Renaissance by Peter David
“Ditto, ditto,” said Robin with a laugh. “You got the same speech, too?”
“Oh, definitely,” he said. “And then you’ll never believe what happened.”
“He found a woman.”
Nik’s eyes widened. “How’d you guess?”
“Believe it or not, I’m in exactly the same boat.”
“I do find it hard to believe,” Nik replied. “I mean, how could anyone not want to spend every available moment with you?”
She put her hand to her heart and fluttered her fingers as if she were seized with palpitations. “Oh. Oh, what a smooth talker you are, Mr. Viola. I think I’m going to have to be careful with you.”
“No, you don’t,” he said cheerfully. “You could always give me enough rope and then watch me hang myself.” And he held up the rope to demonstrate the possibilities.
“So …” She folded her arms resolutely. “I owe you my life, but you do owe me an apology.”
“What for?”
“The weight thing. And keeping me dangling … literally.”
“I suppose I do,” he said. “How about if I give it to you over dinner? I have to warn you, my father will probably be there, along with his lady friend.”
“That’s okay,” she told him. “I might as well get to spend some time with somebody’s parent.”
When Robin got back to the hotel room, there was no sign of her mother, which didn’t surprise her. What did surprise her was that her bed did not appear to have been slept in. The thing was, she couldn’t tell whether it was because one of the room ’bots had already attended to making it, or because she simply hadn’t slept in it all night. Which meant, of course, that she had been somewhere else. Robin realized that she didn’t even want to think about where that somewhere else was.
“Oh, ease up,” she heard herself say scoldingly. “If she’s out having a good time, who are you to criticize? The bottom line is, she was right and you were wrong. This place isn’t bad at all … and that Nik …”
She caught her reflection in the mirror and couldn’t quite believe it; she’d never seen herself grinning quite so stupidly as she was now. Good lord, was he having that much of an effect on her, so quickly? The truth was, it had been a long time since any man had paid any kind of attention to her. Granted, they had met in an exceedingly bizarre manner, but that was okay. “After all,” she said, “when you meet someone while you’re falling, there’s nowhere to go but up.” She then laughed merrily at her own joke, and congratulated herself on being able to joke about something that—only a short time before—had appeared to be her last moments on the planet.
She spent the rest of the day relaxing herself: Swimming, sunning, taking it easy. For a time she kept an eye out for Morgan, but after a while she stopped worrying about it. Instead she dwelt on dinner that evening. Nik was … quite a handsome man. There was no use denying that. And he was most attractive. And, well …
“Jamaharon?” asked a Risan who served drinks on the beach.
Robin looked up at him, squinting against the sun. “I’m sorry?”
“Well, you do not display a Horga’hn,” said the rather attractive-looking young man, “but you have that look about you … that glow … that seems to indicate you are interested in jamaharon.”
“Is that a drink or something?” she asked in confusion.
He smiled. “In a sense. It is the act that provides the sweet nectar of life itself.”
“Oh,” she said, not understanding, and then “Oh!” as she suddenly realized. “Oh … you mean … uh … no. No, I’m not interested.” She remembered now that a Horga’hn was a statuette that was displayed by anyone who wanted to have … well … jamaharon. “I’m not,” she said.
“Your lips say no, but your aura says yes. However, I will leave you to your self-realization.”
“That’s very kind of you,” she said as he wandered away.
Her aura? Her aura?
Under other circumstances, she would have assumed that the Risan was coming on to her. But she knew that wasn’t the case here. These people were far too straightforward for such games.
Could it really be that she was giving off some sort of … of “interested” vibrations? And was it Nik that she was interested in? She had trouble believing it of herself. She wasn’t accustomed to thinking in purely physical terms about people. She hardly knew Nik Viola, after all. For her, attraction stemmed from getting to know someone on a personal level, and the physical aspect tended to grow from that. It simply wouldn’t be like her to become so enamored of someone that her—what was it?—her aura would reflect it.
Still … he was damned attractive. And he had saved her life.
“That’s got to be it,” she told herself. Her feelings for him were accelerated because they had met during a time of great personal jeopardy. She felt indebted to him for saving her life, so, naturally, everything she felt toward him was heightened. She was attracted to what he represented, namely her personal savior.
She would just take it slowly, that was all. If something did happen, well … this was the place for romance, after all. And if it didn’t, well … that was fine, too.
“But it probably will.”
She was so surprised to hear herself say that, she looked around the beach to see if anyone else had heard her. Not that the words themselves would have meant anything, but still …
No one had heard her. No one had paid attention. No one seemed to be studying her aura and making assessments on her interest in jamaharon. For that, she could only consider herself grateful. Then she lay back on the sand, worked on drifting to sleep, and only partly succeeded. The rest of the time she felt rather itchy, and the itchiness had nothing to do with sand in her bathing suit.
It was at that point that she resolved she wasn’t going to make a big deal about it. Nik seemed like an interesting man, but he was just that: a man. They were going to go to dinner tonight, and very likely meet his father, but there was absolutely no reason to get worked up about it.
That was when she realized that she had been so disdainful of the entire notion of socializing, and even (God forbid) romance, that—despite her mother’s urgings—she had not brought a single fancy dress with her. Quickly, she got her things together, so that she could race back to the hotel, change, and head out to the nearest clothing facility to find an appropriate outfit.
Somewhere buried in that train of thought was a substantial helping of irony, but she chose not to dwell on it.
BURGOYNE
AS BURGOYNE AND SLON headed to the latter’s home, they talked freely and openly. Burgoyne was surprised how quickly and easily s/he was able to relate to, and engage in conversation with, Slon. Hir experience with Vulcans had been so limited, and Slon was so much the opposite of Selar in every way, that s/he was having a bit of trouble making the adjustment. But s/he was reasonably sure s/he was going to be able to handle the transition, given time.
They stood at the door of Slon’s apartment, and he gestured for hir to enter. S/he was totally relaxed, very much looking forward to the practice of hir favorite activity, unencumbered by angst or any considerations beyond simple pleasure. And Slon certainly seemed nice enough, and interested enough. Part of that might very well be, as Burgoyne had commented, simple curiosity. But that was fine, too. In fact, it was great. Everything was going to be great.
“You have been standing at the threshold of my home for nineteen seconds,” observed Slon. “Most individuals are able to walk through a door in considerably less time.”
“I know. But my feet don’t seem to be moving. I …” S/he took a steady breath, tried to get hirself to proceed, and still was unable to do so.
“Burgoyne—?”
“I can’t.” There was a sort of amazement in Burgoyne’s voice as s/he realized that simple truth. “I can’t … do this. Damn her.”
“I do not understand.”
Burgoyne sank to the floor of the corridor, running hir fingers throug
“Have I said something—?”
“It’s not you. It’s me … and her …” S/he shook hir head. “You didn’t ask me why I was here.”
“I had thought you came here for the same reason I did.”
“Not here here. Here, as in, on Vulcan. The truth is,” and s/he took a deep breath—and then stopped. “Actually, the truth is far too involved to go into. Let’s just say that there’s someone else.”
“You are involved with another person?”
“I don’t think I am. That’s the problem. She’s rebuffed me repeatedly. She’s made it clear to me that she doesn’t want a romantic relationship. Because of that, I felt as if I were free to pursue what promised to be a most interesting evening with you. Except it’s not turning out that way.” There was genuine distress in hir voice. “What the hell am I doing to do about this? I can’t go forward, I can’t go back. I’m in a sort of romantic limbo.”
“Fascinating.”
“I’m so pleased,” s/he said sarcastically, “that I can provide such fascination for you. But you’ll excuse me if I’m less than ecstatic, considering where this leaves me.”
“I did not intend to sound disinterested in your ‘plight.’ It is simply that, from what I knew of you, I did not think that you would pass up an assignation out of loyalty to someone who expressed disinterest in you.”
“Oh, really. And what did you know of me before we met in the bar?”
“I knew that which my sister told me.”
“And who would your sister b—” But then s/he stopped, as pieces suddenly tumbled together in hir mind. “Of course,” s/he whispered. “Selar. Your sister is Selar.”
“That is correct.”
Still on the floor of the corridor, Burgoyne backed up as if s/he wanted to put distance between hirself and Slon. “She sent you. This was all some sort of … of setup.”
“No,” Slon said firmly. “That is not the case. She knows nothing of my seeking you out.”
“Seeking me out?” S/he couldn’t believe what s/he was hearing. “You came looking for me? How … how did you know where to find me?”
“There is a very small number of bars on Vulcan, as I am sure you have surmised. I was reasonably certain that you would be there …”
“Also based on what she told you about me?”
“That is correct.”
“So what was all this?” s/he demanded, waving vaguely in the air. “Some sort of test to see whether I was going to be faithful to a woman who doesn’t want to be with me?”
“No. I did not have a specific direction that I intended for this evening to take. I simply wished to get to know you, and in so doing, understand you.”
“Well, you came pretty close to knowing me as well as someone can.” To hir surprise, s/he actually smiled ruefully. “So do you understand me any better?”
“Somewhat. I think you are wrong, however.”
“Wrong about what?”
“Selar. I think she does wish to be with you.”
“Well, if that’s the case, she’s certainly doing an excellent job of covering it up.”
“Yes. She is.”
S/he stared at Slon, trying to figure him out. “All right,” s/he said slowly. “You’re her brother. You say you know her so well …”
“I do not know her ‘so well,’ or at least as well as you would wish. Selar has always been somewhat … guarded. Even more so than most Vulcans.”
“But why?”
Slon sat down opposite Burgoyne. A Vulcan woman on her way to her own apartment passed between them without giving them a second glance, as if people sitting on the floor was something fairly routine.
“Have you forgotten,” Slon told hir, “that you yourself tried to end your relationship with her shortly after the child was conceived? You spoke to her of the Hermat inability to commit to one relationship. You spoke of many partners …”
“I know, I know. But … I was concerned … because I really did feel something very unusual, even rare, for her. And I didn’t know—”
“You did not know if your feelings were genuine or not. Whether you were behaving in a manner ‘out of character’ for you, and your species, due to the bond that was formed between you as a result of pon farr.”
“That’s right, yes,” said Burgoyne.
“Burgoyne … I am going to tell you things now. Some you may know, some you may not. But I think it reasonable to say that I know my sister as well as any, and better than most, and if you desire my insight, I will present it to you.”
“I would indeed. I’d make one request of you before you start.”
“And that would be?”
“With the understanding that we are simply going to talk … can we do this in your place? It’s going to be a hell of a lot more comfortable.”
“Very well.”
They rose and entered the apartment in which Slon resided. Burgoyne stopped dead and looked around. There was practically nothing in it. No furniture, no possessions of any sort. Not even a light; the room was illuminated by moonlight. “Were you robbed?” s/he asked.
“No. I simply lead a minimalist life.”
S/he peered into the adjoining room, which s/he took to be the bedroom. There was nothing there. “Where do you sleep?”
“On my back.”
Realizing that they could just as easily have remained in the corridor, Burgoyne shrugged and slid back down to the floor. Slon followed easily, settling into a cross-legged position that looked quite contemplative.
“Selar,” he began, “was joined at a very young age with a Vulcan male named Voltak. At the time of the pon farr, the urge that drives most of our race brought them together. However, during the initial amorous stages of their joining, while they were already bonded on a mental level and were in the process of doing so physically, Voltak suffered a massive heart attack and died. Selar literally felt him slip away. She not only experienced his loss, she sensed the finality of death, the blackness that awaits us all, the endless nothingness of—”
“I get the point,” Burgoyne interrupted. “It was bad.”
“Quite bad. The experience had an adverse effect on Selar. At a fundamental, psychological level, she associates the act of love, of being loved, of joining … with loss. With death.”
“She’s reluctant to be with me full time because she thinks I’m going to die while we’re making love?” Burgoyne was unable to keep the skepticism from hir voice.
“No. It is a bit more complicated than that.”
“I hope so, because if that’s what it is, it’s pretty stupid.”
Slon frowned. “We are speaking of my speculations as to my sister’s mental state, Burgoyne. There is nothing ‘stupid’ about it, and I do not appreciate the condescension.”
“My apologies,” Burgoyne said sincerely. “I know you’re only trying to help. I’m sorry; it won’t happen again.”
“There is a reason I said ‘loss’ before ‘death.’ ‘Loss’ is the true stumbling block here. I believe that, consciously or unconsciously, she does not wish to let anyone become too close to her because she is afraid that person will leave her. The method of the departure—death, boredom, what have you—is incidental, secondary. She fears that she will lose anyone who becomes dear to her. She does not wish to take that risk. She considers it—”
“Illogical?”
Slon nodded. “So when she feels herself being pulled in that direction, it is her instinct to pull back.”
“Which is why she’s been running hot and cold.”
Slon looked at hir questioningly. “I beg your pardon …?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Burgoyne waved him off. “I shouldn’t have interrupted. You were saying?”
“Yes. Indeed, as I was saying, when one is in a position where loss is undesirable to the point
“Yes, so she’s told me,” Burgoyne said ruefully.
“It is one of the reasons, I suspect, that she became a physician. It made her capable of controlling the fates and fortunes of others. Healers do have a tendency to play God. They hold people’s lives in their hands, and their decisions and skills affect whether people will live or die. It is a very heady sensation, so I am told. Selar prefers to be in control. She always has. That predates her union with Voltak. When she returned here due to the drive of pon farr, she was not—I can assure you—pleased. She was offended, even dismayed by being held a captive to hormonal impulses dating back thousands of years. She did not desire to cede control of herself for even a moment. Because of the loss of Voltak, that tendency has only become more pronounced for her. So, if she allows herself to enter fully into a relationship predicated on trust, she immediately runs into trouble. Her instinct is to demolish it before it can thrust her into a position of vulnerability.”
“And what am I supposed to do about Xyon?” demanded Burgoyne. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but what you’re telling me doesn’t bode well for our son in the least.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Why? How could I not! Look at the scenario you’ve described for me,” s/he said, leaning forward and extending two fingers. S/he ticked off the alternatives, one at a time. “You’ve outlined for me the psychological profile of someone who lives only in extremes. Either she is going to be so determined to control every aspect of his life that she is going to suffocate him, robbing him of any shred of independence that he might develop. Or else she is going to be so in dread that he will eventually leave her or reject her in some way, that she will reject him first. She will shunt him aside out of some deep-seated need to protect herself. A true parent, a real parent, doesn’t adopt such extreme attitudes. Real life, a normal life, is lived in gray areas, in the middle. But you Vulcans don’t think that way. It has to be pure logic for you, logic or nothing. You can’t live lives that are normal blends of heart and mind. You operate solely through your mind and act as if the rest of the galaxy is inferior because the rest of us poor residents there burn with passions that you can only guess at.”