Strange New Worlds VIII

by Dean Wesley Smith

  “My point being,” Picard said, “that I still have relatively little idea what it is exactly that you do.”

  “Individuals, when confronted with mortality, often experience unique traumas and psychological disorders. Rather than attempting to avoid the emotional consequences of such inner devastation, as with the damaging and ultimately futile suppression techniques of the Vulcan majority, we advocate facing emotion head-on. Only in facing one’s pain can one conquer, and thereby remove, one’s pain.”

  “And to that end you employ holotechnology?”

  “The original technique, pioneered by our patron, was accomplished without the aid of technology. Unfortunately, few Vulcans possess his remarkable gifts. Today, we employ the most sophisticated holograms known to science. Realistic—and effective—enough that our methods have been deplored by many supposedly ‘reputable’ schools. You may have heard stories, Captain, disseminated by our unscrupulous detractors. I urge you not to take them at face value. Our treatments are consensual and fully within the boundaries of Federation law.”

  “If I suspected otherwise, Mister Symek, I assure you I would never have allowed you aboard my ship. I am satisfied with Doctor Zimmerman’s report and the Federation’s assessment of your institute. But having spoken to you in person, I’m not entirely sure what you have to offer me.”

  Symek steepled his fingers. “Tell me, Captain, what do you think about death?”

  “Death.” Picard looked aside and sighed. “I’ve seen far too much of it, but I have learned to accept it. It does not prevent me from engaging in sincere relationships with loved ones, and it does not prevent me from moving on with my life. Now I find myself faced with a dilemma . . . I find myself wondering if death has actually taken place, or if life has merely entered into . . . some kind of suspended state, waiting to be reclaimed.” His voice became strained, powerful emotions beginning to show through. “And I cannot trust myself! I cannot trust that my inability to resolve this issue is an honest grappling with the facts, or a mere product of my own feelings of guilt and sorrow.”

  Symek slipped into an expression of sympathy with the practiced ease of a man stepping into a pair of well-worn boots. “Sometimes the spirit slumbers, and will not awake until the conditions are right. In this case, the spirit that lies dormant within the android B-4—and I concede that an android may have a spirit; the Order is not prejudiced against so-called artificial life—this spirit was cut off from its host body prematurely. There is a disconnect between the Data who gave up his katra and the Data whose body was destroyed in the destruction of the Scimitar. This disconnect also exists in the fal-tor-pan . . . it is why the ceremony requires a mediator; someone to bring the detached katra back into harmony with the new experiences which the host body has accumulated—an outside agent, or guide, who makes complete integration possible, you see?”

  “Yes, but androids do not register with biological empaths or telepaths,” Picard said. “How can you provide such an agency?”

  “We are presented with a unique opportunity, Captain—one that will take full advantage of both the Order’s knowledge of the fal-tor-pan and our experience with holographic technology. Working closely with you and your ship’s computer, we will meticulously build a comprehensive holoprogram that re-creates in exact detail the hours between the katra transfer and the moment of death. You and the android B-4 will be placed into this scenario, the program itself will act as the agent—a technological mediator for a technological mind. Simplicity itself.”

  Picard’s hesitation was plain. Symek continued, his tone growing more compelling. “The Vulcan race has a credo which many have perverted, but which we retain and affirm: Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations. In such a universe of infinite possibilities, is it not conceivable that this course of action is the one which will lead to the resuscitation of your comrade? Are you ready to rule out that possibility, without the benefit of an honest and open-minded effort?”

  Picard reflected. He did not like this idea—did not like the thought of exposing the android B-4 to such a confusing and intensely private scenario. On the other hand, Data had freely and willingly shared everything with B-4. Perhaps it was he himself, Jean-Luc Picard, who was afraid. He did not know how he could find the strength to stare into those eyes again and watch them dissolve into nothingness.

  And then there was the question of Symek’s motives. Had the Vulcan anything to gain, any ulterior agenda? Picard suspected that such a dramatic vindication of his order’s philosophy—something he could write up and trumpet before his peers—was motive enough. If the endeavor is successful, Picard thought, Symek can trumpet all he likes.

  As McCoy had told him, if he did not take every chance, explore every possibility, he was sure his conscience would not allow him to sleep. A sense of dreadful resignation crept over him. When it came right down to it, there was really only one choice. Symek knew it: the satisfaction was already there, in his eyes.

  “Do what you can,” Picard said.

  * * *

  There is a word—“pandemonium”—that was coined in the seventeenth century (Earth reckoning) by a human poet named John Milton. It has come to mean a state of wild uproar and tumult, but originally it referred to a city of demons—the infernal capital of Miltonian Hell. The Scimitar, Data thinks, suitably fits both of these definitions. Tongues of flame and noxious, searing gases spew from nightmarish halls. Inhuman groans and distinctly organic cries of pain echo, and the broken walls, floor, and ceiling are studded with jagged spikes of metal. Some of these are covered with ichor; nearby, the lifeless body of a Reman warrior—eyes sightless, fanged mouth contorted into the semblance of an agonizing, silent scream.

  Occasionally, a live Reman will spring from the shadows, a scaly horror as viscerally terrifying as any demon, recognizing the android only as an intruder, marked for destruction. Data dispatches these with heartless efficiency. He has known what it is to enjoy killing—known and been disturbed by the sensation—but these deaths he does not enjoy. He has only one mission, and that is to reach the bridge before his captain can come to permanent harm. All impediments must be removed.

  Another Reman neck collapses beneath the impact of his hand, and suddenly the object of his mission is before him: the door that leads to the Scimitar command module. He forces it open, and as he sprints inside he wonders if his captain is still alive. He considers the fine line between the ability to assign preferential status to one potential outcome, and the emotion that humans call “hope.” He knows that he possesses the former, but is unsure of the latter . . . he has, however, assigned preferential status to the latter, and perhaps this is enough. Hope is a virtue his captain has always esteemed very highly.

  In a moment, his wondering is dispelled and his hope—if such it is—is vindicated. His captain is alive, but unmoving. Jean-Luc Picard stares into space as the body of the human male Data recognizes as Praetor Shinzon slumps to one side. Shinzon has been impaled by a thick spear of wreckage. His eyes are glazed over in death.

  The ship’s computer is counting down: “Eight . . . seven . . . ” Data knows what this means. The weapon is on the verge of deployment. In seconds the Scimitar, the Enterprise, and every living being on both ships will be annihilated. He has only this short space of time in which to act.

  He does not hesitate. He leaps to his captain’s side, tearing back his own wrist and withdrawing the small silver disk that is the Emergency Transport Unit. Unwilling to risk even the slightest delay, he slaps the device onto his captain’s shoulder. The two stare into each other’s eyes for a moment. Picard looks as though he is about to say something, but then the transport takes effect, and his visage dissolves into a shimmering glow of energy that dissipates and is gone.

  “Good-bye,” Data says, knowing it is too late, and not caring.

  He spins, withdraws his phaser, and does his duty.

  * * *

  For a second time, Picard was helpless, trapped momentaril
y beneath the weight of his clone . . . in the end, a small and pathetic man, diseased in body and mind. Picard might have been this man; once again he found himself forced to confront that terrible truth. Their potential for the worst is something which all sentient beings must confront, he told himself. This was true before I ever met Shinzon. It didn’t help. That face—a face he’d seen every morning in the mirror of his Academy dormitory—now stared up at him, a blue-veined mask of vituperation and raw hatred. His own face. Dead.

  Then a familiar form was beside him. A white-gold-skinned hand tore open its opposite wrist, and withdrew a silvery disk. Picard felt it hit his shoulder, and he looked up into the other’s eyes, searching.

  And he knew.

  Energy shimmered all around him, but he remained—this was a simulation, after all. Holographically, he had merely been rendered invisible. He watched the android turn, draw out his phaser, and fire into the heart of the Thalaron matrix. A green glow encompassed the room and it was over.

  The glow faded, replaced by the striped walls of the holodeck. Only Picard, B-4, and Symek remained. Picard looked down at Symek in momentary surprise. In the emotional intensity of the simulation, he had forgotten that the Vulcan had drawn upon Picard’s own memories to portray Shinzon. It had been, thought Picard, a magnificent performance. The Vulcan looked up now, face flushed and wearing a heady expression. “Could you feel it, Picard?” he breathed. “Could you feel it? You are released!”

  B-4 approached them, a quizzical look on his face. “Did I perform to your satisfaction?” he asked.

  At once, Symek’s exultant look faded.

  * * *

  When Picard returned to his quarters, some hours later, he found a box waiting for him. On top was a handwritten note:

  Jean-Luc,

  A little bird told me you were a fan of twentieth-century mystery novels. I send this gift in the sincere hope that you never stop asking questions . . . and looking for answers. For what it’s worth, I think Jim would be proud of you, and your commitment to your friend. And if, by chance, you run into a certain green-blooded Vulcan again while you’re gallivanting around the galaxy in that newfangled Enterprise of yours, give him my best. It’s been far too long.

  Yours sincerely,

  Leonard H. McCoy

  * * *

  Smiling faintly, Picard examined the contents of the box: a series of actual printed-paper volumes labeled The Collected Works of Philip K. Dick.

  There was also a message waiting on his personal intercom. It was from Deanna. He returned the call, and found her awake. She looked radiant, with her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders.

  “Hello, Deanna,” he said. “How are you adjusting to life aboard the Titan?”

  Her smile was generous and warm. “Far better than Will, I think. Yesterday he walked onto the bridge and sat down in the first officer’s chair.” Her expression turned serious. “I called to ask you how the experiment went.”

  Picard’s shoulders slumped. “There was nothing, Deanna . . . nothing at all of Data in his eyes.”

  She nodded as if she had been expecting this. “That must be very disappointing to you.” That was Deanna . . . always the professional. However, Picard noted a hint of disappointment stealing over her own face. Deanna had taken the death of Data (“death” . . . he was finally allowing himself to think it) very hard. “But at least we can look at this as a form of closure,” she continued. “You mustn’t think of this as a lost opportunity, Captain. Data may have had experiences, even feelings, that we can never know, and that anyone else—even someone with access to his memories—could never understand.”

  “I ought to have known,” Picard said, a touch of anger lacing his voice. “I ought to have given Data the credit of his individuality, of possessing his own unique distinctiveness!”

  “Please don’t be hard on yourself,” Troi said. “You didn’t betray Data’s memory. It was his unique personhood that you missed, and wanted to be faithful to. The experiment is over—you can let it go now.”

  Picard sighed. “Symek said that my pain had been taken away.”

  “Has it been?”

  Picard allowed a bitter smile to touch his lips. “Not at all.”

  “I think it’s a pain we’re all going to be carrying for a while. It must be difficult having B-4 around, reminding you of Data.” Picard looked closer at her image on the screen. He could see the grief in Deanna clearly now, still fresh in her eyes, and he felt a sudden twinge of guilt. This was not fair to her—she was no longer his ship’s counselor, and she had her own pain to work through.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said encouragingly. “Please, give my best to Will.”

  They exchanged farewells and signed off. Picard walked back to the box of books and fingered one entitled Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, but he could not bring himself to begin reading. His mind was still turbulent. Instead, he sat down in his chair and stared out the window. The soft, marbled curve of the Earth was just coming into view. The sight reminded him of Lily, another loved one lost to the ravages of time. “Good-bye, Data,” he said, knowing that it was too late . . . knowing that his friend was beyond answering.

  * * *

  There is a flash of light where the phaser beam meets the radiation. At once, the fountain of pulsating white-green energy is disrupted, the careful structure of the Thalaron matrix thrown out of kilter. The spot of light in the center begins to grow, until it is all that Data can see. He feels his skin begin to melt and he knows that this is the end. Surprisingly, a strange quiet has fallen over his neural net. His systems have ceased to race for solutions to a dilemma he knows he cannot solve. According to his observations in the past, this does not match with what he knows of fear or panic.

  From somewhere in the databanks of his memory, an ancient aphorism surfaces: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” If this is true, he thinks, then surely the sensation which I am now experiencing is love. The pulse of fluid through his artificial veins seems to miss a beat, which may be a consequence of the white heat that is overtaking him, or something else. He remembers that his brother, Lore, had spoken of love just before deactivation. Was this what he had meant? If it is true that I have experienced love, Data thinks, which is universally regarded as the most valued and desired of all emotions, then it follows that my efforts to become more human have not been in vain. Indeed, my long quest would seem to have reached fruition. How nice it would be to tell Geordi. The thoughts come of their own volition now, unbidden and without analysis. Thank you, Father. Thank you, Captain. I love . . .

  His chronometer has ceased to function, and when the whiteness takes him, he does not know it.

  Trek

  Dan C. Duval

  Makrecha IV, 2285

  The thick scent of the forest filled Gorkon’s nose, without a hint of bantag. The loud cackling of the birds and the hoots of lizards told him that the predator was not close, but he strained to hear it nonetheless. One moment of inattention and the bantag would be hunting him.

  Some of those Klingons of the Pro-Romulan Party would be hunting with bat’leths or even disruptors, but Gorkon believed in the old ways, carrying nothing but a spear and his d’k tahg. Here, on his own family’s lands, on this frontier planet, he would hunt as he wished and ignore the laughter and gibes of those on Qo’noS who called him backward and barbarian. Traditionalist.

  He froze. The forest was absolutely silent. So wrapped up in his own thoughts, he hadn’t noticed when it had gone quiet. Without moving his head or body, he peered at every shadow in his field of vision, his ears straining to catch the tiniest sound that might indicate that the bantag was close. A slow breeze blew up from behind him and he knew it was the bantag’s breath, that he was about to die.

  Steeling himself to spin and strike, Gorkon was barely halfway around when the sky lit up and, with a roar, a rush of air struck him and threw him to the ground on his back. But the
ground heaved back at him and he bounced onto his face as the world shook and thundered around him and heat scorched the exposed skin on his skull and the back of his neck.

  The thick-trunked trees waved as if shaken by the hand of a giant, and the air suddenly stank of ozone and burning plastics, but the ground stopped shuddering as quickly as it had started. It had become abruptly darker here beneath the trees.

  Gorkon leaped to his feet, staggering with a slight dizziness, and turned around quickly to see if the bantag had snuck up on him while he floundered on the ground. As his mind settled, he assured himself that he should not have been surprised—the bantag was probably halfway to the horizon and still running.

  Somewhat more than a spear’s throw ahead, the forest opened into a clearing that had not been there when Gorkon walked through it a few minutes before. Trees that had stood like towers now lay on the ground, cast down like sticks. A single dark column of smoke rose from one side of the clearing, while tiny bits of bright sunlight reflected from several pieces of white, painted metals, scattered around the clearing.

  He picked his way through the fallen timber, his path less obstructed than one would have thought, with all those trees down. Whatever had happened, the fallen trees lay parallel to each other, rather than jumbled across his path into the clearing.

  The wreckage in the middle of the clearing, though, maintained most of its structural integrity. A shuttle—a Federation shuttle. Humans.

  At least it was not a Starfleet shuttle. The color scheme on Starfleet was white with a minimum of trim colors and identification marks. This one still displayed mostly white, but garish curves and curls of contrasting colors sprawled across the hull, and something had been painted across its side in some large letters that Gorkon did not recognize.

  His fist clenched on his spear as he moved in. This world might be one of the disputed worlds under the Treaty of Organia, but Klingons were developing it, not humans. They might have a right to be here, but they would not establish themselves, not if Gorkon had his way.