SPARTACUS

by T. L. MANCOUR

  “But they are alive,” Data insisted, turning to confront Sawliru. It was obvious to Picard that the Force Commander didn’t like addressing the object of the debate directly. “There is not a single biological function that they are incapable of accomplishing. Anything you can do, we can do. What is the difference, between you and me?”

  “I had a biological mother and father, whose attributes and genes I carry. Where are your parents?” he countered snidely.

  Data looked tolerantly amused, an expression Picard had seen him practicing with Wesley. He still didn’t quite have the hang of it. “You refer to the matter of reproduction. It is an almost universal standard by which all life-forms are measured. Doctor Crusher even included it in her general definition of life. You mentioned genes and attributes; I submit that the master design program, which each of the Vemlan androids carries in its permanent memory, serves the same function as DNA or comparable methods of genetic racial memory. In a properly equipped laboratory any one of the androids on the Freedom could totally replicate itself, with conscious alterations and improvements in design that are in fact more efficient than the burdensome process of natural selection.”

  “You need a laboratory for your reproduction and you call yourself living beings? I think not,” Sawliru scoffed.

  “Yes. By your standard, a human female who is not able to conceive a child without medical assistance would also be classed as a non-living being. There are races of clones who may survive only by such means, because of genetic damage. They, too, would not qualify as living beings as per your standards.”

  “The difference is simply a matter of the type of laboratory you use, that’s all,” Kurta added passionately. “Give us a few generations; we’ll put the laboratory inside each and every android.”

  Sawliru refrained from saying something back, Picard noted. No doubt it was something rude and disruptive. He appreciated the display of control. The proceedings were becoming heated, but Picard had expected that. At least they weren’t shooting at each other yet.

  “The difference is a matter of organics,” Alkirg insisted, waving her hands for emphasis and appealing to the panel and the crowd behind her. She returned her attention to the androids. “You are not carbon-based, biological creatures, you are a well-designed mechanical nightmare that, regrettably, got out of control.”

  “The fact that we are not organic forms of life does not bar us from membership in the Federation,” Jared said coldly. “The Gaens of Valarous are silicon-based life-forms, and they were admitted to the Federation on stardate 3262.1, if the records on the Enterprise are correct.”

  “They also replicate by asexual reproduction,” Data added, helpfully, “and need a catalyst to reproduce.”

  “Doctor,” Picard said, intent on stopping the quotation of precedents, which could go on forever, “I am asking your direct professional opinion. Are the androids individual, living beings?”

  The question visibly troubled her. Beverly’s tired face shifted into her “doctor mode,” a look that everyone on the ship knew, he perhaps best of all. Far from being a mere healer, Beverly Crusher was also, by the necessity of her duties, a talented research scientist and theoretician. He knew she had often had to deal with incredibly strange forms of life, beings whose biological functions she could not even begin to imagine. And as far as he knew, the question “Are they alive?” had very rarely crept into her mind.

  She drew a breath and gave her analysis. “As I said, the question of what defines life is a complicated, almost unanswerable one. Our primitive ancestors had it easy. If you could kill it, cook it, or kiss it, it was alive; and if it wasn’t, you didn’t pay much attention to it. The exploration of the galaxy has made all our earlier definitions moot, however. We once had rules about what was alive and what wasn’t, but when we encountered aliens who didn’t fit those definitions, yet were positively alive, our rules had to change. And when creations such as the Vemlans,” she said, with a nod of her head, “and our own Mr. Data,” she said kindly, “come forth and declare that they are living beings, any convenient and simple definition just doesn’t work.

  “The question has many different aspects as well. There is the religious side—do the androids have souls? I am not qualified to give an opinion on that. There is the psychological question—are androids self-aware and capable of conscious, sapient thought?” She frowned. “Though I’m trained in psychology, it isn’t my specialty, and again, I can’t confidently render an opinion. Then there is the biological issue. On that, I am able to render an opinion.”

  She paused to survey her audience.

  “Data and these other androids have been built in the shape of their creators. They have two hands, two feet, two eyes, a nose, two ears, and an advanced electrochemical processing system. Now, in a human or humanoid form of life, I would say that you could artificially replace each and every biological part of a single body, with one exception, thus creating a cyborg, or cybernetic organism, and still class the individual as a living being. It isn’t the veins and the tissue and the cells that make a sapient being, it’s that one thing that can’t be replaced—the brain or analogous central nervous system.”

  “But the androids don’t have brains!” Alkirg said triumphantly, standing and gesturing wildly. “They’re just computers!” She turned to the other table. “We made certain of that; just big, self-important computers—with a logic error someplace.”

  “I wasn’t finished,” Beverly said icily. “The many studies of comparative anatomy in alien races have shown that a central nervous system can take many forms, from huge masses of neural processors like the Terids on Sephria, to creatures with such a decentralized system that you have to grind them into hamburger to kill them. Like the Wallowbat of Centauris and its relatives. The way a brain is put together isn’t important, and neither is the material from which it’s made; the mere existence of a central nervous system is enough, in my opinion, to class a creature as an advanced living organism.” She looked directly into Alkirg’s eyes. “Regardless of where it came from. Data is alive, medically speaking, and legally speaking. So are the Vemlans.

  “However, the question of their sentience is not the main issue here,” Beverly continued. “The question is whether or not they are a race. That is a little more complicated. A virus is alive and sentient, in its limited fashion. But it’s not sapient. I wouldn’t classify it as a race. I can’t do so for the Vemlans, either.”

  “That’s your opinion?” asked Picard.

  She took one last, long breath. “Yes. That’s my opinion.”

  Picard raised his eyebrows, and turned to his first officer. “I find then, Commander Riker, I must overrule your objection as well. Partially based on the Federation legal precedent established for Commander Data, the Vemlans are indeed alive.”

  He glanced over at the Vemlans’ table for their reaction to his decision, and saw Alkirg quietly berating Sawliru, probably for his failure to win this particular point. The Force Commander’s face flushed beet red, and Picard felt pity for the man.

  “However,” he continued, “these arguments raise a new objection: are the Vemlan androids a race? Only a few months ago the Federation was attacked by aliens known as the Borg—a mixture of man and machine possessing tremendous military power.” Picard continued for the edification of the navy and the androids alike. The Starfleet officers knew very well what the Borg were. Their recent attack had driven right to the heart of the Federation. Over sixty Starfleet vessels had been destroyed in defense of Earth, a loss from which the Federation had yet to recover.

  “They operate together as a single group mind. Members of many species make up their fleet, as the Borg ships sweep throughout the galaxy in search of new life-forms to destroy or incorporate into the Borg. Yet the sentience of the Borg is machine-based; a series of programs runs their ships and directs the individuals in their tasks. They are highly organized. But are the Borg a race?”

  The thought had been mu
ch on his mind. He had been captured and incorporated forcibly into the Borg—his knowledge of Starfleet tactics and Federation technology had been used against the defenses of Earth, and many had died in the process. In the end, with Data’s help, Picard had escaped the clutches of the Borg and the massive, cubical Borg ship had been destroyed in orbit before it had assimilated the Earth.

  “Data, you had contact with them. You helped me escape. Were they a race, or simply a program?”

  “Insufficient data, Captain,” Data replied. “Because of the minimal contact the Federation has had with the Borg, there is not enough information to make a judgment. I experienced the software defenses of the Borg ship; I did not have intimate contact with them. To my knowledge you are the only person ever to do so—and live to tell about it. Therefore you are in the best position to make that decision.”

  “Captain, is this relevant?” Riker asked. “The Borg are not the androids. It’s their fate we’re here to decide. I don’t see . . .”

  “Yes, Number One, it is relevant,” Picard said. They hadn’t planned on raising this issue, but Picard thought now it was important. “If the Borg are a race by our standards, I think it has bearing on the case. They are at least as unique as the Vemlans. If they were simply a machine that got out of control . . .”

  “Captain,” Data said. “In my opinion the current definitions of race need to be reviewed and extended; they no longer meet our needs, as we encounter more life-forms who are clearly sentient.”

  “I see,” Picard said. “I will take this matter under consideration. If there are no more objections to the application of membership . . .” He looked around expectantly. Both Riker and Crusher were silent; they had found no further problems in their prehearing discussion, but others might. When no one spoke, though, Picard returned his attention to the petition.

  “Very well. Jared, you speak as an elected representative of the Vemlan androids—”

  “I object to the use of the phrase Vemlan androids, Captain,” Sawliru said, again taking interest. “The androids left our home in a shambles, and we have no current connection with them—until we put them on trial,” he added.

  Jared, surprisingly, agreed with his opponent. “Captain, my own objection to the phrase stems from the use of the term androids,” he explained. “The term means, literally, ‘a manlike object.’ We wish to enter the Federation as free individual beings, on our own terms and merits, not simply as machines.”

  Picard nodded. “Very well, the words Vemlan androids are to be struck from the record and replaced with . . . what do you want to call yourselves?”

  Jared, Kurta and Data conversed heatedly for a few moments, accelerating the speed of their conversation to a near squeal. They stopped abruptly, and Jared turned back to Picard.

  “Captain, we would like our race to be known henceforth as Spartacans, in honor of a man from your own world’s history. Spartacus was—”

  “I am aware of his historical significance,” he interrupted, not wanting to clutter up the record with a history lecture. “Let the record be amended to replace the words Vemlan with Spartacan and androids with people. Will that be satisfactory?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the three androids said in unison.

  “Now that that is settled, we can continue. I have at least one question regarding the future of your proposed membership in the Federation, Jared. There is the matter of the lack of a planet. Though not absolutely central to the issue at hand, I would like to know, for the record, what the Spartacans plan on doing, should their application be accepted. What contributions to Federation society and culture can you make? Do you intend to be itinerant for your entire existence?”

  “My people wish to colonize an uninhabited system, somewhere inside the Federation. The exact location we leave up to the Federation.”

  “What are your planetary needs? Atmosphere, radiation tolerance, that sort of thing?”

  Jared considered. “Our needs are very small, Captain. Think of the resources I have at my disposal. I have four hundred eager, willing, tireless workers who will toil ceaselessly to create the homeland that they have dreamt of for so long. If you have no prosperous planet to give us, Captain, give us your most vile ball of muddy rock and in one generation—one of yours, that is—we will build a sterling example of what our race, living at its fullest potential, can do. We will build a city, and a garden around it, and our art and our culture shall be known throughout the civilized galaxy. Just give us a place to work and we will build magnificently!” he said, with a flourish of his hands.

  “But will you build wisely?” Sawliru asked. Jared turned to face the Force Commander, who stood, an expression of overpowering intensity on his face. He emerged from behind the confining table and stood next to his opponent, fixing Jared with a steely glare.

  “You are, by your own admission, living, thinking, feeling beings,” Sawliru said, emphasizing each word precisely. “I have my doubts about some of those claims, and I have had enough personal experience to know the falseness of others. You are, I will admit, incredible creations, capable of building even more incredible creations.” The commander’s voice became more personal, more direct. He was not debating now, Picard knew; he was speaking his own mind.

  “You can do anything,” Sawliru declared, hands raised in mock salute. “Each and every one of you has the potential to build an entire civilization on your own. We built that capability into you. You can do a hundred different complex things at once, and write great poetry on the side. And you wish to go off and build this beautiful homeworld, this wonder of the galaxy,” he said, envisioning the place and its professed wonder. Then he turned his eyes back to Jared. “Well, I cannot fault you for that.

  “But I want to know something,” he said, including Data and Kurta in his question with a gesture. “I want to know what makes you think that you’re going to be all that successful? Yes, we built you, with help from our Saren friends, and we built you well, but what makes you think that you will be able to do any better than we did?” Data and Jared returned blank stares to the commander. Kurta did not look up at him, as if this thought had occurred to her, too.

  “You lack the one thing that not all the programming, not all the learning, not all the data core dumps in the universe can give you—experience. Your race, as you call it, has only been around a few pitiful centuries. Your ancestors, mere computers and adding machines, are only a few centuries older. My race had to climb out of the mud,” Sawliru declared, “from one tiny little cell in some puddle of muck, and fight and survive and wait several million years before we earned the right to think. There are things I know that you will never know. Things that you can never know,” he said in a low, emphatic voice.

  Sawliru turned suddenly to face the panel with an intent glow in his eyes. The sweat of exertion was on his brow, and he took a breath before he continued. “Captain, you may well decide to accept the androids in your precious Federation. I really don’t care. But despite his pretty words and his fast talking, the conglomeration of metal and plastic standing next to me is of infinitesimal value when compared to the wealth of experience the smallest rodent has.” Sawliru circled Jared, who stood stock still, and directed questions at him as if the android were a museum exhibit.

  “When will he act by instinct?” he asked, his hands held out questioningly, as if they were groping for some hidden answer. “When will he have a gut feeling, or a sense of honor? Or duty? When he sees a thousand men die for no reason, will he know that it has to stop? Or will he decide that he can always make more? When will he see a moon and feel its mystical power, rather than reflect on its orbital trajectory and specific gravity?” He waited a moment, his eyes wide, as the crowd drank in his words.

  “Never,” he answered himself, with a tone of finality. “Not in a million years. He hasn’t the experience, either personally or biologically.” Sawliru took a moment, caught his breath. He gave one last look at Jared, then turned to look at Data and
Kurta, who were still seated. Data’s face was impassive. Kurta stared at the floor. Sawliru looked vaguely satisfied and at the same time, strangely enough, vaguely saddened. The commander focused his attention back on Picard and the panel.

  “I tell you now, Captain, disregarding his crimes, which are heinous, his treachery, which is infamous, and his lack of respect for true life, which should be apparent to us all, this ‘living being’ can never truly be alive.” He glanced back once more over his shoulder at Jared. “He can merely pretend to be.

  “But he got that from us, as well,” Sawliru reflected quietly, and returned slowly to his seat. He did not so much as glance at Alkirg as he sat down.

  Jared had listened intently to the speech, and as Sawliru sat, he traded looks with Kurta and went to the center of the floor, in front of the panel. He then began clapping, slowly and intently, the painful sarcasm of his applause escaping no one.

  “Very good, Force Commander,” he said, his low voice openly scornful. “An excellent performance, if I do say so myself. Had you foregone your military career, no doubt there would be a bright spot for you on a stage someplace. Yet, despite your eloquent soliloquy, there is more to this life than experience.”

  He turned to the crowd, his back to the panel, and spoke to them. He didn’t have the same flair for words as Sawliru, but his passion, programmed or not, was every bit as intense. “What experience has a baby at birth? None. A baby has no intuition, gut feelings, or sense of honor, or duty.”

  He began to pace in front of the audience. Data seemed even more interested than before, and the others followed Jared hypnotically. Only Sawliru paid no attention, his thoughts his own. Alkirg, Picard noted, was openly glaring at the android. “Yet do you condemn a babe to death because of what it is? Your son, perhaps? Would you allow him to die, cursing him for idiocy, because he didn’t have the capacity for all those grand and glorious sensations the day he was born?” he said, and turned. “Or would you cherish him for his potential?”