by David Mack
Worf stepped away from the security console and passed Picard as he returned to his seat on the captain’s right. His mien was serious and alert. “Our activities continue to attract interest.”
“The same ship again?” In the week since the Enterprise’s arrival at Azeban V, the crew had detected fleeting signs that they were being shadowed by a cloaked Romulan warbird.
The Klingon’s aspect turned grave. “A new signal has been caught on sensors. Lieutenant Šmrhová and Ensign Rosado have reason to suspect our new observer is a Breen warship.”
Picard frowned in concern. Just as they had been warned by Starfleet Command prior to starting their mission, they had become a locus for the Typhon Pact’s attention. “What of the reports from the Beta Aurealis system? Have they been verified?”
A subtle nod. “A reconnaissance flight by the U.S.S. Starling confirmed the presence of a Tzenkethi mobile surveillance platform. It appears to have been deployed to monitor our operations here.” He shot a disgruntled look at the rings on the viewscreen. “But if they learn how fruitless our efforts have been, they might soon lose interest.”
“I suspect their interest will last as long as our attempts continue.” He called up the most recent tactical scans on the command screen beside his chair. “Run three battle drills at random intervals over the next six shifts.”
“Aye, sir.”
Picard stood and walked aft to the master systems display, where he insinuated himself silently into Elfiki’s work group.
As the other officers took note of his presence, their conversation tapered off, and the svelte Egyptian woman turned and graced Picard with a coy smile. “Captain.”
“Lieutenant. Has your team made any progress since yesterday?”
Anxious, evasive looks traveled back and forth between Elfiki, Clipet, and th’Verroh. “That depends, sir,” Elfiki said. “Do you consider documenting the myriad ways in which our first round of energizing pulses failed to produce anything remotely resembling metaphasic radiation to be evidence of progress?”
“Not as such, no.”
She averted her eyes toward the deck to downplay her mild embarrassment. “Then I guess the answer would be no, we haven’t made any significant progress. Sir.”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Lieutenant. Setbacks and negative results are par for the course in scientific research.” He gestured at the display. “How do you plan to proceed?”
Elfiki nodded at Clipet. “Corrine?”
The chestnut-haired Frenchwoman stepped up to the MSD and began keying in commands, triggering simulations on several screens. “We believe that part of the reason our first round of experiments yielded no change in the rings’ energy output is that too many of the elements and compounds inside the rings are inert. However, there is a high concentration of kytherium in the rings’ dust. I think that if we introduce a catalyst such as corvelite, we could break down the kytherium, releasing a number of highly reactive compounds that might respond to our efforts to initiate metaphasic conversion.”
It was the most promising lead that Picard’s crew had presented to him so far. “Very good. How long until we’re ready to proceed?”
“Four days,” Elfiki said. “We’ll need to replicate a sufficient quantity of the catalyst to seed the rings, but we can’t store that much at once, so we’ll need to stock up to maximum capacity first, then continue production during the distribution phase.”
Picard nodded. “Make it so.”
Elfiki, Clipet, and th’Varroh replied in unison, “Aye, sir.”
Picard returned to his chair. As he settled in, Worf leaned over and said in a low voice, “Do you think their plan will work?”
It was a legitimate question, but not one Picard knew how to answer. “It’s hardly my area of expertise, Number One. But if I were to hazard a guess? I would say no.”
Worf’s glum mood deepened. “I do not understand why the Enterprise was chosen to carry out such an ill-planned experiment. Why not send a science vessel, instead?”
His question led Picard’s eye back to the tactical report on his command screen, and the mounting evidence that the Enterprise appeared to have become the Typhon Pact’s primary object of interest. “I suppose that depends on what, exactly, Starfleet hoped to accomplish by sending us here. If the goal was to replicate the rings of Ba’ku, then perhaps this was an error. But if the idea was to draw the attention of our rivals . . . then I’d have to say we’ve succeeded beyond their wildest expectations.”
• • •
It was a slow day in the Happy Bottom Riding Club, the crew lounge of the Enterprise. Most of the tables were empty, and only a handful of officers and noncoms were scattered around the spacious compartment decorated in aeronautical memorabilia from twentieth-century Earth. Sal, the bartender, set down two glasses of real booze, one each before Geordi La Forge and Ravel Dygan, then stepped away to let the men contemplate the beverages they’d ordered on a mutual dare.
In front of La Forge was a squat tumbler of kanar, a syrupy alcoholic treat from Dygan’s homeworld, Cardassia Prime. The chief engineer picked up the glass and rolled it in a slow circle, testing the viscosity of the fluid within; the kanar moved like industrial lubricant. He took a whiff of it and wrinkled his nose in confusion. Its sweeter notes seemed enticing, but it was laced with a pungent kick that threatened a less than benign drinking experience.
Wary of imbibing, La Forge said to Dygan, “You first.”
The Cardassian operations officer, who was serving on the Enterprise courtesy of the Officer Exchange Program, seemed equally suspicious of his pale golden libation. He held it up to the light, sniffed it, then recoiled in fear and revulsion. “What did you say this was called?”
“Tequila.” A mischievous grin lit up La Forge’s face. “Be careful. It packs a wallop.”
Dygan put down the glass. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”
La Forge laughed. “Of course it is.” He was still chuckling as he shook his head. “I haven’t done something this dumb since I was at the Academy.”
“My friends and I were much the same as cadets at the military academy on Kora II.” The recollection turned his mood wistful. “It’s hard to believe so many of them are gone now. Most of the people I knew back then died in the Dominion War.” He wore a sympathetic expression as he added, “I’m sure that’s a feeling you know all too well.”
La Forge nodded. “Sorry to say, yes.” He stared at the opaque surface of the kanar as he gathered his thoughts. “It’s not that I can’t make new friends, but it seems to get harder as I get older. And sometimes I just don’t seem to get as close to new friends as I did to old ones.”
“That’s the way of things,” Dygan said, staring through the amber lens of liquor in his hand. “We love best those we loved first.” Then he took a maudlin turn. “Some things truly are irreplaceable.” He banished his blue mood with an affected smile. “But sometimes they come back, eh? Your old friend Data, for instance.”
“Yeah. . . . Data.” Being reminded of his best friend’s reincarnation left the normally gregarious La Forge momentarily speechless. More than four years after he had helped Data go to his doom aboard the Scimitar to save Captain Picard from the madman Shinzon and destroy a thalaron weapon that could exterminate entire worlds, La Forge had found himself assisting in his friend’s return—inside the android body his creator, Noonien Soong, had made to enable himself to cheat death. All at once, four years of grief had been made moot; four years of loneliness and slow healing had been rendered meaningless. La Forge was overjoyed to have his friend back, but to his surprise, he had also discovered that he felt angry. He masked his unease with an awkward smile. “I still haven’t really got my head around that.”
Dygan struck an apologetic note. “I didn’t mean to pry, or open old wounds.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He dismissed the perceived offense with a wave of his hand. “As we say on Earth, water under the bridge.”
The younger man’s admission dredged up La Forge’s submerged guilt. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, because I’m not. Having Data back is . . . amazing. If I could’ve done it myself, I would have. But the way it happened raises questions I don’t know how to answer.”
“Such as . . . ?”
At first, La Forge was reluctant to speak. Then he put aside his reticence and decided to confide in Dygan. “Well, for starters, on a purely semantic level, it’s not really him but a copy of him. The original Data—body, mind, and soul—went up in flames with the Scimitar. This new Data has most of the original’s memories . . . but not quite all of them. His memory of that life ends at the moment he uploaded his engrams into B-4’s positronic matrix. But—and here’s the part I can’t quite get a handle on—except for a gap of about a day, he remembers being the Data I knew. And what are we, any of us, except the sum of our experiences? If he remembers the life he lived, how can I say he’s not really him?”
Silent and pensive, Dygan ruminated on those points for a moment. He looked down at the glass in his hand. “Perhaps we should have saved this conversation for after the first round.”
“You opened the floodgates,” La Forge said.
“So I did.” A far-off look in Dygan’s eyes gave La Forge the impression he was thinking something profound. Then the Cardassian said, “I think that if he wasn’t the man you knew, you’d have been able to tell when he was standing in front of you. Did he seem the same?”
La Forge thought back to the moment he saw Data sit up on the worktable inside the lab on Mangala, and the discussion they’d had before he departed the Enterprise in the Archeus, the ship the android had inherited from his father. “Yeah, he did. In every way. . . . It was him, I’d swear it.”
“Then it was him.”
Could it really be that simple? Was it possible that all the philosophical and ontological conundrums that seemed to accompany Data’s resurrection were, in fact, irrelevant? La Forge wanted to think so; questioning his friend’s return had felt like an act of denial, as if he were experiencing the stages of grieving in reverse—in effect, mourning his grief.
“I hope you’re right,” he said.
Dygan slapped a reassuring hand on La Forge’s shoulder. “Trust me, sir.” He lifted his glass, and La Forge did the same as the Cardassian added, “To old friends.”
“To old friends,” La Forge said.
He and Dygan downed their drinks in single pours—then both men doubled over as they sprayed the deck with spit-takes. La Forge gagged and smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in a futile bid to rid it of the sickening taste of kanar, and Dygan dropped his glass as he coughed and gasped for air. From the end of the bar and around the room came the knowing chortles of their shipmates. Pulling himself upright against the bar, La Forge groaned. “An hour from now I’m gonna be really sorry I did that.”
“Then I envy you again,” Dygan said with a grimace, “because I’m sorry now.”
• • •
Joyful shrieks and squeals spilled into the corridor from the Enterprise’s day-care nursery, and Doctor Beverly Crusher felt her son René’s pulse quicken as his excitement level surged in response to the sound of other children playing. The toddler tried to sprint ahead of her, only to be restrained by her gentle hold on his wrist. “Calm down, René,” Crusher said.
The nursery, located a couple of compartments away from sickbay on Deck 7, was a bright and cheerful space set up by the ship’s Denobulan assistant chief medical officer, Doctor Tropp. Its walls and carpeting had been remodeled in soothing pastel hues, and it had been stocked with a variety of toys—some educational, some simply fun, all safe and hypoallergenic.
Crusher let go of René’s hand as the door hushed open ahead of them, and he scampered inside, his cherubic face bright with glee as he joined his friends, a handful of young children of various humanoid species who ranged in age from eighteen months to three and a half years. At two and a half, René was right in the middle of the pack, but his friendly disposition and gentleness of spirit enabled him to interact easily with both the older and younger children. Seeing him hug his friends hello brought Crusher a feeling of contentment and an easy smile.
Looking up, she caught the eye of the nursery’s principal adult supervisor and beckoned him with raised eyebrows and a small wave. Hailan Casmir was an Argelian teacher, musician, and puppeteer who appeared to be in his early thirties. He wore his blond hair in a loose mane that framed his lean, angular features, which were accentuated by his close-cropped, honey-hued beard. Casmir was married to one of the ship’s engineers, a Bajoran woman named Lieutenant Taro Trinell, with whom he had fathered a daughter, Taro Katín, who was just a few months younger than René and had recently become one of the boy’s favorite playmates.
Casmir shook Crusher’s hand. “Doctor. A pleasure, as always.”
“Likewise.” She nodded at René. “I just want to let you know I plan on picking him up early today, around 1400, and he’ll be out tomorrow.”
Her news drew a frown of mild concern from Casmir. “Nothing’s wrong, I hope.”
“No, no. Just routine vaccinations, but he’ll have to be isolated for twenty-four hours afterward, just to make sure he doesn’t suffer any unexpected side effects.” She crossed her arms and observed the children’s playtime frenzy with a clinical eye. “How’s everything going?”
“Splendidly,” Casmir said. “Little René’s become quite the ringleader around here. I don’t know how much of that is natural charisma as opposed to the others’ expectations of him as the captain’s son, but he has a knack for setting the tone to suit his mood.”
“Is that really a good thing?”
He shrugged. “It’s neither good nor bad. He’s got a talent for imitating behaviors that he sees, and for persuading others to join him in doing things that he likes. On the other hand, he still has a bit to learn about sharing with others. But all of this is normal for a child his age.”
She knew that Casmir was right. Her first son, Wesley, had gone through much the same process of socialization, though he had been less prone to taking the lead with his peers. Regardless, she harbored concerns. “Be that as it may, Hailan, try to encourage René to let someone else choose the games once in a while. I don’t want the others to fall into a pattern of treating him differently because he’s the captain’s son.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
His answer sounded agreeable enough, but Crusher sensed there was something he was holding back, something he was trying to avoid saying. “But . . . ” she prompted.
“But . . . as he and his peers get older, if they remain on this ship, it won’t be possible to separate their perception of his identity from his relationship to the captain. It’s a natural part of informal socialization among most humanoids to develop layers of hierarchy. In earlier, less developed cultures, adolescent social groups often split along economic lines. These days, the divisions are usually based on achievements, in either academics or athletics. But on board a starship, where life is far more regimented, and a system of military rank defines the interactions of adults, children tend to model their relationships on those they see every day.”
Crusher’s first impulse was to debate Casmir’s point, but she recalled having seen signs of exactly that kind of unconscious caste system aboard other starships on which she’d served, and it was consistent with accounts she’d heard from people who had grown up on starships or starbases. Children of officers tended to socialize with one another, as did the children of noncoms and enlisted personnel. Friendships that bridged those social divisions were
common enough among younger children, but in adolescence, cliques tended to self-segregate based on any number of perceived criteria—including not just achievement but also popularity, species, and, yes, the ranks of their Starfleet parents.
Still, it was difficult for her to imagine her sweet, towheaded boy ever engaging in such superficial discrimination. “You raise some good points,” she said to Casmir, “but I’m not sure it’s as inevitable as you make it sound. After all, my first son, Wesley, was the child of two Starfleet officers, and he never treated others that way.”
Casmir nodded. “You’re right—the scenario I’m suggesting is far from preordained. Children’s natural tendencies, the size of their social group, and how they’re raised can all make a huge difference. Though I’d be willing to guess that in the case of your first son, he didn’t start his socialization process as the son of the commanding officer.”
“No, he didn’t.” She turned away from Casmir, hoping to call over René for a farewell hug and a kiss on the cheek before she left to start her shift in sickbay. Then she saw the boy deep in play with his peers, turning tight circles in eager, choppy steps, all of them laughing and whooping and making a happy noise that filled the room. All thought of interrupting him left her mind, and she let herself enjoy the sight of children at play . . . until she realized why their motions all looked so familiar. They all were chasing one another with arms outstretched, fists clenched, thumbs jabbed forward as they whooped at the tops of their lungs; they were pantomiming the firing of phasers, pretending to stun one another, collapsing atop one another in comical piles. And the last child standing was René, who opened his fist long enough to swat the left side of his chest, like a Starfleet officer tapping his combadge to open a channel.
