Martyr

  “Liberator?” Prime One was thunderstruck. “Liberation from the word of Xant? From the spirit of Xant? Who in their right mind would desire to be liberated from that?”

  “The Alphans apparently, sir. They have no comprehension or appreciation of all that we try to do for them.”

  “I will inform the Overlord of this situation,” Prime One said after a moment’s thought. “He will want to know of the wrongheadedness in many which surrounds this clear signal of Xant’s return. He may very well want to address Alpha Carinae… and perhaps even other worlds which may be laboring under similar delusions. Thank you for informing me of the situation there, Brother.”

  “It was my honor as always, Prime One.”

  “May Xant light your way.”

  “Yours as well, Prime One.”

  Prime One’s image blinked off the screen, leaving the High Priest to gaze out the windows at the populace below him. It was a populace amongst whom he had never hesitated to walk, but now something told him that he would be most well advised to stay exactly where he was. That perhaps now was not the time to spread the good word and tidings of Xant among the Alphans.

  Because somehow, he had the feeling—a feeling that, as it turned out, was a correct one—that the last thing the Alphans were interested in doing at that particular moment in time was listening.

  VIII

  SELAR WAS SEATED BY HERSELF in the team room, which was how she was customarily seated. She was carefully nursing a glass of Synthehol when she looked up to see Burgoyne 172 staring down at her.

  “Somehow, Lieutenant Commander,” Selar said slowly, “I suspected that we would be chatting in the near future.”

  “Really,” Burgoyne said. “So you’re saying there’s something you want to talk to me about?”

  “Not in particular, no,” replied Selar. “However, it was my suspicion that you would desire to talk to me.”

  “Well, now aren’t we full of ourselves,” said Burgoyne, and Selar could see from the slightest waver in Burgoyne’s bearings that s/he had already had a bit to drink. Selar was well aware (since Burgoyne had boasted of it on more than one occasion) that s/he had a fairly impressive collection of scotch back in hir quarters, a drink s/he had apparently developed a taste for while imbibing with a former engineer from another ship.

  “Would you care to sit down, Lieutenant Commander,” said Selar, “before you fall down?”

  “Why don’t you ask me to sit?” Burgoyne demanded.

  For the briefest of moments, Selar doubted her sanity. Was it possible, she wondered, that the semidelusional state resulting from heightened Pon Farr was enough to cause her to lose track completely of time or a discussion? Hadn’t she just asked—

  She shrugged mentally. It hardly seemed worth a dispute. “Why do you not sit down?” she inquired.

  “Thank you,” said Burgoyne, dropping down into a chair next to Selar. Burgoyne was leaning so far over toward Selar’s side that she had to slide over a bit so as not to wind up with Burgoyne in her lap. That was a situation that certainly would not have been offputting to Burgoyne, but was not something that Selar desired to explore at this particular moment in time.

  “How may I be of service, Chief Engineer?”

  “For starters, you can call me Burgoyne. Or Burgy. Most fother olks do.”

  It took the Vulcan a mere moment to realize that Burgoyne had meant to say “other folks,” and somehow the letters seemed to have gotten away from hir, to say nothing of each other. Although the familiarity was uncomfortable to her, she opted to accede to hir requests rather than risk a protracted conversation. “Very well, Burgoyne. How can I help you?”

  “Well, I thought that I could have helped you,” said Burgoyne. S/he didn’t seem particularly happy at the moment. “But I must have looked pretty foolish, huh? There I was, letting you know I was interested. Talking about how good we could be together. And it turns out you already have something going on. With the captain, no less.”

  “My involvement with the captain—whatever that may or may not be—is no concern of yours, Burgoyne. If you must know, I …”

  Burgoyne looked up at her, hir eyes looking slightly bloodshot. “Yes?”

  It was at that moment that Selar almost blurted all of it out. Not just the needs of Pon Farr, but the fact that she did indeed find Burgoyne attractive. Despite hir over-the-top approach, despite all of hir aggressive and devil-may-care theatrics—or perhaps because of them—Selar had slowly come to consider Burgoyne very desirable. So much so that she had been ready to give herself over to Burgoyne during one of the more aggressive flare-ups of her condition. But she had seen Burgoyne with Mark McHenry at the time. There had been something about the cavalier, casual way in which Burgoyne had managed to toss aside Selar and move on to someone else—of another gender, yet!—that had prompted Selar to back off from the Hermat. Had prompted her to look elsewhere for a suitable mate, one who might be just a bit more stable.

  “If you must know,” repeated Selar, “I find the captain… most attractive.”

  “Good for you!” said Burgoyne. S/he slapped hir hands together in loud applause, drawing looks of casual confusion from other officers sitting nearby. Selar quickly reached over, put her hands on top of Burgoyne’s, and pushed them down to the table top.

  Burgoyne’s tapered fingers wrapped around Selar’s for just a moment, holding them, and Selar felt a jolt of electricity between the two of them. It was insane. What the devil was it about the Hermat that caused hir to have this sort of effect upon Selar? Selar didn’t know, and it was perhaps that very ignorance that she found the most off-putting. The captain she found suitable for a variety of intellectual reasons. That was something she could grasp. Burgoyne as a choice was totally and utterly illogical, and there was absolutely no reason in the galaxy for Selar to pursue such a relationship. None.

  “I mean it,” and Burgoyne sounded less blustering, more sincere. “Truly, I mean it. I want you to be happy, Selar. And if the captain is what you want, and if he’s what will make you happy, then I would be the last person to stand in your way. I mean that. I value relationships too thoroughly to get between the two of you.”

  “I… appreciate that, Burgoyne. I do.”

  “Well, good.” Burgoyne had still not released Selar’s hand. And then s/he looked up at Selar with a look of mischief on hir face. “Threesome?”

  “I… beg your pardon?” asked Selar.

  “Well, I was simply curious, that’s all,” Burgoyne told her. “Have you ever tried a threesome?”

  “I am not certain what it is you are referring to.”

  “I mean three people. Having sex. At the same time.”

  Selar stared at hir. “With whom?”

  “With each other!” laughed Burgoyne. “I mean, I don’t know the captain apparently as well as you do. But if that’s something the two of you would be interested in exploring …”

  “Three… together… simultaneously …”

  “Yes, that’s the general—”

  “Burgoyne, that is not sex. That is a committee.”

  “Well, only if you start taking votes and things …”

  “Burgoyne,” and Selar began to rise from her chair, “I do not know how things are done on your world—”

  “I have a book. With illustrations and footnotes.”

  “Keep it. We are… we are too different, that is all. I do not know why I even considered—”

  “Considered?” The moment she’d mentioned the word, Selar wished that she could have the sentence to say over again. But that wasn’t possible, for Burgoyne had quickly picked up on the slip. “Considered what? Me? You and I? Us?”

  “No,” Selar said flatly. “I was going to say, I do not know why I even considered the possibility of talking to you simply as one individual to another. You are—”

  “Dashing? Charming? Wonderfully open?”

  “I believe ‘insane’ is the word I was searching for.”

&nb
sp; “I’ll take that as a compliment. Insane, as in crazy about you.”

  “Burgoyne, you are intoxicated. It is prompting you to say things that you would not ordinarily say, which is, in and of itself, surprising to me, for you have rarely shown any restraint before in saying whatever comes to mind. But I believe you have set a new standard for yourself with this conversation.”

  “But I’m happy for you! Can’t you see that? I’m just pleased you’re not lonely!”

  “Lonely?” She gazed at hir with what seemed a distracted air. “Do not dismiss the concept of loneliness, Burgoyne. There is much to be said for it. There is much comfort that one can take in it. Once one adjusts to loneliness, one can never be hurt again. Yes, indeed… loneliness is underrated.”

  “I can think of no worse, or depressing state, than loneliness,” Burgoyne replied. “It can be all-consuming. It can and will destroy you. I can think of no sadder state.”

  “And that,” Selar said softly, “is why you will do whatever you can to avoid it. Cast about for bedmates, flirt shamelessly, do whatever it takes to make certain that you are not alone. I pity you, Burgoyne.”

  Burgoyne’s face clouded. “Save your pity for someone who needs it. I’m happy. Happy. You understand? Happier than you will ever be.”

  “As opposed to loneliness, happiness is overrated.”

  Selar left her drink behind as she headed out of the team room, Burgoyne calling after her, “It’s been great talking to you, too!”

  S/he plopped down into the chair Selar had just occupied, still feeling her warmth from the seat cushion. Burgoyne shook hir head. “Women,” s/he sighed.

  McHenry had entered the team room, and now he spotted Burgoyne by hirself. He strolled over to hir, reversed the chair and straddled it. “You look lonely, Burgy.”

  “You look off-duty, Mark.”

  “I am.”

  “You doing anything?”

  “Well,” McHenry told hir, “I’m reading a quantum physics review article.”

  “What?” Burgoyne looked at McHenry’s empty hands, then over hir own shoulder to see if there was something visible behind hir. “What are you talking about?”

  “I have a photographic memory,” McHenry told hir. “Some new articles came through the ether this morning, but I didn’t have time to sit down and read them. So I kind of glanced at them and just made mental snapshots. Now I’m pulling them out and reading them while we talk. Although if you find that distracting, I can stop.”

  “No, it’s quite all right. About how much of your brain functions does that occupy?”

  “Maybe thirty percent.”

  “I see,” Burgoyne said thoughtfully. “And tell me, Mark,” and hir small tongue strayed across hir distended canines, “how much of your brain function does sex require?”

  “Fifty, maybe fifty-five percent.”

  “So what do you do with the remaining fifteen percent?”

  “Overflow space,” McHenry told hir. “In case some of the rest of it gets used up unexpectedly quickly.”

  “Well, I have an idea,” Burgoyne told him. “Why don’t we go back to my place and see if we can fill up the unoccupied space, okay?”

  “Sounds like a good deal to me,” McHenry grinned.

  And later, when they were together, their clothes strewn about the floor, McHenry moving atop hir with easy grace, Burgoyne’s fingers traced the curve of McHenry’s upper ear, and s/he inadvertently whispered the name “Selar.”

  Fortunately, McHenry was engrossed in a particularly riveting footnote in the article and so didn’t hear.

  And in the meantime, several decks away, Selar tossed in her sleep and dreamt of a tongue gently caressing canine teeth …

  Calhoun was sound asleep when he heard the buzzing of his room bell. From long habit, he snapped to full wakefulness. Calhoun had never been one for waking up slowly. Why give an opponent an opportunity to stick a sword between your ribs while you’re busy rubbing the sleep from your eyes?

  “Who is it?” he called, no trace of grogginess in his voice. He had already stepped from his bed and pulled on his robe.

  “Shelby,” came the reply.

  “Shelby,” he muttered. “How did I know. Lights. Come in.”

  The room lights flared on as the door slid open, and Shelby entered. She looked as if she hadn’t been to bed yet, and had a great deal on her mind.

  “Let me guess,” he said, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “You’ve suddenly realized that faster-than-light travel is an impossibility, and we should head home immediately before someone realizes and we all get in trouble.”

  “I can’t agree with the decisions you’ve made lately,” she said, the words coming out all in a rush.

  “None of them? I mean, I was thinking about changing the part in my hair. Perhaps now I’d better reconsider it.”

  “I think this Messiah business is fraught with danger.”

  “Fraught? Eppy, it’s”—he glanced at a chronometer—“it’s oh-one-thirty hours. It’s the wrong time of night to use words like ‘fraught.’”

  “I don’t want you to be flip with me.”

  “Neither do I. I’d rather be flipping with my pillow, but you seem to have precluded that.” He dropped down onto the bed. “Eppy, I thought we had this settled …”

  “I’ve been thinking about it—”

  “Obviously.”

  “And I think we have to set them straight, right at the beginning. Tell them no, tell them this Savior business is pure fiction on their part.”

  “How do we know that?” Calhoun replied.

  “How do we know? Mac, you’re not their Savior!”

  “No man knows his destiny, Eppy. Perhaps I am. Perhaps their predictions got it right. If that’s the case, then I’d be violating the Prime Directive by refusing to fulfill that destiny, since I’m already a part of their culture rather than something on the outside interfering with it. In any event, we’ll see when we get there. Now if there’s nothing else, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” He pulled the blanket over himself, even though he had his robe on, and tried to find escape in the pillow.

  “There’s also the matter of Doctor Selar.”

  “Grozit. Here we go.” He sat back up, stared at her for a moment, and then stood with his hands placed firmly on his hips. “You know what your problem is? You’re jealous.”

  “Jealous! Oh, get over yourself, Mac.”

  “I’m over me, but you sure as hell aren’t. Why should you care whether I become Selar’s lover or not?”

  “Because there’s questions of protocol! And because she’s not thinking clearly!”

  “She seemed quite lucid when she came in and asked me.”

  “She said herself that the Pon Farr can affect the way she thinks, affect her perceptions. I think that’s the case here.”

  “Why? Because no woman in her right mind would consider me a suitable father?”

  “And what about that?” she challenged him. “What’s going to happen when she has the child, huh? Is she going to remain aboard the Excalibur? We’re not set up for families the way other vessels are.”

  “I suppose we’ll face that situation when we come to it,” replied Calhoun. “There are always possibilities.”

  “And are you going to participate in the raising of the child? Or are you going to walk away from this one, too.”

  Calhoun’s brow darkened. “That was uncalled for.”

  “Well maybe something is called for, just to get you to think about some of the things you’re doing! To think about the damage you might inflict on Selar, or on the people of Zondar!”

  “I’m providing a woman with relief for a medical condition, and I’m giving a race of people a shot at freedom. That sounds pretty laudable to me.”

  “Oh, Mackenzie Calhoun, the selfless martyr,” retorted Shelby. “Admit it. This all appeals to your ego. The educated woman who picks you as the main stud on the ship, the race of people who t
hink you’re the second coming of God. It inflates your ego.”

  “No,” said Calhoun, raising his voice slightly. “The only thing I’m getting any ego gratification from is the knowledge that you are so totally jealous of Selar and me that you’re willing to come in here and make a complete jackass of yourself rather than stand by and watch me become involved with another woman.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” She threw her hands up. “I tried. God knows, I tried. I tried to make you see the error of your ways. I tried to make you realize the danger in what you’re doing. If you don’t want to listen to me, fine. If you want to risk exacerbating situations under the delusion that you’re making them better, that is likewise fine. I don’t care. I don’t care anymore. I really, really—”

  “Don’t care. Yes, I get the picture.” He tried to put his hands on her shoulders but she pushed them away. “Eppy, I know that look in your eyes. The sleep-deprived look. Once you leave here, you’re going to go back to your quarters, and you’re going to fall asleep, and when you wake up in the morning you’re going to hit yourself in the side of the head and say, Oh God, what an idiot I made of myself last night.”

  “You just dream on, Calhoun.”

  “The moment you leave, that is precisely what I intend to do.”

  With an annoyed huff, Shelby turned and stomped out of the room, leaving an amused Calhoun behind shaking his head and wondering just what exactly he’d gotten himself into by taking command of this vessel.

  “I’ve seen more stable nuthouses,” he said as he flopped back into bed. “I bet Picard never had these problems.”

  IX

  THE HOME OF RAMED, as was typical for a Zondarian home, was heavily fortified. One never knew when there might be stray missiles flying, or when pieces of hurtling shrapnel would suddenly present a danger to life and limb. Nor was anyone there desirous of any intruders. The wandering packs of Unglza raiders were well known to all of the Eenza, and anyone who had the wherewithal to protect his family did not scrimp in the least little bit.