Star Trek New Frontier 12 Being Human

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Star Trek
New Frontier
Being Human
By Peter David
THEN...
they were four words, four innocuous words which- considered individually-were not especially alarming.
But they had become personal nightmares for George, especially when uttered together and sequentially.
When he saw Sheila approaching him that afternoon, he knew before she even opened her mouth to
speak that they were going to come leaping, unwanted, from her lips.
He was sitting in his favorite chair in their rather unassuming living room, reading a text about his new
favorite obsession ancient mythologies. This particular text had been produced by a twentieth-century
scholar, Joseph Campbell. For a man who had lived several hundred years ago, this Campbell fellow
seemed to know what he was going on about, and George considered the text far more sweeping and
interesting than, say, Bullfinch's Mythology.
As for George, he himself was about as unassuming as his living room was. There was nothing
particularly
memorable about him, and he prided himself on that. He had an ordinary face, not particularly interesting
sandy hair, and a nondescript face, all of which suited him just fine. He would leave for his job at the
research project in the mornings, spend the day not being noticed, and come home to where his wife paid
attention to him on occasion while their offspring seemed to live in his own world anyway. To a degree,
George was in absentia from his own life. That suited him just fine.
Sheila, his wife, had found this irritating, once upon a time. She had known she was marrying an
unambitious man, and had labored under the belief that she could change him. She had quickly learned
otherwise, and had spent much of her subsequent married years in denial over her own failure. "He has
potential," she would say to her mother whenever the subject was brought up. As to whether mat
potential would ever be met or addressed, that was another question entirely and one mat seemed
something of a mystery. Every day, Sheila would look into the mirror in the morning, and every day
would find yet another gray hair, or a crow's-foot or a wrinkle that she was certain had not been there
the previous morning. She wasn't sure whether it was George who was causing them, or the simple
passage of time. If it was the former, it angered her. If the latter, then she was watching a mute
condemnation of the time that she was wasting as her life passed her by.
Not that she didn't have her own work, as an anthropologist teaching at Starfleet Academy right there in
San Francisco. But she felt a growing frustration over her union with George, and found herself
wondering every
day if she wasn't investing time in a project that was never going to come to fruition. Sheila was, if nothing
else, goal-oriented, and she felt as if she was losing sight as to what me goal for George was. She tended
to wear her frustration like a shroud, and she knew that he must have sensed it Furthermore, she knew
mat she wasn't doing their marriage any good by feeling mat way, but how could she be less than honest
with him? What good would mat have done?
Nevertheless, she stayed with him because they had promised one another they would do so. Also, there
was the matter of Sandy.
"Sandy" was not his given name. He had acquired it somewhere around the age of three, when his
grandparents had commented mat he seemed to spend the day in a dreamlike haze. He would stare off
into space for long periods of time, fixating on blank spots on the wall. "That child," opined his
grandmother, "lives his life as if he's in a dream." This prompted his grandfather to call him "Sandman,"
which eventually got shortened to "Sandy." The name stuck, if for no other reason than that he seemed to
answer to it as readily as he did anything else.
Although his name changed, his behavior did not. He would always sit around, apparently oblivious of the
world around him, his dark eyes seeming to look at everything and nothing at the same time. He would
always bring his knees up to his chin, resting it mere, giving his mother looks of vague disinterest when
she would tell him to go outside. On occasion, apparently to satisfy her, he would do so... and then sit
around out-
side. His father would watch in fascination as flies would alight on his nose.
"You need friends, Sandy!" said Sheila, despairing, convinced that her son was developing strange and
frightening antisocial attitudes.
Somewhere around the age of five, he acquired a friend.
That made things worse.
Sandy had reached the ripe old age of eight on this particular afternoon, when George discovered that he
was about to have his peaceful reading ruined by his clearly agitated wife. It had rained the previous day,
cooling off the San Francisco humidity, and George had been briefly considering the possibility of getting
out for some air. When he saw the way Sheila was approaching him, with something clearly on her mind,
he regretted that he hadn't departed while it was still possible to do so.
Then came the four words, the words he'd been dreading.
'Talk to your son," said Sheila, pointing upstairs. Red shag carpeting lined the stairs that led to the
upstairs bedrooms, similar to the carpeting throughout the rest of the house. George hated it. It was like
living on the surface of Mars, only fuzzier.
George sighed and put down his reader, folding his hands on his lap in what he hoped was an avuncular
manner. "He's your son, too," George pointed out. This was self-evident. He was just stalling for time,
hoping that Sheila would become so annoyed with him that she would go off and handle whatever the
infraction was herself. If Sandy had misbehaved, George had no real desire to be the disciplinarian. He
had too much desire
to be liked. Besides, he didn't get worked up all that much. Things that Sandy did that annoyed the hell
out of Sheila barely registered on George's personal radar.
"What's the problem?" George asked tentatively.
"He's doing it again," Sheila told him, sending an annoyed glance up the stairs.
"It?" He had the feeling he knew what "it" was, but he reasoned that if he delayed long enough, some sort
of reprieve might present itself... such as, for instance, the sun going nova.
The sun, however, seemed disinclined to explode in the near future, and Sheila wasn't being put off. "It,"
she said with affirmation. "He's talking to her again."
George moaned softly and rubbed the bridge of his nose by pressing both his thumbs against it, looking
as if he was worried that it would fall off unless he tended to it right then. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure," said Sheila, hands on her hips. Once upon a time, he'd admired the hell out of those
hips. Now they were spreading. He didn't like to dwell upon what they'd look like in a few years. "I
walked past his room and heard him chatting with her. On and on and on..." When George didn't seem
properly exercised about it, she waved her hands about as if they were about to flop off her wrist and
said, "He's eight years old, George! This is getting ridiculous!"
Crossing his legs delicately at the knees, George did his best to affect a reasonable, mannered tone with
his wife. "As you say yourself, Sheila, he is eight Imaginary friends aren't exactly out of line for-"
"They're out of line for someone as intelligent as
Sandy is," she said firmly. "You saw what his charts said."
Indeed he had. Sandy's aptitude scores had practically been off the scale. The most impressive thing had
been that, after he'd taken the initial tests, the proctor had sadly informed them that he'd been watching
the boy, and it seemed as if he was barely paying attention to any of the questions. He simply chose
answers in what appeared to be an utterly haphazard manner. They had despaired upon hearing that...
until the aptitude tests came back, showing that Sandy was bright enough and displayed enough potential
to write his ticket... well, practically anywhere.
George had tried to parlay that score into the boy's mother easing up on him a bit. No go. Instead she'd
wanted to step up the pressure on him to learn, feeling that he should be "maximized to his full potential."
This was not an expression that George was especially fond of. In any event, Sandy hadn't seemed
overly cooperative with the maximizing philosophy, and that resistance had only caused matters to
deteriorate further.
"It doesn't matter how intelligent Sandy is," George told her, and when she tried to interrupt with shocked
indignation, he continued right over her, "He's still only eight, for crying out loud. Let the boy be a boy,
why can't we?"
'Talk. To him," she told him quite firmly, and George really didn't see any way around it. With a sigh that
was as heavy as his heart, George hauled himself wistfully out of his favorite chair and walked with heavy
footfall, thump thump thump, up the stairs. Normally the annoying shag carpet absorbed all noise, but
George made a
point of producing an extra racket, just so Sheila would be aware of how annoyed he was. She didn't
seem to care especially, which naturally annoyed George all the more.
The door to Sandy's room was open, and George stood outside a moment, reminding himself that he was
simply trying to act on behalf of the boy's own good. Imagination was fine as far as it went, but, well...
enough was enough. (Or was that Sheila's voice in his head? George was beginning to wonder how much
of the person he was was actually left in him, and how much was Sheila's personality having insinuated
itself into his.)
He heard his son's voice from within. He sounded as if he was talking to someone. Well, no mystery
there He knew perfectly well with whom Sandy was conversing, just the same as he'd been for the last
two years. Okay, there was something to be said for just how badly it was getting on Sheila's nerves, and
he had to admit, there was a certain degree of embarrassment involved. I f they had friends over, Sandy
would invariably wander in, chatting with thin air and barely noticing the company standing around and
staring at him. A number of them thought it was cute. But there were always those few who regarded him
with suspicion or even pity, and that attitude would then be reflected in the looks they gave George and
Sheila. George would force a smile and Sheila would get extremely uncomfortable, as if he wasn't being a
good enough father somehow.
Perhaps enough was enough at that.
He cleared his throat to serve as warning to Sandy
that he was entering the room, and then he walked in. Sandy was seated cross-legged on the bed. The
bed was neatly made, top smooth, corners folded, as per Sheila's insistence and long years of discipline.
The rest of his room was likewise immaculate; Sheila would simply have it no other way. His stuffed
animals sat neatly lined up on shelves, under assorted star maps that he had mounted on his wall, not
being satisfied with the ones that he was able to call up on his computer screen. The carpet was that
same annoying shag red. By the one window in his room, there was a telescope that he used to observe
the stars for what seemed hours on end. It was the only other thing he tended to do other than look at
nothing at all.
He was wearing a simple white crewneck pullover shirt, and blue shorts. His face, with a row of freckles
arranged on his cheeks and his questioning eyes opened wide, was turned upward toward his father in
what seemed passive curiosity. He said nothing, having halted his chat the moment he became aware of
bis father's presence.
George ruffled his son's hair. Sandy didn't budge as the strands settled back down onto his scalp. "How
you doing, Sandy?" George asked.
Sandy tilted his head in a manner that looked vaguely like a shrug. The question didn't seem to interest
him much.
Feeling as if he was uncomfortable in his own body, George sat on the edge of the bed. Sandy waited
patiently, his hands resting, neatly folded, in his lap.
"We need to talk, Sandy," he said finally.
" 'Kay."
Unsure of how to start, George finally said, "When a boy reaches a certain age... there are some things
that just, well... just aren't appropriate..."
"Is this about when I walked in on Mom in the shower? 'Cause she already yelled at me."
George stifled a laugh at that. "No. No, it's not about that at all."
"Good." Sandy seemed visibly relieved at that.
"No, it's ..." He shifted on the bed, which seemed extremely small to nun at that point. "It's about things
that you do as a little boy that aren't, well... appropriate when you get older. You see what I'm saying?"
"Yes. You're saving the same thing you said before."
There was no hint of arrogance or snottiness in the way Sandy informed him of the fact that he was
repeating himself. It was more in the nature of an "FYI." He just wanted his dad to know that he was not
moving forward in the conversation. George had to admit that that much was true.
"Okay, well..." He slapped his thighs a couple of times and rocked slightly, as if preparing to launch
himself off a high dive. "Well, here's the thing It's about Missy."
Sandy turned bis head and addressed the empty air to his immediate left. "You were right," he said, and
then turned back to his father. "Missy said she thought it was going to be about her. I wasn't sure, 'cause
she always thinks everything is about her. So it's kind of hard to tell."
"Well, that's Missy for you," George said, and then realized that acknowledging quirks in the imaginary
friend's behavior was probably not the best way to pro-
ceed. "Look, Sandy, the thing is... here's the thing, it's... well, I don't think you should be talking to Missy
anymore."
The child blinked once, very slowly. "Why not?" he asked.
"Because it's not... well... appropriate."
"Why not?"
"Well, there are certain things that are all right for small children, but not for bigger children. And you're
getting to be a very big boy. You know that, right?"
Sandy nodded absently. "But... I like talking to Missy."
"I know that, but..."
"I'm not hurting anybody."
Letting out another, even heavier sigh and feeling much older than he had when he'd come into the room,
George drew closer to his son and draped an arm com-miseratingly around the boy's shoulders. "I know
you're not hurting anybody, Sandy, but..."
"Missy says you're an idiot."
The words, coming out of the boy's mouth in so matter-of-fact a fashion, caught George completely off
guard. "Wh-what... ?"
"Unh-hunh," Sandy said, his head bobbing up and down as if it were mounted on a spring. "She says
you're an idiot, and a fool, and you don't understand anything."
"Now wait just one minute, young man," George said heatedly. He'd removed the arm from the boy's
shoulder. Suddenly there was no sense of empathy for his son. Instead he was beginning to wonder
whether Sheila hadn't been more correct than she'd known. Perhaps
what they were seeing was, in fact a hint of a deeper problem, and this imaginary friend business was
only an outward manifestation of it. "You are not allowed to talk to me in that manner."
"I didn't," said Sandy. "Missy did."
"No, Missy did not!"
"Well, you can't hear her, Dad," Sandy said, sounding remarkably reasonable given the circumstances.
"So how would you know?"
Now George was on his feet, bristling with full parental indignation. "Stop talking back to me, young
man!"
Sandy had never looked more perplexed in his life. "So... so I can't talk to you or Missy? Can I talk to
Mom still?" Suddenly he looked again to empty air and there was genuine worry on his face. "Missy, I
can't say that to him!"
"What? What can't you say?"
"Nothing, Dad..."
"What can't you say?"
Sandy had slid off the bed, and he was backing up, never taking his eyes off his father. "I... I better not
tell you... I mean, you got mad when Missy called you a... you know ... and this is much worse..."
"You can't keep hiding behind your imaginary friend, Sandy." George felt as if he was being
overwhelmed, even suffocated by the anger he was feeling. He suddenly felt as if he was much taller, the
boy much shorter. "Talk to me."
Sandy's hands were moving in vague patterns in the air, as if he was trying to snag dust motes between
his fingertips. "You said I shouldn't talk back... if..."
"Talk to me!"
His father had spoken with such abruptness and force that Sandy jumped slightly. He had kept backing
up, and his back bumped up against a shelf of toys. He grabbed one, a rabbit, and held it in front of him,
his small arms curled around it as if it afforded him protection. The words spilled out of him. "She... she
said you were dumb, and didn't know anything, and that you were jealous of her. And that if you did
anything, or tried to make her go away, then she would do bad things to you. Really bad things."
George was trying to keep his calm, but he felt it slipping away. "Now you're threatening me? Is that it,
Sandy?"
"No, Dad-!"
In two quick paces, George was in front of his son, gripping Sandy by either shoulder. Although he
wasn't hurting the child, he was nevertheless scaring the hell out of him. "Now you listen to me!" he
bellowed. "It's enough! Do you hear me? Enough! You're a big boy, and you're too old to play with
imaginary friends! Do you understand? "
"She's not imaginary!" wailed Sandy. "She's not! Don't make her angry, Daddy! Please! It'll be bad!"
George shook him again harder, as if the very notion of an invisible playmate could be sent tumbling right
out
of him if he was just agitated with sufficient force. "There is no Missy!" he shouted. "There is no invisible
friend! There is no-!"
That was when the hair on the back of George's head began to stand on end. But it wasn't from fear or
some sense of foreboding. Instead there was some kind
of buildup of energy, like static electricity, except... worse.
His mind tried to justify a reason for it, and he thought that maybe he'd been rubbing his feet on the
carpet too quickly, or something equally ludicrous. But the power was building up, stronger, more intense
with each passing moment. Sandy was sobbing wildly, and he looked terrified as he kept crying out
repeatedly, "/ warned you! I warned you, Daddy! "
The power was coming from all over the room. George saw blue-white energy crackling along the toys,
knocking them off the shelves, like plush-filled cannon-balls. The threads of the shag carpet were
standing straight up and down. Over on the desk, the computer station was trembling, first a little, and
then a lot. The screen pitched backward off the desk, crashing to the floor. The racket prompted Sheila
to shout from downstairs, "What the hell is going on up there?!"
"Stay away! Stay down there!" bellowed George. He had backed away from Sandy, and now he spun
on his heel and bolted for the door. It slammed shut in his face. He'd been moving so fast that he crashed
into it, rebounding and staggering from the impact.
"Missy! Stop it! Don't hurt him! He's my daddy!" Sandy begged, but his pleas did no good. The power
buildup continued. George let out a scream of unbridled terror, and then energy blasts erupted all around
him. He jumped to the right, to the left, barely staying out of the way... or was it that whatever-it-was
was playing with him, toying with him? He ducked and a blast tore through the air just over his head. He
hit the ground,
smelted something burning, thought it was he himself and then realized it was the carpet. There were no
flames, but it was smoldering, and the air was thick with the smell of ozone. Over the cacophony of
unleashed power all around him, he heard Sandy's voice crying out, begging Missy to stop what she was
doing. Toys were flying everywhere, as if being knocked aside by an invisible baseball bat.
The computer screen shattered, fragments scattering through the air like a grenade. George, lying flat on
the floor, bur ied his head beneath his arms and cried out for it to stop, to stop already, just stop ...
"Daddy!" screamed Sandy, and suddenly George snapped out of his paralysis. He was on his hands and
knees, scrambling for the door again, cutting himself on broken shards of the computer and not caring.
His knee crushed the stomach of a teddy bear, which let out a squeak of protest. This time, when he got
to the door, it opened. He didn't question his luck, and when Sandy cried out for him again and again, he
didn't so much as cast a glance back over his shoulder. He started for the door, and suddenly he was
lifted into the air, propelled, as if a giant hand had picked him up and tossed him across the rest of the
room, his weight meaning nothing.
George tumbled through the door, hit the outside corridor still rolling, and came incredibly close to rolling
headfirst down the stairs. He snagged the banister at the last moment, preventing a painful and even a
possibly fatal fall, had he fallen in such a way that his neck had been snapped. As it was, he managed to
right himself at the last moment, but just barely.
He sucked air into his lungs. They were burning, the smell of ozone still seared into them, and then as if
abruptly realizing where he was-galvanized by the chaos being unleashed in his son's room-he scrambled
to his feet and tore down the stairs.
A terrified Sheila was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for him, crying out to him, demanding to know
what was going on. He didn't bother to tell her. He couldn't find the words, couldn't push past the terror
that was pounding through him. Instead he sprinted for the front door, and then he was out, out into the
open air. There were a few puddles left over from the previous night's rain, and he splashed through
them, running as fast as he could.
It was only later, when he had a chance to catch his breath and assess the panic that had seized him, that
he would realize that he had left his son behind. That a braver man, a better father, would have picked
the child up bodily and carried him out of the room, away from that... that thing. That creature that
apparently inhabited the room and had tried its level best to kill him. But even as the thought occurred to
him, he dismissed it. Whatever the thing was that had unleashed its wrath upon him, there was no reason
to assume that it was going to stay localized in Sandy's room. He might very well have picked up the
child and carted him out, only to have the whatever-it-was follow along right behind him.
His fleeing was an act of cowardice. He knew that beyond question as well. He should have remained,
should have done something ... but he had given in to utter terror, and he could think of absolutely no
way that he could face his wife and child again. Of course, it might
have been a harder decision for him to make had he actually wanted to face them again.
But he didn't
It might very well have been that Missy had done him a favor. She had, in the final analysis, given him a
concrete reason to do what he'd always considered doing, but never had the nerve to accomplish. He felt
free and alive, and he would have Missy to thank, were he actually capable of dwelling upon what had
happened without breaking out into cold sweats.
He hopped a freighter off Earth that night. It never occurred to Sheila, until too late, that he might pursue
that route, because he'd always had a phobia about space travel. He'd never trusted that the relatively
fragile hull of a ship could withstand the rigors of space travel, and had been more than content in his
being utterly and blissfully Earthbound. By the time she did try to track him, he had effectively
disappeared, leaving Sheila with Sandy ...and her.
Sheila, not knowing that she was seeing her husband for the last time as he dashed out the door, looked
up the stairs to the source of the commotion. Her maternal instinct kicked in and she called "Sandy?" with
considerable worry.
There was no answer. The only response she got was the sounds of crackling energy subsiding. Slowly,
apprehensively, she made her way up the stairs. She had only the vaguest of notions as to what had just
happened, but she knew one thing beyond question She was terrified of what might happen next. She got
to the top of the stairs, peered in through the door.
Sandy was seated in the middle .of the floor of his room. Toys were scattered all over, and he was
bleeding from some minor cuts on his forehead, caused by shards from the computer that had exploded.
His hair was standing on end as if he'd been hit with a lightning bolt, and his eyebrows were now a lighter
shade of red than they'd been before. There was a dazed look in his eyes, and as was his custom, his
knees were drawn to his chin. He was rocking himself gently, and it took him some moments to focus on
his mother calling to him. When he did, he seemed to be staring at her from another quadrant of space, as
if he was looking right through her even as he focused on her.
"Missy shouldn't have done that," said Sandy. "She shouldn't have done that. And now everybody's going
to be mad at me."
Sheila stood there, transfixed, her body trembling as if someone had run a spear through her chest. She
licked her dried lips, tried to say something. Nothing emerged. Sandy looked up at her, seeming to notice
her for the first time, and asked, "Are you mad at me, Mommy?"
She tried to respond. Nothing came out.
With a hint of admonition, he said, "Missy wants to know."
"No," Sheila said instantly. She gripped the doorframe, steadying herself. "No. I'm not mad. At you. At
all. Not at all."
Sandy let out a breath of relief. "That's good. I love you, Mommy. And Missy loves you."
"I love you both, too," said Sheila, which was what she had to say. Everything else she needed to say
could
NOW
wait for later. For when Sandy was grown... and Missy was gone...
... if she ever would be, that was.
And as she stared into her son's pleasant, soulful face, she couldn't help but feel that, more than ever, she
had looked upon the face of her future.
It terrified her.
EXCALIBUR
i.
burgoyne 172, seated in hir command chair on the bridge, watched the Trident with fascination as the
other starship floated within range of the Excalibur. Even though s/he had nothing to do with that ship,
Burgoyne still felt a measure of pride whenever s/he was nearby another starship. S/he decided that
perhaps it was because it was the way hir own people, the Hermats, had made hir feel unaccepted, even
excluded, from the rest of hir race simply because s/he wasn't as stodgy as the rest of-
"Isheherer
The unexpected interruption jolted Burgoyne from hir reverie, and s/he turned to see that hir mate-in life if
not in any sort of formalized ceremony-Dr. Selar, was standing just behind hir. Selar's face was as
impassive as always, and yet Burgoyne couldn't help but feel that there was a slightly unusual sense of
urgency to hir tone. Burgoyne couldn't help but marvel over the fact
that it seemed as if Selar had literally materialized on the bridge. S/he hadn't even noticed the hiss of the
tur-bolift doors. Perhaps Selar had come up the emergency access ladder. But.., why would she take the
time to do that?
"He? You mean the captain?" asked Burgoyne. "He's in conference with Captain Shelby at the mo-"
"No. Not the captain. Him."
"Him?"
"Him," said Selar with greater urgency. Her gaze was darting around at the others on the bridge, who
were starting to turn and look at her with open curiosity.
"Him whom? Whom is-?" And then, suddenly, Burgoyne got it. "Oh! Him!"
"Yes," said Selar, with obvious relief, and a touch of equally obvious annoyance that it had taken so long
for Burgoyne to comprehend what was being discussed... or not being discussed, as the case may be.
"Have you seen him? I thought he might have come up here."
"No. No, he hasn't. How long has he-?"
"Dreyfuss is not certain." Dreyfuss was the individual who ran the children's recreation center on the
Excalibur.
Burgoyne shook hir head, drumming hir fingers for a moment on the armrest of hir chair. "Do you want
me to-?"
"No," Selar said immediately.
"But I didn't tell you what I was going to do."
"Since I do not wish you to do anything about it, the response of 'no' is relatively all-purpose," Selar
replied. "I will attend to it."
"If you're sure..."
"I," said Selar, "am always sure". With that, she turned on her heel, squared her shoulders, and strode
toward the turbolift. At the last moment, however, she seemed to think better of it and instead clambered
down the auxiliary exit ladder. That was, Burgoyne realized, indeed the way she'd come up to the bridge
in the first place. Furthermore, he understood why It was because the object of her search enjoyed
climbing, and the auxiliary ladders of the Excalibur provided a much more likely arena in which to find
him than the turbolift.
She'd said she wanted to handle it. Nevertheless, Burgoyne certainly had a stake in the matter as well,
and s/he decided that s/he wasn't going to allow hirself to be dismissed from consideration in such an
offhand fashion. After a moment's thought more, s/he said, "Mr. Kebron."
Zak Kebron, the immense, rock-hard Brikar who was the ship's chief of security, rose from his position
at tactical. He moved toward Burgoyne; it never seemed as if Kebron was walking so much as that he
was a sentient avalanche, moving with one singular purpose. When Zak Kebron was going at high speed,
there was no place one wanted to be less than directly in his path. He stopped a couple of feet away
from Burgoyne and waited.
"Lieutenant," said Burgoyne, and waggled one finger to indicate that Kebron should lean over so s/he
could speak in a softer, more confidential tone. Kebron, typically, remained standing exactly where he
was, without so much as the slightest bend at the waist. He was going to do nothing to make this easier
on B urgoyne. Burgoyne sighed in annoyance. Very well. Be that way, s/he
thought. "Lieutenant," Burgoyne started again, "we ... which is to say, I... have a slight problem."
Kebron said nothing. He simply stood there, waiting, displaying the scintillating emotional range of a
statue.
"The problem," said Burgoyne, "is with ... him."
"Your son."
Burgoyne blinked in surprise. "How did you know?"
Kebron might have shrugged, although if he did, he did so inwardly. "Who else?"
There were many answers that Burgoyne could have given to that, but realized that there probably
wouldn't be much point to it. Instead s/he rose from Mr chair so that s/he was facing Kebron, although
s/he was still at least a head shorter. "It appears he's out and about on the ship. His mother's looking for
him. Could you ask your security people to keep an eye out for him? Track him down, perhaps?"
"It's not a security matter."
"All right, but... if you did it... you'd be doing me a personal favor."
"Why do that?"
Burgoyne felt a faint pounding in the back of hir head, and couldn't help but wonder if this was how
Elizabeth Shelby had felt from time to time, back when she held the position of first officer. "You realize
that I could, of course, order you to do it."
"Yes."
Kebron waited, and finally Burgoyne threw hir arms up in aggravation. "Forget it. I'll attend to it myself.
Don't worry about a-"
"My people are already on it."
Burgoyne stared at Kebron uncomprehendingly. "Wh-what?"
Gesturing slightly with his shoulder in the direction that Selar had gone-since indicating things with a nod
of his head was not really possible for him-Kebron said, "I overheard Selar. By the time she'd left, I'd
alerted security."
"Oh. Well... thank you."
Kebron grunted and turned to head back to his post Then Burgoyne said, with a little irritation, "You
could rhave simply said so immediately, you know." ' "Yes."
That was all he said in reply. Just "yes." Then he returned to his station, leaving Burgoyne to sink back
into hir chair and have, yet again, more sympathy for Elizabeth Shelby than s/he'd ever thought possible.
ii.
"I'm not happy about this."
Shelby had been lying in bed next to Calhoun, idly running her fingers across his bare chest. The lighting
in his cabin was quite dim, and she was curled up next to him, basking in the afterglow of their activities.
There was still a film of sweat on her, and she wondered-not for the first time-how it was that he was
able to keep so cool and dry at such times. Perhaps, she reasoned, it had something to do with his
Xenexian physiology. As for Shelby, her strawberry blond hair was hanging wet and sweaty around her
face as she relaxed against him.
She twisted her body against his, bringing her bare left leg up and against his left thigh. "If you're trying to
make me feel inadequate as a wife and lover, Calhoun, that's certainly just the right thing to say to me."
His deep-set purple eyes looked at her blankly for a moment. Clearly he wasn't connecting what he'd just
said with the situation they were in. Then he laughed softly, causing the arm she had draped across his
chest to rise and fall with the motion. "This isn't the 'this' I was referring to. This 'this' was fine."
"Just fine?"
"Better than fine. Great. Fantastic."
"Spectacular?"
He gave it a moment's thought. "I think that'd be pushing it."
With a gasp of mock annoyance, she slapped his belly with sufficient force that it got him to sit up. In
retaliation, he yanked at the covers. She tried to pull back, but he was too strong for her, and a moment
later he was completely cocooned in the sheets, leaving Shelby lying completely uncovered on the bed.
"Okay, be that way," she said archly. She rolled off the bed, padded across the room, and threw on
Cal-houn's bathrobe. She was positively swimming in it even as she belted it and folded her arms-hands
invisible inside the sleeves.
"Seriously, Eppy," he said. "It's this assignment. You going to Danter..."
She strode toward him and sat on the edge of the bed. She pulled the sheet up a bit so that his feet were
exposed, and started massaging his soles. This prompted
Calhoun to let out a contented noise,, one that Shelby was reasonably certain she was the only living
being who'd ever heard. "I guess the honeymoon's officially over, Mac, if all we can muster for postcoital
pillow talk is a discussion of various assignments."
"This is not... mmmm..." Calhoun made a contented noise, and then with determination pulled his feet
away from her ministrations. Curling them underneath the blanket, he propped his head up on one hand
and looked at her, clearly deciding that he had to keep matters all-business. "This is not just one of our
'various assignments,' Eppy. I know the Danteri. You don't."
"You know them, Mac, because they enslaved your homeworld of Xenex and you fought to drive them
off. And you did so. But that was a long time ago."
"Meaning I should simply let it go, is that it?" Now he was sitting upright in the bed, and any hint of the
lover he'd been merely moments before was gone. "I would let it go, Eppy, if I could comprehend
Starfleet's thinking on this. But let's review." He ticked off each item on his fingers. "The Danteri inform
Starfleet that they want a starship to be dispatched to Danter. They state that they want that ship to carry
Si Cwan, since he's the one to whom they actually want to talk. They don't give a reason for either of
these requests. Instead they state that it's a matter of 'utmost urgency' without giving any more detail than
that. The entire thing smells of a trap ... and Starfleet decides to send your ship instead of mine."
"Is your male ego wounded by the choice, Mac?" she asked, only half-teasingly.
"It has nothing to do with male ego, Eppy. It has to do with who's the more qualified."
"That may very well be the problem, Mac. It may be mat Starfleet feels a fresh perspective on the
situation is in order. There's too much bad blood between you and the Danteri. They might well feel that
you wouldn't be able to handle the situation in a dispassionate manner." She leaned forward, bringing her
face that much closer to his. "Admit it Isn't there just a chance that they're right?"
He gazed at her for a long moment.
"No," he said.
She growled and flopped facedown on the bed. Her face smothered in the sheet, she said, "You are the
single most aggravating man I have ever met."
"Of course. That's why you married me."
"Don't be ridiculous. I married you for the sex."
He raised an eyebrow. "But we only see each other from time to time. We don't get to have sex all that
often."
"Right. I married you for the infrequency of it, so I wouldn't have to endure it all that often."
Calhoun let out a moan and threw himself back onto the bed. "Command has made you bitter and
cynical, do you know that, Captain?"
"I learned from the master." She curled herself around so that she was next to him again, and she kissed
him on the cheek. Then, her teasing voice aside, she said, "Mac, I know you don't approve. But we don't
take those orders that we only approve of. The fact is that our two ships have their own respective areas
of the sector for which we're responsible, and Danter is in my section."
'It's borderline. It could be either^ depending upon orbit."
"Well, right now, it's mine. What, are you saying that you think I can't handle it?"
"Of course not, Eppy," he said wistfully. "I know you can handle it. There's nothing out there I can handle
that you can't. But you shouldn't have to handle it. It's the Danteri. They're not to be trusted."
"And I know what their track record is like, Mac. I know what to expect. And Si Cwan will know as
well. Besides, you should be grateful."
He cocked an eyebrow. "How do you figure that?"
"Well, if we hadn't had to have this unscheduled rendezvous between our ships, in order to transfer Si
Cwan from one vessel to the other, then you and I couldn't have had this little rendezvous as well."
"Gee, Eppy, you're absolutely right. I'll be sure to send the Danteri a nice fruit basket as a token of
appreciation."
Suddenly the door chime sounded. Calhoun and Shelby exchanged puzzled looks. "Were you expecting
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StarTrekNewFrontierBeingHumanByPeterDavidTHEN...theywerefourwords,fourinnocuouswordswhich-consideredindividually-werenotespeciallyalarming.ButtheyhadbecomepersonalnightmaresforGeorge,especiallywhenutteredtogetherandsequentially.WhenhesawSheilaapproachinghimthatafternoon,heknewbeforesheevenopenedherm...

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