by Peter David
“Someone who actually is alive.”
“Except anyone who didn’t know of my origins would be unable to discern any difference between the two of us.”
“It’s not about what other people say…”
“I agree. So why should your opinions as to whether or not I’m alive be anything that I should pay attention to?”
Soleta smiled tiredly. “Well, you’ve got me there. You shouldn’t pay attention. Glad we had this discussion. So how soon do you think we’ll be ready to translocate the virus into a containment field in order to—”
“I assume it’s because you believe you have a soul.”
She had been leaning against a wall, her body sagging with exhaustion. She had been up for as long as Seven, but she had been able to prevent herself from succumbing to slumber. That didn’t mean she was any less tired, though, and now she started thudding the back of her head against the wall. “You are like a damned dog with a bone between its teeth. You’re just not going to let this go, are you?”
“I am simply trying to understand…”
“No. You’re not,” and she moved away from the wall and toward the Doctor. “You’re trying to convince me we shouldn’t do anything to shut down Morgan.”
“There is only one crime punishable by death according to Starfleet, and she has not committed that crime.”
“We’re not killing her! She’s already dead! We are simply exorcising a ghost!”
“It’s going to feel the same to her.”
“She can’t feel! At most, she only thinks she can!”
“What’s the difference?” he asked.
“Because she doesn’t have a soul! All right?” she said in exasperation. “I know it’s an insanely unscientific yardstick to use for a measure of being alive, but sometimes the ephemeral is all we’ve got. There is no molecular difference between a dead body and a living one, so there has to be something that is beyond scientific quantification, and considering how little sleep I’ve had, that’s the best I’ve got right now. She’s not alive because she doesn’t have a soul, and oh, by the way, I hate to be the one to tell you, but neither do you.”
Anger flickered on the Doctor’s face and then he pointed out, “You’re the one who referred to her as a ghost. What else is a ghost but a discorporated soul?”
“She’s not an actual ghost. That’s just the closest convenient word to describe her.”
“And isn’t it possible that the closest word to describe me is ‘alive’?”
Soleta rubbed her eyes in a desperate fight to keep them open. “You could just go on talking about this all day, all night, couldn’t you?”
“Absolutely,” he said immediately.
“Someone who is really alive couldn’t do that. Only something’s that not alive never needs rest.”
“I consider it to be merely a perk of my particular status,” he said, but there was a touch of uncertainty in his voice.
They stared at each other for a time, and then Soleta said, “How much of this is about her? And please,” she added quickly before he could reply, “do not insult my intelligence by asking ‘What her?’ because we both know perfectly well which ‘her’ I’m referring to.”
“I…” Then with renewed determination he said, “These are strongly held beliefs that I’ve formed over a lengthy period of contemplation and self-exploration—”
“How much? Of this? Is about her? Or more accurately, her and you?”
He was about to continue to protest, but then he stopped. Soleta watched him warily, curious as to what he would say.
“There is no her and me,” he said flatly.
“And yet you hold out hope.”
“I do not. Whatever ‘moment’ we may or may not have had is long past. We are simply friends now. Friends and colleagues.”
“That may be what you believe. Or it may be what you’re convincing yourself you may believe. Or it may be that if you were truly alive, you might have a better chance with her than if you were not.”
“There are wider issues at stake than my love life or lack thereof,” he informed her, reacquiring some of the archness of his tone from earlier.
“Fine. There are wider issues.”
“Thank you for acknowledging that. Nine hours.”
She shook her head. “Excuse me?”
“In answer to your question. Nine hours before we are ready to—”
“Translocate the virus, yes, right, of course.” She tapped the side of her skull. “Should have remembered that.”
“Soleta…”
“Yes?”
“You realize that I am putting myself at tremendous risk here. I could wind up dying in the attempt to accomplish something, the ethics of which I am still uncertain of.”
The way he said that made Soleta nervous. If they didn’t have the Doctor squarely in their corner, the entire operation could go entirely off the rails. “What are you saying, Doctor?”
“I’m saying that—should that occur—I would be most appreciative if you mourned my passing, just as you would with someone who is alive.”
Inwardly, so that the Doctor couldn’t see it, Soleta laughed.
Outwardly, she nodded and said, “It would be my honor to mourn you.”
“And mine,” and he bowed slightly, “to be mourned by you.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“It was my understanding that ‘hope’ was something typically reserved for those who are alive.”
“I think we can afford to stretch the definition a bit in this case.”
“That’s very generous of you.” He looked her up and down. “You need to get some sleep.”
“Is that your medical opinion?”
“It is.”
“Then who am I,” she said, each word laced with fatigue, “to argue with a doctor?”
Short minutes later, she was sound asleep. Whereas Seven was sagged in a chair, Soleta simply stretched out on the floor, preferring the hardness of the surface beneath her. Her chest rose and sank slowly.
A bit of spittle started to trail down the side of her face.
The Doctor scooped it up for his collection.
U.S.S. Excalibur, Orbiting New Thallon Ten Hours Later
i.
Everyone on the bridge of the Excalibur, without exception, turned to Calhoun in utter astonishment. Sitting calmly in the captain’s chair, he glanced around and said with just a touch of sarcasm, “Is there a problem?”
No one seemed to know where to start. It was Kebron who spoke first: “You’re going down by yourself, Captain?”
“I believe I recognized my own voice saying exactly those words,” said Calhoun.
Morgan, seated at her ops station, turned to face Calhoun. “I don’t know that that’s wise, Captain.”
“The Thallonians will see it as a sign of confidence and strength,” Calhoun pointed out. “That will give me greater leeway in the negotiations, as opposed to hiding behind a phalanx of security guards.”
“And I suppose that pointing out that this is contrary to Starfleet regulations would be a waste of time?”
“How well you know me, Morgan.”
“Captain,” said Tobias, “Mr. Kebron and Morgan are right. This is an extremely bad idea. Kalinda has already been going on about how dangerous the entire mission is. You heading down completely on your own…”
“Have I ever given you cause to think that there’s a situation I’m incapable of handling?”
“This isn’t about a vote of confidence, Captain,” Xy said from the science station. In recent days, Xy had been serving double duty as both science officer and temporary chief medical officer, until such time as Calhoun named a replacement for the late Selar. “This is about what’s best for you and for the mission.”
“I think I know what’s best for me, and the mission will take care of itself.” There was now an unaccustomed brittleness to Calhoun’s voice. “I was making a declaration, people. I wa
sn’t planning to open it to debate. This is not, last I checked, a democracy. Commander Burgoyne,” and he turned to look warily at his second in command, “do you wish to weigh in on this matter?”
“No, sir,” said Burgoyne.
Calhoun cocked an eyebrow. “Really. Because everyone else seems to have something to say.”
“I assume that you’ve already made your decision after some consideration, and that should be honored.”
“Good.” Calhoun nodded once and then rose from his chair. “Burgy, you have the conn.”
“Actually, sir, I’d like to talk to you on the way down to the transporter room.”
Calhoun did nothing to indicate that this would be the slightest problem. “Of course. Mr. Kebron, the conn is yours for the moment.”
“Yes, sir. Captain: Permission to keep a security team on high alert?”
“That’s good thinking, Kebron. You do that.”
Calhoun then walked into the turbolift, Burgoyne right behind him. “Transporter room,” Calhoun said, and the lift promptly angled downward and then across.
“So, Burgy, what did you want to talk to me about?” said Calhoun.
Burgoyne did not respond. Instead s/he stared fixedly at Calhoun, and hir nostrils flared slightly as s/he did so.
“Burgy? I’m not a mind reader, you know. Are you following up on our discussion of the other day? Have you been talking to Kebron to sort out your various issues? Or perhaps…”
Then Calhoun’s voice trailed off, and he sighed deeply.
The turbolift slid to a halt on the transporter room level, but the doors didn’t open. Burgoyne didn’t even glance around, as if this was something s/he was expecting.
“So what gave me away?” said Calhoun. “I mean, I know something did. There was a rapid change in your biometrics precisely eight point three seconds after the turbolift doors closed. I doubt this was prompted merely by being in proximity to me. Something has changed. I assume that somehow you saw through it.”
“I should have done so sooner. I would have, back in your quarters, except you wound up distracting me with all your comments about my state of mind and Selar.”
“That wasn’t to distract you. Well, not just to distract you. I really am concerned about you.”
“When did you install holotech in the turbolifts?”
“Oh, I manage to budget my time. You’d be amazed what I have the opportunity to do.”
“I would feel a great deal more comfortable,” said Burgoyne stiffly, “if you were to drop the façade immediately.”
“Very well.” There was no shimmering, no ripple of transition of any kind. One moment Calhoun was standing there, and then, just like that, it was Morgan who was looking at hir with a sad expression, as if she felt sorry for hir. “If this will make you feel better. I still want to know how you were aware, though.”
“Your smell.”
“Smell? I don’t—” She closed her eyes. “Of course.”
“All living things produce some manner of scent. Humans don’t have sharp enough olfactory sense to perceive it, but I do. If Ensign Janos or Lieutenant M’Ress were still aboard this ship, they would have noticed its absence immediately. In my case, well… I’ve let myself get sloppy. It took me this long, and this degree of proximity, to realize that you weren’t giving off any sort of scent whatsoever.”
Morgan looked mortified at the omission. “I’m a computer mind, for heaven’s sake. How could I not have anticipated that holograms have no scent, and that might be noticeable to you?”
“Obviously because you still have human limitations.”
She nodded in reluctant agreement. “That is certainly the case for now. But it may not always be that way. So,” and her mind already seemed prepared to move on to other matters, “what do you see happening now? I mean, you’re not trying to sound a red alert or some such.”
“I didn’t consider that a viable option since you’re in charge of the alert systems on the ship. You’re pretty much in charge of every aspect of the ship.”
“That’s very true.” She seemed quite chipper about it.
“I’m more interested in what your next step is,” said Burgoyne. “As far as everyone else is concerned, Captain Calhoun was last seen departing the bridge. People are going to wonder why he didn’t report to the transporter room.”
“Why would they wonder that?”
That was when s/he realized. “Of course. You, of all people, are able to multitask.”
“Yes, indeed. Which is why Captain Calhoun has already shown up in the transporter room and been beamed down to the surface of New Thallon.”
“Except it wasn’t him; it was you posing as him while you were talking to me at the same time.”
“Aren’t you at all curious as to where the real Calhoun is?”
“I’m assuming one of two things. Either you’ve killed him in his sleep and then disposed of his body…”
Morgan affected a look of positive amazement. “How could you possibly think I would do such a thing? To just kill him cold-bloodedly in such a way. After everything he’s done for me, and for Robin. What you must think of me, Burgoyne, to imagine I’d—”
“… or else you abandoned him on Xenex.”
“Okay, that I did do. But at least I gave him a fighting chance.”
“Fighting? He’s going to be fighting someone?”
“If the plan works out, yes, and I’ve no reason to think otherwise. It’s how he would want to die, don’t you think?”
“Listen to yourself, Morgan. Listen to the things you’re saying.” It was all Burgoyne could do to keep hir voice level and calm. S/he had to keep reminding hirself that s/he was dealing with a malfunctioning machine, not a human being. “This is not something that you would have said or done back when you were alive. You’ve lost all sense of conscience. You’re severing your ties to humanity.”
“Mac was the one who started it,” she retorted. “Talk about severing ties. He was the one who made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with me. That he wanted to explore ways to put an end to me. You’re saying I’m not human? What can be more fundamentally human than a desire for self-preservation? I ask you.”
“And how far will you go in that quest for self-preservation?”
“Meaning…?”
“Meaning where does the rest of the crew fit in to your quest for self-preservation? Here you’ve talked about how much you owe Mac, and the way you thanked him was abandoning him…”
“On his home planet, when I could simply have—as you pointed out—killed him. I think I was being generous.”
“So what about the rest of us? Those to whom you may not think you owe any personal debt?” Burgoyne continued to keep hir voice flat and even, not betraying so much as the slightest hint of the rising urgency s/he was feeling. S/he was determined to keep Morgan talking while s/he tried to come up with some course of action that Morgan might not expect. Unfortunately, nothing much was coming to mind, plus s/he was trying to outthink a computer mind. Yes, Morgan had been tripped up by the error of not considering body scent, but that was certainly no reason to think that any future mistakes would be forthcoming. “What happens to us? To them?”
“Do you really think I would just commit wholesale slaughter?” She sounded disappointed that s/he could even conceive of such a thing. “It saddens me that you’d think I’d do that. However…”
“However what?”
The red alert klaxon suddenly began to sound. Burgy looked around in confusion, thinking for a moment that the stopped turbolift had somehow triggered some manner of fail-safe. But that didn’t make any sense to hir.
Then, with hir superb hearing, Burgy detected a distant sound, a very distinct discharge of concentrated energy blasting away from the ship.
The big guns of the Excalibur’s phasers were cutting loose at a target. But nothing was shooting at the ship; s/he would have heard the blasts careening off the shields. If they weren’t under at
tack, though, then who the hell were they shooting at? He looked to Morgan questioningly.
“Well,” and now she smiled, and it was a smile without any humor, or compassion, or mercy, “you can’t make an omelet…”
ii.
In Tania Tobias’s quarters, Kalinda was lying on the ground, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs. Her eyes were wide with shock and she was trembling.
Her voice was barely above a whisper as carnage was unleashed far below her.
“So many lives… so many dead… so many… I knew bad things would happen here… I knew it…”
She kept saying it over and over, and there was none to hear her.
iii.
“Shut it down! Shut it down!” Xy was shouting from the science station.
“Thank you for the advice. That would never have occurred to me,” Kebron shot back, keeping his tone flat and professional, even as he labored over the tactical board, trying to determine what in the world was going on. “Tobias, change our angle. Aim us away—”
“Already attempting to. Helm is nonresponsive. The entire navigation system has locked me out.” Tobias turned to the ops station and called out, “Morgan! Whatever’s causing this to happen, override it and shut it down.”
“I’m trying to raise the captain,” said Kebron. “He’s not responding. Transporter room can’t even get a lock on his combadge to bring him back up.”
Morgan was seated at the ops station, her hands resting lightly on the console, her eyes fixed on the front screen. On it, the bridge crew was able to see exactly what their instruments were telling them was occurring: The phaser banks of the Excalibur were unloading on New Thallon, causing untold, incalculable damage wherever they were striking. There was no one section that was being targeted. Instead the shots were being scattered all over the surface, in the hearts of major cities, hammering away at full strength. Tania almost imagined she could hear the screams of the dying coming from far below.
Morgan didn’t move.
“Morgan!”
Tobias was out of her chair, crossing to the ops station, and she shouted, “Morgan!” one more time and reached for her.
Her hand passed right through her. Morgan wasn’t even bothering to maintain the solidity of her holographic form. It was just sitting there as an illusion, nonresponsive. Tobias waved her hand through a few more times, as if she were trying to clear the air.