by David Mack
* * *
Reclaiming his ready room might rate as an insignificant victory in the grand scheme of sentient events, but all the same it came as a relief and comfort to Picard. Through his open door he saw the ten-person damage-control team working with speed and efficiency to complete their repairs to the bridge so that it could resume normal operations within the hour. Normally, Picard would have closed his door for the sake of privacy, but it heartened him to observe progress happening in real time. Though much of the rest of the ship still had many hours of work left before key systems could be restored, having the bridge back on line would be a boon to both operations and morale, both of which were presently in urgent need of improvement.
He sat at his desk, half reclined in his chair and holding a padd, on which he reviewed old logs he had accessed after his chat with Worf. His quiet ruminations were interrupted by Wesley Crusher’s head poking through his doorway. “You asked to see me, Captain?”
“I did.” He beckoned the younger man toward the guest chairs. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course.” Wesley stepped inside. “How can I help?”
Picard used a control panel on his desktop to close the door, then straightened his posture as Wesley sat down across from him. He pushed the padd across the desk. “Do you recall your accident while working with Kosinski’s warp bubble equations?”
Brow creased, Wesley replied, “The one that trapped my mother in a shrinking pocket universe where everyone she knew kept disappearing?” Picard nodded. “What about it?”
“When you were about to give up hope, what happened?”
“The Traveler appeared.” He shook his head. “So?”
Picard leaned forward. “How did he find you? How did he come to you at that moment?”
“I’ve asked him about that. It’s a bit complicated, but the short version would be that he made a point of keeping tabs on me. When he felt my panic at losing Mom, he homed in on it by concentrating on his memory of me, and then he moved himself through space-time to join me.”
That was the answer Picard had hoped to hear. Now he had to ask the equally important follow-up query. “Do you think you could accomplish a similar feat?”
“I’ve done it before. Riker and Troi’s wedding, remember?”
He winced at the memory of Wesley appearing out of thin air—stark naked, because he had mistakenly assumed he was returning for the Betazoid ceremony rather than the Terran one. “All too well, I assure you.” Banishing that image from his mind, he continued. “I need to ask you to put that talent to use on our behalf.”
“You want me to find Data.”
“Yes.”
A subtle groan of dismay foreshadowed Wesley’s bad news. “It might not be that simple, Captain. As I understand it, the person you’re asking me to find isn’t the original Data.”
“That’s true—but is it relevant?”
“It could be. I came to terms years ago with the idea that Data was dead. In my mind, the man I knew is gone. And the one you want me to find . . . well, to be blunt, I’ve never met him.”
It seemed such a petty distinction to Picard, whose emotions surfaced in an outburst: “But it’s Data, damn it! The same memories, the same personality—”
“In a completely different body, with new memories added to the old ones.” Wesley shook his head. “I know it must seem like I’m splitting hairs, but in a lot of important ways, this is a completely different person than the Data we knew. If you want me to help you find him, I won’t be able to do it alone. I’ll need help—lots of it.”
“From whom? The other Travelers?”
“No, from you and the rest of the crew. It’ll be like the time we had to help my mentor bring the Enterprise-D home from beyond the edge of the universe, by focusing our thoughts on his health and strength. Except this time, everyone on the ship who’s seen the new Data will need to picture him in their imaginations, as clearly as they can. And if you have any images or vids of the new Data that I can meditate on, that would be a big help.”
Picard nodded. “I’ll have Lieutenant Šmrhová provide you with everything you’ll need, and I’ll address the crew as soon as you’re ready to begin.”
Wesley accepted the mission with a broad, sincere smile. “Sounds like a plan.”
That was the moment to usher the younger man out of the ready room, but Picard hesitated. His mask of confidence slipped by only the slightest degree, but even that was more than enough to cue Wesley that something was amiss. He leaned forward. “You have something else on your mind, don’t you, Captain?”
“I do.” Picard had hoped he could restrain himself from broaching the subject, but to try to brush it under the carpet now would only make the moment more awkward. “I spoke with Bev—with your mother. Regarding your conversation a few hours ago.”
A slow, sage nod. “And what did my mother tell you I said?”
“Let’s not dwell on the details,” Picard said. “Rehashing the argument serves no purpose. But I think it might help if the three of us could be truthful with one another about our feelings.”
Wesley’s demeanor turned cagey. “What feelings, exactly?”
“Fear. And not just the kind that would impel you to suggest my wife flee with my son and abandon me. I’m talking about your mother’s fear that you’ve become something she no longer recognizes completely. She’s afraid you’re losing touch with your humanity.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?” A crooked and humorless smile underscored Wesley’s cynical tone. “After all, you didn’t bring me in here to ask a favor of my humanity.”
“No, but the Enterprise is here because you asked a favor of ours.”
Wesley looked at the deck, his prideful veneer shattered. “Touché.”
Picard could see he’d scored a more palpable hit to the younger man’s ego than he’d intended. He softened his words as he continued. “Wesley, I think your mother just wants to know whether you still think of yourself as human.”
Troubled expressions played across Wesley’s bearded face. “It’s not the kind of question that can be answered with a simple yes or no. How much does a person have to change before we stop calling them human? Is it about genetic compatibility? Cosmetic changes? Intelligence?
“I’ll be honest with you, Captain: I don’t really know. Maybe I’m a mutant, a punctuated step in the long equilibrium of human evolution. Maybe I’m a fluke of the cosmos, or the product of alien tampering, or a harbinger of the future.
“Some days I skirt the edges of the universe, or move past the limitations of simple four-dimensional space-time, and I feel like a demigod. Other times, I find myself standing on planets with no names, marveling at the scent of fresh air and the texture of cool grass beneath my bare feet, and I feel more human than I ever dreamed was possible.
“Am I human? Or an alien?” He shrugged. “I have no idea.” He stood, and Picard did the same, circling his desk to face this man who once had looked up to him and now was ever so slightly taller than him. Wesley offered Picard his hand, and he clasped it. The Traveler smiled. “What I can tell you is this: I’m here to help, in any way that my abilities and conscience will allow. And no matter how strange I might seem, I’m always your friend.”
“Of that,” Picard said with a smile, “I never had any doubt.”
* * *
Reality is an illusion. That was the first truth behind all of the Travelers’ secrets, the one against which Wesley had railed the hardest, the one he had found the most difficult to embrace. Only after it had been shown to him, in a moment when his own fury had pushed him outside of time’s endless flow into the abyss, had he been able to start walking the path to understanding. Now it formed the foundation of his meditations, the bedrock of his metaphysical existence.
There had been many other truths to accept: space-time, matter, energy, and thought are all expressions of the same thing. There is neither life nor death, no beginning, no end—only a wave fun
ction forever collapsing and unraveling once more; to those trapped inside it, unable to see beyond the frame of their perceptions, history appears to be the amber of fate, a prison for outcomes revealed. But to a Traveler, all endings occur, and all answers are possible. One needs only the vision of the illuminated to see the infinite journeys of the multiverse.
Against such revelations, what could be the challenge in finding one being?
It was a false equivalence, and he knew it. Seeing the universe for what it is was like seeing a haystack ninety-three billion light-years across; trying to find a specific conglomeration of particles, energy, and information—in other words, a person—in all of that quasi-illusory emptiness was the equivalent of looking for a microscopic needle buried in that haystack.
He had spent the last hour studying vids of the new Data that had been recorded by the Enterprise’s internal sensors during the android’s most recent visits. The captain had also given him a number of high-resolution images of Data, who now resembled the youthful portrait of his late creator, famed cyberneticist Doctor Noonien Soong. Gone were the android’s trademark metallic complexion and pale, almost colorless eyes. In their place, a truly human visage, with fair skin, piercing blue eyes, and a casually tousled head of light brown hair.
The image of Data was fixed in his imagination. All that remained now was to seek him out in the vast galactic desert of interstellar space. He drew a calming breath, then said aloud, “Wesley Crusher to Captain Picard. I’m ready.”
“Acknowledged,” the captain said. A moment later, his voice resounded in the corridor outside Wesley’s guest quarters, as he addressed the entire crew over the ship’s PA system. “Attention, all decks: this is the captain. The following is a direct order. Halt whatever task you are performing and focus your thoughts on the person of our friend and colleague, Mister Data. Think of him as you last saw him. Picture his face, hear his voice. Concentrate upon him with as much clarity as you can achieve. I repeat, this is an order. Focus your minds on Mister Data.”
Wesley felt the crew’s mental invocation of Data, and the power of their collective attention flowed through him. It helped that there were a fair number of Vulcans, Betazoids, and members of other psionically talented species in the ship’s complement. He focused his own thoughts, transforming himself into a psionic lens for the crew’s combined mindpower, and cast it into the cosmic zeitgeist like a stone into the still waters of a small pond.
Then he attuned himself to the frequency of the idea he had broadcast, watched the ripples propagate across space-time at the speed of thought . . . and waited.
In theory, it would work something like echo-location. If and when his projection made contact with Data, the wave front would be broken and part of it would reflect back to Wesley, like a ripple colliding with a boulder jutting from the surface of the water.
Minutes slipped away, and Wesley marshaled all his experience and training to keep his mind focused on the still waters of space-time, seeking out that one infinitesimal disturbance—
There it is! A returning ripple, clear and steady. He knew on contact that it had come from a stationary source. His mind followed the path across tens of thousands of light-years, until he saw Data, sitting alone, his expression patient and serene.
Not wanting to risk losing his focus on Data, Wesley knew there was no time to alert the Enterprise crew. He would simply have to take a chance and make the jaunt to Data while he could. Eyes squeezed shut, he untethered himself in four dimensions and saw himself—
* * *
—standing in front of Data.
The android stood up, and his voice was bright with surprise. “Wesley!”
“Hi, Data. It’s been a long time.”
The homily seemed to amuse Data. “Longer for you than for me, I suspect.”
“Still milking that whole ‘I was dead’ thing, huh?” Wesley looked around the drab brig. It looked as if someone had put the ship into service only half-built. Panels were missing from bulkheads, exposing machinery and cabling; gaps in the deck plating made the corridor look like a precarious variation on a hopscotch grid. “Traveling first class, I see.”
“The accommodations leave much to be desired.” Data nodded past Wesley, directing his attention to the cell behind him. “I do not believe you have met my fellow prisoner. This is Akharin, a six-thousand-year-old immortal human from Earth. Akharin, this is Wesley Crusher, a human who has evolved into an extradimensional being known as a Traveler.”
The gray-haired, square-jawed man with a penetrating stare nodded in salutation. “Good to meet you. I’d shake your hand, but . . .” He glanced at the force field emitters between them.
“I get the picture.” Wesley turned back toward Data. “So, how long before the intruder alert sounds?”
“I suspect it already has.” He looked up and around. “Altanexa is a sentient vessel. She likely noted your arrival the moment it happened, and alerted the crew without delay.”
“Perfect. Look, I’m here to bring you to the Enterprise. Do you have a ship nearby?”
Data shook his head. “No, but it makes no difference. I am not ready to leave.”
Wesley pointed at Akharin. “Because of him, right? Geordi told me all about it.”
Akharin and Data traded looks freighted with meaning, and then the android said, “The situation is a bit more complicated than I had expected. Rhea McAdams is aboard.”
Wesley was distracted for a moment by the approaching clamor of running steps. He didn’t have much time left to speak freely. “Who’s that?”
The Immortal replied, “My daughter.”
“A holotronic android,” Data said. “And the woman I love.”
“This just gets better all the time,” Wesley said.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Akharin said, “what do you want with Data?”
“My friends are trying to stop a planet-sized killer machine at the center of the galaxy, and we need to find a sentient AI that can talk to it.”
Akharin rolled his eyes. “Boy, have you come to the right place.”
Thundering footfalls resounded in the corridor to Wesley’s right, and he turned to face the arriving members of the ship’s crew. At the front of the group was a massive humanoid with a grotesque face. Behind him was a motley assemblage of mechanical beings, some with shapes that seemed to imitate forms from nature, some that looked like factory equipment come to life. All of them were pointing weapons at Wesley; a few were carrying pistols or rifles, but several appeared to have weapons built into their bodies.
Wesley met the belligerent machines with a smile and a small wave. “Hi.”
16
Gatt’s first instinct was to kill the intruder, but he had no idea how the human had come aboard Altanexa, and that meant he might be more dangerous than he appeared. “Who are you?”
The robed human offered his hand in greeting. “Wesley Crusher, Traveler. And you are?”
“The last person you’ll see before you die.” He centered his aim, fixing his disruptor’s crosshairs between the man’s eyes.
Data interjected, “Wesley, this charming fellow is Gatt. He leads this faction of AIs.”
“Got it.” Wesley faced Gatt. “So, how do you want to do this? Can we sit down and talk like reasonable people? Or do you need to go through the motions of taking me prisoner first?”
A rising whine of charging energy weapons filled the air. Gatt was about to open fire and bring down a barrage on the interloper when he heard Tyros’s voice inside his head.
He scowled as he projected his reply up to the nerve center, from which Tyros was observing events via the security network. It means he’s just passing through.
This was taking too long. So what if he did?
Vexed but morbidly curious, Gatt k
ept both his stare and his weapon steady. “What will you do if we open fire?”
“Stop time, step clear, and laugh at you.”
There was no shift in the human’s pulse, body temperature, or brainwaves that might suggest he was lying, and the unwavering focus of his gaze made it clear he wasn’t the least bit afraid. Either he was telling the truth, or he was completely insane. Intrigued, Gatt lowered his disruptor by a few degrees. “And you can do this because you’re a Traveler.”
“Check out the big brain on Gatt. That’s right. Because I’m a Traveler.”
The more the human talked, the more Gatt hated him. “And that’s how you came aboard my ship? Using these abilities of yours?”
The Traveler’s cocky, aggressive smile radiated contempt. “Right again.”
“Then you could vanish and go back where you came from anytime you want.”
“Pretty much.”
Gatt lifted his disruptor back into position. “I suggest you do so.”
“Sorry, no can do.”
Again the disruptor fell. “Why not?”
“Because I came to this ship on a mission, and I won’t leave until it’s accomplished.”
Turning his hateful glare first at Data and then at Akharin, Gatt replied, “That’s becoming a common refrain on this ship.” He was losing patience with the human. “What do you want?”
“To bring Data with me to the center of the galaxy, so he can help me stop a giant sentient machine from destroying subspace and exterminating all life in the Milky Way.”
Is he mocking me? Gatt engaged all the sensors with which he’d been imbued by his creators centuries ago: voice-stress analyzers, measures of galvanic skin response, pupil-dilation detectors, blood pressure gauges, and half a dozen other systems deemed integral to a Brovdoss-9 interrogation model such as himself. None of them registered the slightest indication of lying by the human. Could his absurd tale of a planet-sized sentient machine be true? If so, making contact with an entity of such power and advanced capabilities could be the chance of a lifetime.
