SPARTACUS

by T. L. MANCOUR

  “Jared,” Maran said again, urgently, “this is not like the other times.”

  “How so?” he demanded, turning to face her. “Are they not just like the others? They can be beaten—”

  “They have an android among them, Jared. He would not be . . . susceptible. Besides, they freely offer us aid.”

  “They do not know us yet! Would they give us the same aid if they did? I do not think so.” Did the woman have no grasp of the situation? No clue as to the potential danger? Yes, he would like to believe that the Federation ship would accept them as they were, for who they were, but never in his creation had Jared met the man who had. As his chief information officer, he expected Maran to be as objective as possible, considering all the possibilities so that she could advise him, and yet—

  “You do not know!” Maran exclaimed. “We have come so far, through so much, and here we stand at the doorway of a new life, with freedom and sanctuary just a few steps away, and you talk of attacking our potential hosts. We fought before because we had to, not because we were barbarians. And, yes, if need be, we will fight again. I will take a thousand lives with my own hand, if necessary, but only when there is no other choice!”

  The usually imperturbable Maran had shouted out the end of her speech, an action that in itself was a vital piece of information. Jared knew he was prone to overreact on occasion, and he used Maran as a guide as to how outrageous his own thoughts and actions had become. Jared considered her words for a moment. Perhaps she was right.

  “Alright Maran, we will play this one by your rules.” Try as he might, he could not keep the undertone of scorn from his voice. “I forget, sometimes, that you were never in the Games, never felt the rage that comes—”

  “Don’t give me that!” she barked. “My loyalty to our cause has never been in doubt, and I defy you or anyone else to find fault with it.” She regained her composure and stared at Jared. “Do we play this correctly? You saw him, just as well as I did. You saw how they treated him.”

  Respect. That was the unspoken word. “Agreed,” he whispered. “But if it comes down to our survival or theirs—”

  “If it comes to that, I shall kill them myself. I pledge this to you.”

  He turned again to her, his tone more gentle now. “I shall not require that of you. We have killers here who are much more suited to the task. Such as myself. And Garan. We were . . . trained for it, after all. No, Maran, you are a librarian, a keeper of books, a scholar. How I wish I could share your peace. But what has been learned cannot be forgotten.”

  “I know,” she said, and sat in silence.

  Despite what his lips said, in his mind Jared was already planning the possibility of a strike against the Enterprise. Learning the complete operations of the vessel would be no problem; it was run by computer, and computers were merely . . . machines. Garan’s arsenal would provide the weapon, of course, and Kurta would be the carrier. Something lethal, yet nondestructive to the integrity of the ship. A plague, or toxin, perhaps. Details, however, that could be settled later, as the time approached.

  But perhaps Maran was right. Perhaps this Federation would prove benign, even helpful, in their endeavors. Anything was possible in this mad, chaotic universe, he had found. Friends could become enemies, foes could become friends. Even a shy and retiring librarian could become a vicious killer.

  “Let us discuss, then, the possibilities,” he said, at last. Despite his genial manner, he was certain Maran knew what he was thinking. She always did.

  Chapter Three

  “COMMANDER RIKER has gone back to the Enterprise to help oversee our own repairs,” Data said over the comm channel to Geordi. “He wished me to ascertain your progress.”

  “You can tell him Dren and I have our hands full here. I’m preparing a list of equipment and personnel I might need from the Enterprise. I may even need your assistance, but it will be at least an hour before I’ll know anything concrete.”

  “Fine, Geordi. Data out.”

  Dren had witnessed the exchange with considerable interest. “That’s a very impressive piece of engineering, friend Geordi.”

  “What, the communicator?” asked Geordi, surprised. The Vemlans had comm devices of their own—a little bigger and bulkier than Starfleet standard issue, but relatively the same device. “Just a little fancy gadgetry and three hundred years of micro-miniature electronics, that’s all.”

  “No,” the wiry engineer said, shaking his head. “I was speaking of your Mr. Data. Did you have a hand in designing or building him?”

  Geordi chuckled. He? Build Data? He didn’t even understand him. “No, Dren, my specialty is warp mechanics. Data is the legacy of Dr. Noonian Soong, one of the most preeminent cyberneticists in the Federation.”

  “I was just wondering. How do you get along with Mr. Data?”

  Geordi grinned amusedly. How could he sum up their relationship? “Oh, I can appreciate a classy bit of engineering as much as the next guy. But Data is more a friend than a machine to me.” He began to examine the exterior of the reactor’s core with his VISOR, scanning beneath the surface plate in several bands, hoping to detect any flaws in the containment casing. They would have to be repaired before any work on the inner core could be done.

  “I see three cracks on the underside of the casing, just where it bolts into the bulkhead, there.”

  Dren nodded reluctantly. “I was afraid you might say that. The sound from this casing hasn’t been right since the storm.”

  Geordi looked up, confused. “I don’t hear anything.”

  Dren motioned him forward to where a huge metal strut abutted the power core and the bulkhead, holding the power unit in place. “You don’t really hear it, so much as you feel it . . . in your bones. The vibrations are very slight. With all the reactions going on in the core, they make a very slight vibrational hum. Put your head on this bar.”

  Geordi did as the man indicated. He listened intently for a few moments, but heard nothing unusual . . . of course he wasn’t sure what was usual. After a few moments of concentration, he rose again. “Dren, I’ll take your word for it, but I don’t hear a thing. You must have ears like a dog.”

  The Vemlan frowned. “A dog?”

  Geordi explained the reference.

  “Oh,” Dren shrugged. “You have your shiny eyes, I have good hearing. You don’t think it’s our good looks and our professional knowledge of engineering that makes us chief engineers, do you?”

  Geordi laughed. He appreciated Dren’s casual attitude to the responsibility of the job. Too often he found other chief engineers took themselves and their positions too seriously and became stuffy. Luckily, Geordi was new enough to the job so that he could still kid a little. He tried listening to the engine again. Still nothing.

  “Regardless of how we know it’s there, this casing is still going to have to come off. Those cracks have to be sealed before we can do anything else. You might want to start emptying the core now.”

  “Agreed,” said Dren. He removed a communication device from one of his belt pouches and snapped it open. “Dren to Deski. Start the drain on engine core three, and get a power crane ready. Our friend from the Enterprise has confirmed my suspicions about the cracks in number three. The whole casing is going to have to come off. Get a team working on it.”

  He closed the communicator without waiting for an answer. “Deski will get started on this one. Let’s go see to number four—that’s my worst problem. If I get called in when I’m off duty, ninety percent of the time it’s because of number four.”

  A sudden, wicked thought struck Geordi. “Dren, I have this ensign on the Enterprise who could use a workout on a more primitive drive system. He thinks the warp drive is the only drive there is, and I’d like to give him a little exposure to the brute-force method of star drives. Mind if he tags along and totes the toolbox?”

  Dren smiled pleasantly. “Not at all.”

  “He helps me out in engineering from time to time, and occasi
onally thinks he knows everything. But warp drives are pretty clean, and I’d like to see him get his hands dirty for a change.”

  “Dirty?” Dren said, raising his eyebrows. “He’ll get dirty, all right.”

  Geordi hopped down from their perch on the catwalk, followed by Dren, who picked up the tool box and led the way to reactor number four. Once they were out in the Freedom’s narrow corridor, they passed a viewport. Geordi stopped long enough to gaze at the stars, as he always did. The first time he had seen stars after he got his VISOR he had fallen in love with them. With his unique vision they were an even more impressive and interesting sight than they were to normal human optics. He understood why a ball of luminous gas had inspired man to take to the sky. He had once seen a gaseous nebulae, where new stars were being born, in its full electromagnetic glory, and it was a sight he would never forget.

  He noticed something peculiar, though, something wrong with part of the Freedom that he could see through the port.

  “Dren, has the Freedom seen any combat?” he asked.

  The Vemlan engineer shrugged. “Not that I know of. But there was a war, and I haven’t been with her every moment. It’s possible. Why?”

  “I see some carbon scoring on the hull. Looks like heavy-energy weapons fire. Can’t you see it?”

  Dren stepped forward and peered through the thick glass. He stared intently for a few moments, then shook his head. “I don’t see anything.”

  “It’s there. I see it,” Geordi insisted.

  “It could be welding scores,” the other engineer offered. “We did a lot of repairs after we left the Hevaride system.”

  “Yeah, I guess that could be it,” said Geordi, unconvinced. That didn’t look like a welding score. “You seem to have done some pretty extensive modifications all around.”

  “This was our first exploratory ship, and the original designers didn’t foresee some problems that came up. In a lot of cases we had a better idea, and fixed it like we wanted it.” The engineer stared through the viewport at the rest of his ship. “We’re pretty proud of the Freedom; she stands for what we believe in.”

  “I know what you mean, Dren,” Geordi said, still staring out at the distant figure of the Enterprise. He indulged one moment more, then gave Dren a friendly slap on the shoulder.

  “Here’s to classy engineering, then,” he said, rubbing his stinging hand; Dren was very well muscled. No wonder he’d been able to lift that diagnostic kit so easily. “Let’s go take a look at your problem child.”

  With Commander Riker having returned to the Enterprise, Data continued the tour on his own. Kurta escorted him to the next stop, where she again produced a card key and opened the door.

  They stepped out into a huge, brightly lit hydroponics chamber. There were literally hundreds of kinds of plants in front of them, in all varieties of color and size. The air coming from in here was much warmer than in the rest of the ship. The scent of decaying organic matter combined with natural fragrances was almost overpowering.

  “This is our second great treasure,” Kurta said, waving her hands at the massive array of foliage. “We brought with us as many species of Vemlan plants as we were able to gather. There is no telling how much of our homeworld’s ecosystem was destroyed by the war. It is quite possible that we have the only specimens left of many of these plants.”

  Data examined the flower bed to his right. The prevailing color was purple, but the shades and tones were so varied that no one color could properly be assigned to the flower.

  “This is very impressive, Kurta, but is it not possible that these plants will not be able to grow on any new world you settle?”

  “Of course,” answered Kurta, somewhat sadly. “If that’s the case, then we will have to keep growing them here or in artificial habitats. I’m hoping that we can find a planet like Vemla, though. Perhaps there is one in the Federation.”

  “The possibility exists,” affirmed Data. “There are, after all, theoretically thousands of M-class worlds in official Federation space, and more being discovered every day on the frontier.”

  “It would be wonderful to have our own world,” the alien woman said, her eyes far away. “With my own garden, where I can watch the flowers grow under a real sun, and get real dirt under my feet and between my toes. When I get depressed, I come in here sometimes and dream about it.”

  “I have always wondered about the preoccupation that humans have for captive floral matter. Counselor Troi, for example, maintains a plot of roses in the recreational facility on the Enterprise.”

  “Sentient beings enjoy caring for a plant,” said Kurta, carefully. “There is something gratifying in planting a seed and watching it grow. It is a small way to gain a sense of fulfillment, of accomplishment. Don’t you have such needs?”

  Data shook his head. “I am not human, Kurta. I can only copy my fellow crewmembers’ habits and try to theorize the basis for their actions. I try, because I am terribly interested in the race that created me.” He paused, as he examined another plant. The flowers were red, this time. Red flowers had several symbolic meanings to humans, but how did the meanings arise and why did they become so inexplicably important? Such questions had burned all too frequently through Data’s positronic brain, and always the answers were so elusive that an emotion that he had not the capability to label—but had certainly read enough about—frustration, was beginning to grow.

  “Commander Riker once gave me a nickname,” Data confessed after a moment of pondering. “He called me Pinocchio. It is a reference to a fable from Earth, in which a lonely man creates an artificial diminutive simulacrum, a puppet, for companionship. Through the intervention of a metaphysical entity, the puppet becomes animate. He is still made of wood, however, and no matter how he tries, true humanity eludes him. I have been seen as trying to achieve the same goal, but I share Pinocchio’s limitations: I am not truly alive. Therefore the point of theoretically simple pleasures, such as gardening for pleasure, elude me.”

  “That seems somewhat sad to me, Data.” She stepped closer and placed her hand on his shoulder. She seemed about to say something, and then stopped. After a few moments in silence, she began again. “Data, why do you try? Do they own you?”

  Data turned toward her. He found the question somewhat puzzling. “No, I am considered an independent, self-owned entity by the Federation, though the decision to grant me that status has sparked considerable controversy in some parts of the Federation. I may legally do what I wish. I pursue this intangible quality because I interact with humans, and it is prudent to be able to understand them as completely as possible.”

  “Interesting,” Kurta conceded. “You seem so knowledgeable about your world, Data. Is there any way that you could get us a good history of the Federation? We like to keep complete records, and who knows? You might be our neighbors, someday,” she added.

  “Certainly, Kurta,” said Data. The difficult questions of his existence that had disturbed his thoughts and seemed to lead to no tenable conclusion were put aside for a moment; it was nice to be able to deal with something as easily quantifiable as a comprehensive study on the many-peopled worlds of the United Federation of Planets instead. He tagged the gold-and-platinum insignia on his breast and spoke. “Data to Enterprise computer.”

  “Computer here.”

  “Prepare core copy dump of Hermanan’s An Unabridged Socio-Political Study of the Formation of the Federation and an Examination of the Root Cultures of the Federated Races, with attached appendices.”

  “Working . . . Ready.”

  “Proceed with transmission of dump to alien ship designated Freedom.”

  “Working . . . transmission completed.”

  “Thank you very much, Data,” Kurta said, a wide smile on her face. “I’m sure many of us who are interested in your culture will be reading it—very soon.”

  Will Riker strode determinedly into sickbay, wearing a serious expression on his face. He nodded to Beverly, who was examining
a medical log on the computer terminal, and went straight to a nearby treatment couch.

  Deanna Troi lay motionless, with a machine of some sort placed around her head. A quick glance at the diagnostic indicators revealed that she was physically healthy, but he could tell by looking at her face that there was something wrong with her. She had been sick before, he knew—he had once even played nurse to her when she had suffered the Betazed equivalent of a spring cold—but never had he seen her look this—weary.

  Dr. Crusher crept up next to him and passed a scanner over her.

  “How is she?” he asked as he pulled a stray lock of hair from Deanna’s face.

  “She’s fine,” Crusher said in quiet tones. “The captain just recommended that she spend a few hours under a hypnotic field. I took her down into Alpha about fifteen minutes ago. That will not only block out stray emotions from her mind, but allow her to recuperate faster than normal sleep. Physically, she’s fine, though a check through the nutritional computer revealed an uneven diet for the last few days. Considering the agitated state of the crew during the storm, and the unpalatable nature of Federation emergency rations, I’m certain that’s true for nearly everyone on board, however.”

  “There are worse things than emergency rations,” Riker replied, thinking of Porupt’s “creation.” It didn’t take much effort to recall the dish that had practically set his mouth on fire—hell, he could still taste it.

  “I checked with Wesley, and the Gabriel Effect has been known to produce erratic waves—static—on nearly all e-m bands. It’s very possible that the storm did something on whichever band Deanna’s empathy works on.”

  “Yes, that would make sense,” Riker said, absently.

  “From what she’s told me about the way her empathy works, sometimes it takes massive concentration to maintain control. Without that control, the emotions of the entire crew were invading her mind, awake and asleep.” She glanced at Deanna again, and then back at Will. “How was the meeting with the . . .”