STAR TREK: Strange New Worlds I

by Dean Wesley Smith (Editor)

  “Is it? Really?”

  He didn’t know what to say. Yes? But there had always been danger. No? But that would be a lie. Earth had been greeted with wonder and friendship by the Vulcans, and had faced no greater threat than the Klingons and the Romulans, whose power and technology weren’t so far advanced over their own. “It is more perilous than anything we faced. More perilous than anything we would choose to face now, if we had any choice at all in this. We are a peaceful people.”

  She kept her head down, and he watched that bright scarf of hers bob as she worked. “We have a story on my planet, Captain. A lot of stories, to tell you the truth. But one ... [132] There once was a man in Dostuf, who decided he would breed the best jumping droubs anyone had ever seen. He decided the way to do it was to breed selectively. He chose the best stock by creating a test run, with fences for the animals to leap over.” She stopped, for a moment, examining the repair. Satisfied, she moved on to another. “It worked well, at first. The second generation could leap higher than the first, and he raised the fences, and chose the best of them. The third leaped higher than the second, and he raised the fences and culled his stock again. It went on that way for several generations.” She stopped altogether, then.

  Picard waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, he asked the question she’d left waiting for him. “And then?”

  “And then the stock began to fail. There were weaknesses, there were latent genetic diseases that started showing up. But the worst—Captain, you can only raise a fence so high, before it is too high for any droub to jump. A droub is a droub, no matter how you breed it. In the end, no matter what he did, he found he’d raised his fences too high.” She laid down the microspanner and straightened her back, stretching, vertebrae popping. She moaned as stiff muscles let go and relaxed. Then she looked at him, as determined as he was. “If you keep raising the fences, raising the standards, someday you will have raised them so high no one will be able to jump them. If your people made their own first appearance now, as flawed as they were when they first rose into the stars, would your world be allowed out to play in the stars among the rest of your Federation?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.” She cocked her head. “It occurs to me that what you have become, you became not because you [134] came when you were ‘ready’ for the stars, but because being among the stars made you ready. You can’t grow up unless you take risks ... and in taking them learn how to take them. Some dangers you can’t eliminate or avoid, Captain Picard. Not without becoming permanently—immature.”

  “You’re not going to stay on your planet.” Not a question at all. He could see that.

  She stood and offered him her hand. “No. I can’t. Even if I could promise it, if I had the clout to force all my people to give up the stars—I wouldn’t.” She motioned him to the ladder, and waited while he climbed back down, then tucked her tool kit under her arm and followed him to the floor of the shuttlebay. Once down, she looked at him again; her coarse, heavy-boned face, with its cinnamon skin, delicate brow ridges, and wrinkles, twisted into an expression that was almost forlorn. “I ... I wonder if you understand, Captain?” She reached through the hatch, putting down the tool kit. “I want you to understand. When I was a girl, I used to stand on a tree stump, on my father’s estate. We weren’t rich. You can be noble, without being rich. Most nights we ate quella eggs in rom-root broth, for lack of better, and we ate hard cakes made of chori-mast to fill up the empty places the eggs and broth left. I wore clothes handed on to me by ‘my cousin the Nunar.’ Her family was noble and rich. But her clothes never fit very well, and my knees showed, along with all the scabs I picked up climbing trees and riding droub-avits, and the fabric was too thin to be comfortable when all we had to heat the mansion was storm-wrack from the homewood. But I’d stand on the stump at night, out at the edge of the romfield and look at the stars.” She grinned—sadly, a bit mockingly.

  [134] “I remember one night. There was a high wind. The clouds were racing across the sky, fast as little silver za-aat in a stream, stretched out long, and thin, and white. The moons were like torches, and the stars showed between the clouds, burning bright So bright. I wasn’t wearing anything like enough, and my skin was all goosebumps. But I remember raising my arms, and reaching out for all that light, and singing my head off, and that was warmth enough to make up for my knobby knees and goosebumps. I loved them. Gods and graces, but I loved the stars.” She sighed, and picked the tool kit back up. When she spoke again, her voice was a near whisper, hoarse and throaty. “I still do, Captain.” She looked at him, then: He thought that, maybe, he saw just a spark of tears. He wasn’t sure—she was too in control for him to be sure. “So. Do you understand?” He nodded, and she smiled, sadly. “I thought you might. We’re coming back, Captain. I understand your concerns. But we’re coming back.”

  “My people will try to cut you off. You present a clear and present danger where you are, and as you are. For your own good, and ours, we will have to try to stop you.”

  “So be it. We’re still coming back.”

  He closed his eyes, and told the truth, as he had told other truths. “I’m glad.”

  He was glad. But that night the stupidity of it all ate at him. The Shadrasi didn’t know enough. And space was far, far more deadly than anything humans had faced when they first emerged from the system that had cradled them. But the Federation’s laws and needs allowed no room for him to change that, to help this race. They would come, in their valor ... and die, be assimilated by the Borg, be conquered [135] by Cardassions, be overrun by the Dominion, even be traded into submission by hordes of clever, manipulative Ferengi. Or the Federation would succeed in imposing the lesser breach of the Prime Directive, and turn them back, fence them safely in their own yard, like children in a playpen. All that love and passion and hope, and it would die on the vine. And there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing. The laws and regulations said so. His orders said so. They were too “backward” to join the Federation, too weak to be allies, too “primitive” not to be protected as children were protected—kept from the matches of technology and information that might burn their curious fingers. He couldn’t help them. Mustn’t help them.

  He put a Magnificat on the computer, and listened as the rejoicing music poured out of the speakers. What would the Federation be, if humans had never been there, part of it all? What would humans be if the Vulcans, seeing human “barbarity,” had turned their backs, refused to communicate, quarantined Earth, held back the technological information that had helped make the conquest of space possible? Who would he, Jean-Luc Picard, have been, if he had grown up on a quarantined planet, denied the stars?

  It wasn’t right. He understood the principals, he understood the expedience ... and it still wasn’t right. Werta and her people had earned the stars. And the Federation, running ahead, trapped in its own fate and future, would, for the best of reasons and the worst of arrogances, deny them those bright, hopeful explorations. It wasn’t right.

  Picard, struggling, wondered how so joyful a dream had come to this. How his own people, with the best intentions possible, had become so many things they despised. Too [136] rigid to let Werta have her stars, as the peaceful Vulcans had let imperfect, brutal humans have the stars. Too arrogant to understand that you can raise the fences too high.

  And all their dreams, their sense of identity? For centuries the Federation had boldly flown out, and where they went the words were used, over and over: “We come in peace.” “We are a people of peace.” “Can we help?” And now they were going to war, facing a menace that might destroy them, arming their ships, preparing for destruction on a scale Werta and her people could only grope to understand ... and they were turning away that little ship, and its cargo of dreams.

  How had it come to this?

  He frowned, and crossed the main room of his living quarters, pulling an old book down off the shelf. It was a vanity ... he’d bought it when he
graduated from the academy, from a little bookseller’s shop in London. It was old, and battered, but it was real paper. He’d always loved books, and their burden of bright words and brighter ideas. But this book he’d bought for the ancient author, recorder of a British imperialism that somehow seemed to echo the more egalitarian Federation’s wide-scattered wonders, and for the magic token of the man he’d read once owned similar books: Captain James Kirk. Admiral Kirk. The mythmaker. The polymath, with his energy, and his passion, his luck and his charisma ... and his books. Shakespeare, Dickens, Melville ... Kipling.

  Kipling. The author of Empire. A man who had loved Empire, but loved it with fewer illusions than many. A man who had whispered as often of caution, and humility, and obligation, as of pomp and glory and mastery. His cautions [137] had been heard less often than his praises, and the empire he’d loved had toppled in time. But the cautions lingered on, remembered, there to learn from for any who would look with open eyes.

  Picard ruffled through the pages, seeing the stories—all old, and familiar. The poems—many committed to memory years since. He found the one he wanted.

  God of our fathers, known of old,

  Lord of our far-flung battle-line,

  Beneath whose awful Hand we hold

  Dominion over palm and pine—

  Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

  Lest we forget—lest we forget!

  The tumult and the shouting dies;

  The Captains and the Kings depart:

  Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,

  An humble and a contrite heart.

  Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

  Lest we forget—lest we forget!

  There was more, but he didn’t need it. The message was there. The memory beyond Empire, of a humanity less than divine, and obligations greater than dominion ... or expedience. Picard closed the book. Put it back on the shelf, carefully, respectfully. He didn’t think he believed in a God ... not as such. Not in any form Kipling, in his Victorian, British, Christian-conditioned certainties, would have recognized as God. But Picard did understand prayer. Or, at least, he understood this prayer.

  [138] How could he not? He understood expedience. He honored law. He accepted the grim necessity of the war that faced them. He was versed in the obligations and privileges of power. But some things an empire—or a Federation—dared not forget, or it would face damnation. Some arrogances a leader, and lawgiver, dared not risk. Lily had taught him that: Lily, far in the past. Primitive by today’s standards. He could hear her voice, still. “Ahab.” “You broke your little ship.” By today’s rules, Lily and her children would never have leaped the fence, and flown among the stars, equal among equals. Wise, strong Lily.

  He chose.

  He was in his ready room when Werta, in her wonderful Vosin, left. He’d said his good-byes earlier, unwilling to hold that farewell to the bitter end. That would have been too ... melodramatic.

  The comm-chime chirped, and Commander Riker’s voice came to him. “Captain, the shuttlebay is fully open, and we’ve cleared Vosin for takeoff. Any final orders?”

  “No, Will. Permission to launch. Give her my best”

  “Will do. Riker, out.”

  Picard stood, and walked to the viewport. He still wasn’t used to the new uniforms. He felt like a dark predator in his, missing the bold glory of his old burgundy. Ah, well. Times change; as well, the trimmings and symbols change with them. He wondered what Werta and her people would choose to wear, what announcement of self they’d stride into the stars carrying on their backs. Probably something bright. Something hopeful.

  The Vosin eased its way into space, coming into Picard’s [139] view. He was glad he’d seen it. Glad he’d run his hands over its skin, repaired wires, met its creator and pilot.

  When he’d said good-bye he’d pushed the box, filled with reference chips, and padds, and translating programs, into Werta’s hands, quietly. “It isn’t much. But it should help. I couldn’t give you anything top secret. But the texts cover most of what we know, and you can deduce much of what was left out. Some of them are physics. Some history. Some current events. A few encyclopedias. Mostly general material, but useful. It should let you know what you’re up against. You should be able to come up with some defenses, if you’re going to leap the fence in any case.” He’d smiled, tightly. “I have always found that even exploration goes better if you have some idea of where you’re going, and what to pack.”

  Her eyes had flickered. “And your Prime Directive?”

  “I’ve stood Prime Directive hearings before. So far they’ve all been worth it. I have no doubt this one will be, too.”

  She smiled, her plain face radiant. “And the stars? Are they worth it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  It was worth it. It was all worth it.

  He turned back to his work. War was coming and there was a “far-flung battle-line” to shore up. Encounters to prepare for that had far less to do with exploration, or sense of wonder, than with expedience and survival. But he didn’t turn until Vosin had departed in a burst of light that lingered afterward, lighting space like a new star.

  Picard smiled.

  He was a man who loved the stars.

  See Spot Run

  Kathy Oltion

  Captain Jean-Luc Picard looked forward to reviewing the stack of reports in his ready room as much as a Ferengi looked forward to a full-scale audit. The Enterprise was due at Alpha Kiriki in three days for a routine Starfleet inspection, which normally was no reason to worry. Picard ran a tight ship, and he could count on his crew to maintain order.

  Lately, however, chaos sprang up in the oddest of places, most recently the current engineering logs. Last week’s maintenance logs, for instance, were completely missing. Geordi had discovered the problem yesterday while going over the inspection checklist with his staff. Luckily, the backup logs were left intact, except for Picard’s signature. Those logs were only part of what Picard needed to tackle this morning.

  As he entered his ready room to begin the process, he heard water splashing from his aquarium. He looked over and saw Spot, Mr. Data’s cat, up to her shoulder in saltwater, going after Picard’s lionfish.

  “No!” Captain Picard ordered. Spot flinched, but didn’t run from the tank.

  [141] Picard plucked the cat from her perch and carried her to the couch. She stepped away from him, shook her wet paw, and settled in to groom herself.

  The captain glowered at her, then turned and examined the aquarium for damage. Luckily, the fish was intact, though he hid behind a clump of elodea at the back of the tank. Water lay in puddles on the floor.

  Captain Picard slapped his combadge and ordered, “Mister Data. To the ready room. Now!”

  Data was on duty on the bridge that morning. It took only a moment before the pneumatic door swished open and Data entered. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Picard stood opposite the door, arms crossed. “Mr. Data. I’d like an explanation for your cat’s presence in my ready room.”

  Data looked around the room and spied Spot, still sitting on the couch and deeply engrossed in giving herself a bath. “Captain, I have no explanation. She should be in my quarters.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” Picard said. “I found her going after my fish.” He nodded toward the aquarium. “If I hadn’t come in when I did, it would have been too late.”

  Data went to the couch and gathered Spot in his arms. “Spot. You have been a bad cat,” he told her. Spot reached up to sniff the android’s chin, then rubbed her head against his jaw and purred.

  “I suggest you return Spot to your quarters, and find a way to keep her there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And in case you misunderstood me, I meant that it would have been too late for Spot. Lionfish have poisonous [142] spines on their fins. There are many other dangers to a loose animal on this ship as well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed.” />
  Data and Spot left the room. In the instant before the door whooshed closed, Picard heard Data say, “Spot, why would you choose to leave the comfort of our quarters?”

  The captain made an effort to relax the muscles in his jaw. He tugged at the hem of his tunic and turned his attention toward the still-dripping fish tank. The lionfish now rested behind a small ceramic castle. Picard couldn’t tell if his fish was nervous and upset or not, but he certainly was. He strode to the replicator and demanded, “Tea. Earl Grey. Hot.” That would be a start to get the day back on track.

  Unfortunately, the replicator delivered an iced latte.

  Geordi called up the new recalibration data on his control console in engineering and scanned the readouts, but to no avail. “I don’t understand why the secondary exhaust recyclers aren’t responding like they should,” he grumbled. “They’ve only been off-line for a couple of hours for routine maintenance.”

  “What is the specific problem?” Data asked as he turned from his console.

  “The total output from the aft filters is less than the standard ninety-five percent. They were working fine before we took them off-line and irradiated them.”

  “Did you check to see if the fittings were secure? I recall a similar problem with the sound attenuation barriers on Deck 38—”

  “Yes, yes, Data. I remember, too,” Geordi said. “I guess I’d better send someone to reinstall the whole works again, [143] just to make sure.” He glanced over his shoulder to see who was available for the job.

  “I can do it,” Data volunteered.

  “Thanks, but we’re already running behind. I’ll need your speed to run some calibrations on the new multichannel stabilizer or we’ll never get back on track. I’ll send Ensign Stone instead.”