For just a moment it was immobilized, and Burgoyne lashed out with hir left foot, taking Selar just under the chin. Selar staggered, almost losing her grip on the weapon, but then she rallied and swung it around. Burgoyne released hir hold on it, lest s/he be thrown to the ground, and Selar chanced a kick to the side. But it was a clumsy move, for Selar was anything but an experienced hand-to-hand combatant, and Burgoyne dodged it easily. Moreover, the outthrust leg left Selar completely off balance when it didn’t connect, and Burgoyne snagged her ankle, braced hirself and threw. Selar landed heavily on her back, clutching the lirpax.

  Burgoyne dropped down atop her, gripping the lirpax on either side, and tried to wrench it from Selar’s grip. However, although she was unaccustomed to fighting, Selar still possessed the pure strength that was her heritage. Selar slammed the lirpax up and the staff caught Burgoyne square across the face. Burgoyne lurched, hir head swimming, and Selar struck again with the same move. Selar’s hope was to get Burgoyne to release hir hold on the lirpax, whereupon she could shove the Hermat off herself and perhaps even pin hir to the floor.

  It did not work out that way, however. With an infuriated roar, Burgoyne slammed the lirpax to one side, the bladed end crashing against the hard rock-ground. Crashing … and breaking. The sound of snapping metal reverberated through the thin air, and suddenly the lirpax had a jagged end where once a blunted blade had been.

  The r
amifications of the moment were suddenly clear to Selar, and, for just a moment, she hesitated. That was more than enough for Burgoyne, who suddenly released the lirpax and—with one quick move—cupped hir hands and boxed Selar’s ears.

  For one of such sensitive hearing, it was as if two small bombs had suddenly exploded in her head. Selar let out a most inappropriate cry, losing her grip on the lirpax altogether. Burgoyne yanked it out of her hands, reversed it, and suddenly the jagged and lethal blade was directly above Selar’s face. One thrust downward would cleave Selar’s skull in half.

  “Surrender,” whispered Burgoyne.

  “Never,” Selar shot back.

  Burgoyne froze, hir eyes glittering with momentary triumph. But s/he didn’t move. S/he simply stood there, as if paralyzed.

  Selar took the opportunity and speared out with her foot, catching Burgoyne squarely in the knee. Burgoyne went down, the lirpax tumbling away from hir. Instantly both of them were on their feet, facing each other, hands poised.

  “Kroyka!” shouted T’Pau, the air reverberating with the strength of her command. Immediately Burgoyne and Selar took several steps back from one another. Selar studied Burgoyne carefully, looking for some sign of stress due to the heat or the thinness of the Vulcan air. But Burgoyne gave no indication at all that s/he was the least bit hampered by the unforgiving climate. Hir eyes were glittering with excitement, hir lips drawn back to display hir fangs.

  “Step back and rest,” ordered T’Pau. They did as she commanded, and Giniv stepped in close to Selar.

  “S/he had you. Dead to rights, s/he had you.”

  “I am most aware of that, Giniv,” Selar informed her, not sounding particularly pleased to acknowledge it. “But in order to complete the victory, s/he would have had to kill me. Or at the very least, pound me into unconsciousness, which may have had the same result.”

  “But s/he did not.”

  “You sound almost disappointed.”

  “Do I?” Giniv looked at her with polite bemusement. “I did not intend to. I simply found hir choice not to do so … fascinating. If you died, after all, it would solve hir problem.”

  “Leaving hir to explain to our son the circumstances of his mother’s demise.”

  “I do not think s/he was thinking that far ahead.”

  “It does not matter. The moment is past. I must attend to other difficulties.”

  “You could have killed her.” There was a faint sound of scolding in Slon’s tone.

  “Yes,” said Burgoyne. It was only now that s/he was out of Selar’s immediate line of sight that s/he allowed any of the exhaustion to show on hir. S/he felt as if s/he were running uphill through mud. Hir breathing was labored, and hir eyes, lips, and throat felt completely dried out. S/he couldn’t help but feel as if hir tongue was swelling up to twice its normal size. S/he leaned against a rock, steadying hirself.

  “But you did not.”

  “Would you have preferred that I did?”

  “Of course not,” said Slon. “But you must understand that you are dealing with someone who is not only a mother fighting for her child, but a being of pure logic. She will do whatever is necessary to thwart you.”

  “You’re saying she would kill me.”

  “We are a passive race, Burgoyne. It goes against our philosophy, our grain, to take such extreme steps. But you have thrust her into an extreme position. There is no telling what she will be motivated to do, particularly if she sees you as an implacable foe.” He paused and studied Burgoyne. “Why did you not kill her? As I made clear, I did not desire that you do such a thing. But it would have, from your point of view, been the logical thing to do. So … why did you not?”

  “Because,” Burgoyne said, drawing in as deep a breath as hir aching lungs allowed hir to. “If I did that … then she would never love me.”

  Slon was about to respond to that when T’Pau called firmly, “It is time.”

  “Perhaps she has an important social engagement after this,” Burgoyne said, casting a glance over at the Vulcan noblewoman. “I keep trying to picture her in the throes of some mating lust. I’m not having much luck.”

  “You may be more fortunate than you know,” Slon told hir.

  Burgoyne took one more breath that came out raspy in hir chest, and then s/he walked forward to the middle of the arena to face Selar. One of the Vulcan attendants was affixing a leather strap, about four feet long, to Selar’s left wrist. He gestured solemnly for Burgoyne to step forward, which s/he did. He tied the other end of the strap to Burgoyne’s right wrist.

  “The ties that bind,” commented Burgoyne. Selar said nothing, which didn’t surprise Burgoyne in the least.

  The other attendants were slipping a heavy glove onto their untethered hands. Burgoyne turned hir hand over to inspect the glove thoroughly. Each of the fingers of the glove was padded, and there was a sizable weight sewn into the middle. It felt like a thick, metal cylinder of some sort, and when Burgoyne curled hir fingers around it, it gave hir fist a remarkable amount of heft. It served as both an advantage and disadvantage to Burgoyne, the latter of more significance than the former. On the one hand, it increased considerably the power of hir punch. On the other hand, it covered up the claws on hir free hand, and besides … in terms of pure strength, Selar probably exceeded hir, so all it did was make Selar even more formidable than she already was.

  “It is inconceivable to me,” Selar said in a low voice, “that you have brought matters to this. As if a show of strength will make any difference, will give any indication of who is the better parent.”

  “I never wanted to be the better parent. Just a parent. But you had to shut me out.”

  “It was for your own good, as well as Xyon’s. The child cannot grow up confused.”

  “We all grow up confused, Selar. All of us. The only thing you Vulcans have going for you is a racial belief that you’re somehow the only ones who absolutely know what’s going on. Well, guess what? In the final analysis, you’re as clueless as the rest of us.”

  “Very warm words. I shall embrace them forever,” said Selar.

  T’Pau ordered them to begin once more, and they closed in combat for what would be the final time.

  ROBIN

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M DOING THIS. I really can’t,” said Robin as she and Nik headed for the small, glimmering building that housed the Black Hole ride. It was night, and a cool breeze was wafting in from the distant shoreline.

  “What I can’t believe is that you haven’t tried it yet,” Nik replied. She had to admit that there were times when Nik could seem like nothing so much as an overgrown child. Which, she further had to admit, could either be annoying or charming, depending upon how one chose to look at it. She opted for the latter. “You said you went on the ride into the sun.”

  “I know, I know,” she admitted, rolling her eyes. “I can’t believe I did that, either. I suppose it’s just that … well, when you’ve been in real life-and-death situations, thrusting yourself into something that simulates it, just for a quick thrill—”

  “Don’t knock quick thrills. They can be far more intense than slow thrills, and they’ve got … got …”

  “Got what?”

  “Half the calories?” he finished hopefully. “Let’s hurry; there’s no line.”

  She rolled her eyes, but picked up the pace at his urging, as he pulled on her arm.

  They got to the entrance to the ride and stopped short. There was a sign posted outside the entrance to the simulator that read, “Under repair.”

  “Oh, well, that’s that,” said Robin cheerfully.

  Nik made absolutely no attempt to hide his disappointment. “That is so very unfair!” he complained.

  “Well, at least now we know why there’s no line. Come on, let’s—”

  “Hello!” Nik called out, and then, more loudly, “Hello! Is anyone here?”

  For a moment there was no response, and Robin was more than happy to try to depart. That was when, wit
h a rush of air, the simulator door opened. Just to add a bit of panache to the moment, mist came billowing out. Robin was suddenly worried that the thing was on fire or something, but then a figure emerged with no particular sign of distress. She recognized him instantly.

  “Scotty!” she said.

  “Ach. Hello, lassie,” he replied. He was holding what Robin recognized as a neuron flux detector. Then he looked slightly contrite as he said, “Ahhh, yes. Ye dinna want me t’be calling ye ‘lassie.’ Muh apologies.”

  “Why don’t you want him to call you that?” asked Nik.

  “It’s stupid. It’s …” She sighed. “When I was a kid, my father read me a book called Lassie Come-Home. It was about a collie, and the family couldn’t afford to keep her, so they found her another home. But the collie kept coming back, until finally they decide to keep her. And it never made any sense to me. How could a disobedient collie be considered anything other than annoying? ‘Hey! Collie! You’ve got a new home! Stay there! How is the word “stay” in any way unclear?’ ” She laughed slightly at that in a self-deprecating way. “I suppose, even then, I was getting ready for a life in Starfleet, where the chain of command is so important and you just obey orders, dammit.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Then, in an embarrassed voice, Nik said, “Uhm … what’s a collie?”

  “A magnificent dog,” said Scotty. “When I was a wee lad, ah had one for a brief time. Beautiful thing. Although ah never called it ‘Lassie.’ ”

  “Why not? I’d’ve thought it would be a perfect name, considering.”

  “Aye, if it’d been a girl. What with it being a male and all, ah thought ‘Laddie’ more appropriate. He ran off, though, with some little bitch. Never saw ’im again. Ah well. So.” He turned his full attention to Nik. “Ye’d be Robin’s young man, ah take it.”

  “Well, that … is a work-in-progress. Nik Viola,” and he stuck out a hand. “We met earlier when my dad and I first arrived.”