Star Trek: The Next Generation - 113 - Cold Equations: Silent Weapons
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“You’re still angry with me?”
She sighed. “No. . . . Go to sleep.”
Experience told him that her denial was tantamount to a confirmation. “Beverly. I can tell you’re upset. Please—tell me why.”
“I’m not upset.” She reclined against her pillows and fixed her forlorn gaze on the ceiling. “If I had to put a word to what I’m feeling, I guess I’d say I’m . . . troubled.”
He sat up and turned toward her, hoping to draw her out with eye contact, open body language, and a gentle tone of voice. “By what? . . . Is this about what happened on Orion?”
“Of course it is, Jean-Luc.” She touched his arm. “I’m not asking you to explain yourself again. I understand why you did what you did, protecting me instead of the president.” Her blue eyes were shadowed with sorrow and disappointment. “I’m just not sure I can accept it.”
Her sentiment wounded him. “Did my decision offend you? I love you, Beverly, and I won’t apologize for putting your safety and René’s first when I make my decisions.”
She sat up quickly as she flared with anger. “Do you listen to yourself? That’s exactly the kind of sentiment you used to condemn in your officers when you commanded the Stargazer.”
“I don’t know that I condemned it so much as—”
“Don’t try to rewrite history. Jack told me whenever you read him the riot act for even suggesting that my safety or Wesley’s ought to be considered during tactical situations. So I find it more than a bit hypocritical on your part when you lay claim to that privilege for yourself.”
He’d winced when she invoked the name of her first husband, Jack Crusher, who had died in the line of duty under Picard’s command thirty years earlier. “What you call hypocrisy, I call personal growth. It wouldn’t be the first time I had to admit that the beliefs I clung to as a younger man turned out to be flawed. But if it helps you to label me a hypocrite, so be it.”
Frustrated, Beverly shook her head. “Jean-Luc, you’re not just any member of the crew—you’re the captain. If your judgment is compromised because you’re ready to place your family’s safety ahead of accomplishing your missions, that puts this ship and its crew at risk.” A frown deepened the lines on her face. “Maybe it would be best if René and I left the ship.”
“To go where?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe to a ground assignment with Starfleet Medical. Or even back to civilian life. I could join the staff of a teaching hospital somewhere. Or open my own practice. Heaven knows there are plenty of worlds in need of new physicians.”
“All right. If that’s what you think is best, I’ll go with you.”
His answer made her recoil slightly. “What? Are you serious? You’d resign from Starfleet? Just like that?”
He didn’t understand why she was so surprised. “You seem to think it’s a viable path for yourself—why not for me?”
“Since when are you ready to hang up your uniform?”
Picard almost laughed. “Is it really so difficult to imagine? Maybe you’ve forgotten, but I almost didn’t join Starfleet. When the Academy rejected my first application, I considered taking a scholarship to study at Oxford. If I hadn’t been so stubborn about proving myself to Starfleet, I might have made a life for myself in the private sector, or in academia.”
His wife signaled her doubts with the elegant rise of an eyebrow. “I find it hard to picture you behind a desk or in front of a classroom.”
“Beverly . . . I’ve been proud to serve as a Starfleet officer. But my career is only a part of who I am. Now that I have you and René, my life has become much larger than I ever thought possible. Being a father has forced me to think ahead not just to tomorrow, or next year, but beyond the end of my lifetime, in ways I never did before. For the sake of my son, I have to think about the future—not just mine, but his, as well. So if you think it’s best that we raise our son somewhere other than aboard a starship, I will support your decision without reservation. I am ready to make changes—to live where and how you want. Give the word . . . and we’ll go.”
Disarmed of her anger by his sincere confession, she tenderly pressed her palm to his cheek. “Just tell me this. What do you want to do?”
He smiled and laid his hand over hers. “I want to love my wife and son . . . explore the wonders of the galaxy . . . and command this ship. In that order.”
The last remnants of her bad mood melted away, letting through a sad smile. She kissed him and touched her forehead to his. “Sounds like a plan.”
THREE MONTHS LATER
EPILOGUE
A lonely pilgrim in the endless night, Data walked through a jungle of bioluminescent flora on a world that had no sun or moon. The telluric rogue planet made its own heat through thermal venting, massive expulsions of superheated gases from its molten core that kept its oceans warm and its dense atmosphere of hydrogen compounds, methane, and carbon dioxide at an ambient temperature sufficient to keep its surface water liquid without boiling it off into space.
Each footfall he took through the thick nonphotosynthetic foliage lit up the ground beneath his feet, as chemicals in the subsurface mosses reacted with faint green pulses to the pressure of his weight. Broad leaves hanging in his path also lit up as he brushed them aside. It was a beautiful sight, one whose charms might once have been lost on him but now filled him with delight and fascination—but also apprehension, because he knew the phenomenon would make his approach visible from a distance, even this deep inside the forest. He had seen no evidence of complex animal life on this world, so he had no concern that he might attract the notice of predators, but he would have preferred not to have his presence betrayed to his quarry.
Ahead of him, the forest thinned. He quickened his pace, pushed through a bramble as sharp as barbed wire, and emerged from the overgrown jungle to find himself standing upon the shore of a lake that stretched for kilometers on either side of him and extended beyond the horizon. There was no wind here; the still air was oppressive in its humidity. Reflected stars sparkled on the lake’s unrippled black surface. Two kilometers from shore, rising from its mirror image in the water, stood Data’s destination: the Immortal’s newest redoubt.
It was one of the most elegant but also one of the most strangely alien structures Data had ever seen: an asymmetrical trio of organically curved towers, each composed of several geodesics—soft transitions between the vertical and horizontal planes—that peeled off from the ground and twisted upward around an open core of space. Their exterior surfaces, translucent skins of hexagons over spiral skeletons with horizontal linkages, evoked for him the notion of a beehive’s honeycomb made of pale lavender crystal and pristine white metal that glinted with starlight. Semitransparent habitable bridges linked them and gave the overall structure the aspect of a triple helix. At the water line, the towers flared outward and formed a shared foundation of fluid curves; just below their crown-like apexes, they were fused by insectile arches.
A most elegant design, Data thought with admiration. Efficient and beautiful at the same time. He increased the magnification on his visual receptors and studied the structure more closely. Its outer surface sported a number of artistically integrated systems, such as moisture collectors, supersensitive photovoltaic cladding, and wind turbines that even in such becalmed weather still turned slowly, a testament to their near-frictionless operation. Beneath the skins he saw hints of the towers’ infrastructure, a series of interlocking dodecahedral metal frames.
In a blink he reset his eyes to their default settings and pondered his options for reaching the naturally moated fortress. I could walk across the lake bed with little difficulty, but there is no guarantee I will find any ingress to the structure under the water’s surface—or that I will find purchase for scaling its exterior. He began to suspect that his attempt at making a clandestine approach, by beaming down beyond its estimated sensor range and walking to it while shielding his body’s presence and energy emissions from dete
ction, might have been a tactical error. The Immortal has often proved hostile to uninvited guests . . . but considering our history, it is possible he might make an exception for me.
He took a leap of faith and deactivated his body’s sensor-blocking systems.
Then he waited.
Less than a minute later, he noted an ephemeral blink of light that lit up the surfaces of the towers that faced one another around their shared open core. It faded, but seconds later he saw a dim blur backed by a ruddy glow. Whatever it was, it moved swiftly toward him, skimming the black lake without disturbing the water’s glass-like surface.
He switched his eyes to night-vision mode. In the pale green twilight, he discerned the empty open-top hovercraft with ease. Examining it in full-spectrum mode, he saw no sign of its forward phaser cannon having been activated, so he stood his ground and awaited its arrival. It halted as it reached the beach less than two meters from him, and then it hovered. He walked toward it, climbed aboard, and sat down in the front seat. As soon as he settled, the craft pivoted about-face and accelerated toward the towers.
Wind tousled his hair into wild tangles as the small craft sped above the lake. The towers quickly dominated his forward view, and as the hovercraft circled around between them to land inside an open parking area, he remained impressed at their sheer scale. This place could house many tens of thousands if it were located on a populated world, he noted. Why would the Immortal desire so vast a structure for his residence? It was one of many questions that would have to wait for another time. Data knew the Immortal likely harbored innumerable secrets, but he had come here seeking enlightenment about only one.
There was no one to meet him when he disembarked from the hovercraft, but a door that led to the interior of the tower opened as soon as he stepped out of the vehicle. Recognizing the invitation, he crossed the open-air landing area, stepped through the doorway, and wasn’t the least bit surprised when the portal closed behind him. In the corridor, he waited for his next cue, and it came in the sound of a lone violin, its melody faint but its siren purpose clear.
The music led him down a curving passageway and into a turbolift, which delivered him to the top floor of the highest tower. He stepped out into an airy level subdivided by curving partitions riddled with open spaces—forms and textures that echoed the towers’ exteriors. Following the virtuoso solo through the lavish residential penthouse, he passed freshly carved marble sculptures on classic pedestal columns, and brand-new oil paintings on framed canvases suspended in mid-air with wires almost too fine to see—all of them works crafted in the style of Leonardo da Vinci, one of the Immortal’s many aliases.
Another of the Immortal’s hundred-odd noms de voyage had been Johannes Brahms, whose only major composition for the violin—Violin Concerto in D Major, opus 77—bore striking and unmistakable similarities to the new concerto whose passionate strains guided Data forward. He reached the outer edge of the penthouse, which was ringed with great sloping windows that looked out on an eternal starry night. Then he passed the final partition and came face-to-face with the musician, who ceased playing as their eyes met.
The woman was youthful and striking in her beauty, with high cheekbones and a pale but flawless complexion. Her long and lustrous hair was the deep red of burnished copper and braided into a long tail that she wore draped over her shoulder. She graced him with a sweet smile, and her cornflower-blue eyes opened wide at the sight of him. “Hello, Data.”
He had expected to find her here, and thanks to his inheritance of his father’s memories, he had known she would be rejuvenated into the portrait of her long-lost youth—but nothing had prepared him for the profound joy he would feel upon this, the moment of their reunion. Tears filled his eyes, and his lips trembled as he tried to smile back. “Hello, Mother.”
Juliana Tainer set aside her violin and bow, got up, and took him in her arms. Wrapping him in a fierce but loving embrace, she peppered his cheek with kisses. “I knew you’d find us someday,” she said with more than a trace of her old Irish lilt. “We both did.”
“It was not easy.” He leaned back to look at her. “First, I had to analyze several decades’ worth of financial transactions that fit the profile I had come to associate—”
She pressed her index finger to his lips, silencing him. “Data. It’s not important. All that matters is that you’re here now, and we’re safe.”
He looked around the penthouse, searching for any sign of the Immortal, but as far as he could tell, he and his mother were alone. “Where is he?”
“You mean Akharin?” She let go of him and stepped away, toward her instruments. Suddenly, her manner took on a haunted quality. “I don’t know.”
Masking his concern, he asked in a gentle voice, “Do you know when he will return?”
Tears fell from Juliana’s eyes, and this time they were not ones of happiness. “I don’t know if he’s ever coming back, Data.”
It was difficult for him to read the turbulent emotions behind her sorrowful display. “Did the two of you have some manner of falling out? Did he abandon you here?”
Wiping her cheeks dry, she snapped, “No, of course not. Nothing like that.”
“What, then?” He edged forward, irrationally hoping to bridge their gap of understanding through proximity. “Please, Mother. I have come a long way to find him. I need to know.”
Juliana crossed her arms and retreated from him, to stand beside one of the windows and look out at the nightscape. “There’s nothing I can tell you that’ll help.”
“You cannot know that for certain. Any piece of information, however trivial, might prove beneficial.” He drifted toward her in slow steps until he was at her back, and then he rested his hands on her shoulders. “Mother, please. Akharin possesses knowledge that I desperately need. It is imperative that I find him, no matter how long it takes, or how far it takes me.”
She turned and pressed her hands to his chest. “Don’t say that, Data. Just forget about him, and stop trying to find him. I’m begging you—stop looking and let him go.”
The emotion behind her fervent plea was an easy one to parse: fear. But her distress was not reason enough for him to desist. He took her by her shoulders. “Why? Tell me why!”
“Because if you don’t, the Fellowship of Artificial Intelligence will abduct you, too.”
COLD EQUATIONS
CONCLUDES IN BOOK III
THE BODY ELECTRIC
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again, I shall strive for brevity with my acknowledgments. First, I thank my wife, Kara, for her encouragement and constant support.
Readers of the first book in this trilogy are already aware of this next detail, but for those who might read this book before that one, I’d like to point out that the Cold Equations trilogy was conceived as a direct sequel to author Jeffrey Lang’s truly exceptional Star Trek: The Next Generation novel Immortal Coil (2002). Many of this trilogy’s coolest ideas either originated in that book, or else would not have been possible without it to build upon.
My thanks also go out to author, editor, and Star Trek savant Keith R.A. DeCandido, who vetted the scenes involving President Bacco and her retinue, an ensemble he originated in his Star Trek novels A Time for War, A Time for Peace and Articles of the Federation.
Also worthy of my praise and thanks are the excellent wiki-based reference sites Memory Alpha and Memory Beta, as well as the perpetually useful tome Star Trek Star Charts by Geoffrey Mandel. My Star Trek brain trust also included author and designer Michael Okuda, and authors David R. George III and Christopher L. Bennett.
Lastly, thank you, gentle readers, for continuing to keep the dream of Star Trek alive, both on screen and in print, in the hope that future generations might also share our desire “to boldly go where no one has gone before.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The Mack abides.
Learn more at his website:
www.davidmack.pro
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