STAR TREK: TNG - Do Comets Dream?

by S P Somtow

  The more data came in from her medical tricorder, the less sanguine Beverly Crusher was. She didn’t want to lose hope. After all, this boy was the last survivor of an ancient civilization. And he was just a kid.

  “How’s your research going?” Deanna Troi had beamed into the corridor, and was squeezing her way into the tiny control chamber. “The captain says there’s not much time left.”

  “Do you feel anything?” Beverly said.

  “Only the rage,” Deanna said. “And underneath the rage, there’s a sense of—fulfillment. He knows his mission has reached the final stage.”

  “We’re going about this all wrong,” Beverly said. “We’re being too humancentric. I’ve been thinking, if we can only pull the boy’s body loose from the matrix of artificial neurons, we’ll have a kid to [226] save—but that’s wrong, isn’t it? The boy’s body is an empty shell. His real body is the comet.”

  Deanna closed her eyes. Beverly could see her stiffen as empathie vibrations racked her mind.

  “What do you feel?” Beverly said.

  “Loneliness. Rage.”

  Deanna was trembling.

  “Let’s get back to the Enterprise,” said Beverly.

  The conference room was packed and tense. Deanna, sitting at the opposite end of the table from the captain, was barraged with contradictory emotions. If only they had felt what she felt—truly felt it!

  “Captain,” Worf was insisting, “we have no right to make the thanopstru’s decisions for it. Even though it is a child, it has chosen a glorious death in warfare, and it would be dishonorable to deny it that.”

  “Is there a way we can buy time?” Picard said. “Mr. La Forge.”

  “Primitive technology, but we could weld some thrusters onto the planet-facing side of the comet and force it off course—send it veering off into space, perhaps slingshotting it against Thanet’s gravity well,” La Forge said. “The comet would have to cooperate, though.”

  “How can we guarantee the thanopstru’s cooperation?” Picard looked at the others.

  “We need to calm his rage,” Deanna said. “The anger is what drives that comet. Perhaps if he could [227] start communicating with other people—children his own age, even.”

  “Work on it,” Picard said. “How long until you can get your thrusters in place, Mr. La Forge?”

  “The ship’s computer has some ancient blueprints; a couple of replicators should be able to spit them right out. We’ll just need a couple of people to beam onto the comet’s surface and mount them. A pinpoint phaser blast could ignite them—I would say a half hour. And we should know within the hour if it’s going to work—plenty of time left to destroy the comet if not.”

  “Make it so,” Picard said.

  “Captain,” said Worf. “Should we bring back all the Federation personnel to the ship? As a security measure—in case we fail.”

  “Who is left?”

  La Forge said, “Dr. Halliday and his son—and Commander Data. Dr. Halliday specifically asked to remain as long as possible; he thinks that the end-of-the-world festivities are of anthropological interest. And Lieutenant Tarses, sir. He’s down there at the request of Kio sar-Bensu.”

  “Make sure they know that we will beam all of them up from the planet’s surface in sixty minutes. If all goes well, they can always return.”

  “I’ll tell them,” said La Forge.

  Thanet floated serenely beneath them, but the activity on the comet’s surface was far from serene. [228] Worf and two crew members, Patricia Ballard and Joe Byers, had beamed onto the comet’s surface. The young Norwegian ensign, Engvig, had come along too, and was quietly observing in the background, doubtless gathering material for his next prize-winning essay. The thrusters Geordi La Forge had rigged up were light, made from a titanium alloy; each contained a powerful miniature energy coil capable of short, sharp bursts of enough energy to slingshot the comet away from its trajectory and out into deep space.

  The Klingon was on his guard as always; the crew members, lumbering in their pressure suits and magnetic shoes, seemed to be treating it as a routine job, just like any other starship repair.

  “Be wary,” Worf barked into his communicator. “This is to be treated with the same precautions as boarding an enemy vessel.”

  Inside the comet, more activity: Deanna Troi was communicating with Artas once more. A small viewscreen had been beamed aboard the comet with her; it connected directly to the Enterprise’s onboard school. Images of happy children: it was their snack break time, and they were laughing, running around in a holographic meadow. Deanna knew that Artas could sense things that happened in the chamber; there were eyes and ears in the inner room, sensors in the walls, designed to safeguard against intrusion and sabotage no doubt. On the little screen, four [229] children were in music class now, struggling through a Mozart string quartet. It was a little painful to hear, but the delight in their faces was infectious. She wondered if Artas could feel it.

  I’m back, she called out in her mind. I’ve brought you friends.

  The children on the viewscreen stopped playing, waved. “Artas!” they called out.

  I don’t have friends. I only have the hate.

  “Look, Artas—how long has it been since you’ve played with other children?” She spoke aloud now, so that the children on the Enterprise could listen in.

  I am not here to play. I’m here to hate.

  “Do you want to know their names?”

  The children of the Enterprise came up to the screen, one by one. There was slender Rosita and chubby Kudaka. “Hello, Artas,” they said. Not all of them were sweet: one was quite grumpy, another rubbed his eyes and wanted to go back to his nap.

  Who are these children? came Artas’s voice.

  “They’re here to say hello to you—because you’ve been without friends for so long. They want you to join them.”

  Join them! This is temptation. I was warned there would be temptations.

  “No, Artashka.”

  How did you know my baby name?

  “I heard your mother call you by it—five thousand years ago.”

  You are my mother—I asked you that when you [230] first came here. And you wouldn’t tell me. Only my mother ever called me that. Why aren’t you telling me the truth?

  “I am telling you the truth, Artas. I saw your mother in—a vision—and she saw me. She thought I was an angel, but I’m really an—alien.”

  Alien?

  “Yes. From a planet that’s neither Tanith or Thanet.”

  There are no worlds besides Tanith and Thanet—two peoples locked in an endless conflict—the positive and the negative—death and birth—love and hate—the dance of the two worlds keeps the cosmos in motion.

  “That’s in your Holy Book, but the people who wrote it didn’t know about the other worlds—listen—”

  Kudaka, on screen, smiled shyly and said, “I’m from Earth, but Deanna’s part Betazoid, that’s why you and she can talk better than we can.”

  T’Paruv, a solemn boy, said, “My parents are from Vulcan. It is illogical for you to be doing what you are doing. The war has been over for five thousand years, and Tanith is no more.”

  This is a trick!

  “No, it’s not. I promised your mother—in my vision—that I would save you—that I would not let you perish in vain,” Deanna said.

  It isn’t in vain! What you’re showing me now is worse than if you’d just let me do what I have to do. My mother’s death needs to be avenged. And my brother Indhuon. And even the Shivan-Jalar, who raised my mother up to glory in the moments before [231] our world was destroyed. Why are you trying to tell me to change?

  “Because the universe has changed, Artashka,” Deanna said softly. “The cosmos is no longer what you were taught. And you, Artashka, are no longer what you were taught to believe yourself to be.”

  I am the thanopstru. I am the god.

  The children were playing leapfrog in the holographic garden—there
was a rainbow in the sky—soft music, childish laughter—

  Do not tempt me.

  A voice in Deanna Troi’s ear: “Progress report, Counselor?”

  “I’m having a dialogue, of sorts, Captain,” she responded. “Little else.”

  “The thrusters are just about in place, Captain,” came the voice of Worf, from the comet’s surface.

  I heard that! came Artas’s voice. You tricked me! I’m going to destroy all of you.

  As the last thruster was bolted into position, it all began to unravel. Worf was just reporting back to the Enterprise when the surface of the comet began to buckle around them. Metal plates ground against each other. Cracks formed in the crust now, and through the cracks a cold blue lightning flashed.

  A metal tendril pushed out through a crack. It was jointed, segmented, like an earthworm. It writhed, wrapped itself around one of the thrusters, and yanked—

  [238] Worf whipped out a phaser, launched a bolt of lethal lightning at the tentacle. Like a living thing, it thrashed about—evaporated abruptly in a shower of sparks and metal dust—

  More tendrils now, twisting, thrusting, retracting. Suddenly, Worf noticed a tendril uncoiling its way toward Ballard.

  “The lieutenant!” he shouted.

  Suddenly, Ensign Engvig was there, darting toward Ballard, trying to fend off the metal snakes.

  “Do not be a hero, Ensign!” Worf shouted. “Let us handle this!”

  One seized Lieutenant Ballard and began to squeeze and—

  “Commander, it’s gonna puncture my pressure suit and—” Worf heard the young lieutenant’s voice in his ear.

  The tendril caught Èngvig, too! It wound its way around him and Ballard, tightening, jabbing. Worf could see the young man’s eyes.

  Worf and Byers fired repeatedly. The comet’s surface quaked again, ruining their aim. Lines of concentrated light lanced the blackness, dissipated in empty space. Ballard was writhing in the grip of the tendrils and—

  The metal tentacles came thick and fast now, pushing their way up from the surface, surrounding the lieutenant, throttling, squeezing harder and—

  Ballard’s scream was cut off and—

  Worf winced. It was too late to help her. And [233] Engvig’s suit would be breached in seconds unless—

  Ballard exploded in the unforgiving vacuum. Bloodred mist hung around the limp pressure suit, illumined by Thanet’s reflected light. Pieces of the suit were drifting toward Thanet.

  The explosion had been eerie and silent in the airlessness of space. Now, as they watched helplessly, the tentacles were ripping out the thrusters, and one of them was making its way toward Byers.

  “Enterprise, Enterprise,” Worf shouted, “get a lock on us and get us out of here!”

  You tricked me! But I’m not turning away from vengeance.

  “No! I need another chance!” Deanna was saying as the familiar dislocation of the transporter tingled about her and she vanished from the inner chamber—

  They danced in the streets, clung together with a feverish desperation, and Simon told Kio stories about the Romulans—and Earth. On Thanet, the continents were clustered at the equator—there was no cold country, no land of the midnight sun.

  “I can’t help it—deep down, I still believe this is our last hour together—that the world will end,” Kio said.

  They kissed.

  And kissed again.

  * * *

  [234] Data followed Adam down to the wharf. The boy was stuffing himself with end-of-the-world cakes, talking up a storm. “I’m not going back to the institute when we leave Thanet, Data. It would be like going back to jail. I mean, I’ve had a whole planet to wander about in. And look at all the stuff I’ve seen—they can’t keep me in a place like that even if I am a genius.”

  Data paused to take in the scene at the wharf. There were hundreds of boats, all lit up, longboats with elaborately carved sterns and prows, and out in the bay, a dailong breasting the tide with a hundred dailong riders waving torches, and bonfires burning everywhere.

  By the water, celebrants were banging drums, leaping, laughing. A group of naked dancers ran up and down the steps, slashing at each other with scythe-shaped knives. From time to time, one collapsed, bleeding, while the others ignored him.

  “Oh, it’s the death dancers,” Adam explained. “They’ve been practicing this dance since childhood, but until tonight they only used wooden knives. Tonight’s the real thing, it’s like the culmination of everything they worked for and was passed down to them from generation to generation.”

  They walked on. “And over there,” Adam said, pointing, “those are the prophets. Look at them.” They stood on boxes, on makeshift flat boulders, and each one of them was shaggy-haired and bearded and wore nothing but a tattered loincloth or an ill-fitting robe, and each was calling upon his audience [235] to repent, to make sure they were reborn in the new world pure and unstained by sin.

  Musicians banged on makeshift instruments. In one corner a bard sang while his lyre emitted patterns of striated light. In a small square surrounded by stalls that sold images of the gods, children forlornly skipped rope.

  “You can tell by the caste-mark on their foreheads,” Adam told Data, “these kids would have been going through a Mahal Fartash ceremony next year, where they’d be chosen by one of the elite training schools—kinda like the institute I got put into, except that they were really looking forward to it, I guess.”

  The boy was an inexhaustible source of facts. Data filed away each tidbit; all the data on Thanet would be assembled, all the images preserved; the Federation thrived on information.

  “You have observed a great deal,” Data said.

  “Human children,” Adam said, “can observe a lot—and nobody observes them. They don’t realize that we’re watching.”

  “That is like me,” Data said. “I gather background information constantly; I cannot help myself; it is my basic operational mode. But because I resemble humans, they sometimes forget how much I have absorbed.”

  “I knew we’d get along,” Adam said.

  “Are we getting along?”

  “Sure,” Adam said, laughing.

  [236] “You’re the best friend I ever had,” he said suddenly.

  “Why?”

  “Because you can always make me laugh, and because you’re really patient with me. No one else is. It’s always, ‘Adam, not now,’ or ‘Adam, shut up.’ ”

  “I am honored to receive your friendship, and I shall try to prove worthy of it,” said Data. “Was that a good response?”

  “The best,” Adam said.

  They had wandered far from the pier now, through alleys and into a labyrinthine marketplace which amazingly enough was doing brisk business—though Data noticed that little money was changing hands. Instead, the sellers in their canvas-covered stalls were giving everything away.

  “A beautiful rug, sir,” said an old woman, gripping his arm. “My family spent a year weaving it—let it be yours for the last minutes of this cycle, so that my family can claim the karmic virtue of generosity and be reborn in a higher caste—”

  Data looked at the soft tapestry, realizing it must have taken intense labor, all of it by hand. “I could not deprive you of such a treasure,” he said.

  “Take it,” said Adam. “It’s pau-shafar, a sacred gift; refusing is very bad manners on this planet.”

  “But Adam,” Data said, “I know it is a very valuable object, and I also know that the world is not really going to end in half an hour! So it would feel as though I am cheating her.”

  [237] “Still, take it,” Adam said.

  It was silky smooth. It was so sheer that it folded easily into a square that he could throw over one shoulder, yet it felt strong. The images it depicted were wondrous scenes of ancient Thanetian mythology: the emergence of the first dailong from the primordial ocean, the divine cycle of the cosmos, the sacred mandala of the High Shivantak. The pictures moved, for the fibers of which
the rug was woven were programmed with a short-term color memory algorithm—though the look was primitive, the technology assuredly was not.

  The narrow aisles of the market, which operated under an awning of translucent canvaslike material through which one could still see the constant displays of fireworks in the sky above, were crammed with people, all trying to give things away. As quickly as the merchants handed away their treasures, the recipients tried to unhand them. Members of the beggar caste, traditionally near the bottom of the hierarchy, were decked in finery, with quashgai feathers and pointed pagoda hats that would have cost a lifetime’s panhandling.

  “Take my seven-jeweled ring, my alien friend,” said one merchant to Data, pressing it into his hand.

  “Take it, take it,” Adam said, stuffing another valuable bauble into his pocket. “If you feel guilty, you can always give it back when the world doesn’t end.”

  [238] Data paused to listen to a communication from the ship.

  It was Worf’s gruff voice. “All Federation citizens still on Thanet will be transported back to the ship in six minutes,” he said. “The mission to save the child Artas has failed, I repeat, failed; the comet will be destroyed as soon as everyone is safely on board the Enterprise.”

  “Adam, we must go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Comet’s Song

  THE TRANSPORTER ROOM was in chaos. Deanna was materializing from within the comet, Worf and a shaken Byers from the surface, while Engvig was being transported directly to sickbay, and various Federation stragglers from the planet—Dr. Halliday, Kio, and Simon Tarses—were coming through now.

  Geordi La Forge was there to greet them and to order all the relevant personnel to the bridge to witness the destruction of the comet.

  The transporter thrummed again. This time it was Data and Adam.

  “Adam!” said Halliday. “You shouldn’t go wandering like that—”

  “You never stopped me before,” Adam said. “Besides, Data and I made a discovery that—”