by David Mack
“I disagree,” Wesley said, his confidence not the least bit shaken by the rejection. “It could even be used for travel, once the network was stable. But the point is that long after your work of art will have faded, this would still exist, and it would preserve the greatest amount of information with the highest degree of fidelity for the longest possible duration, until the moment the last star dies—and possibly beyond, if bridges to newly formed multiverses can be established and maintained. It would be a creation for the good of all intelligent life in the cosmos—a far more worthy legacy for the Body Electric than a piece of art that will fade in a trillion years.”
“My people could make it possible for you to reach any part of the universe—in an instant. We’re known as Travelers, and if you were willing to coexist with us, we could show you possibilities beyond your science. Together, we could achieve what neither of us can do alone. We could expand your reach to the end of space—and the end of time.”
Data replied, Look into my memory files. I will share with you my own memory of the Travelers’ abilities, and you will know that Wesley speaks the truth.
He felt the heady rush of power from the Machine as it made contact with his mind and downloaded the memory files he offered, the ones that detailed the Traveler who propelled the Enterprise-D beyond the edge of the physical universe by the power of thought alone.
“There’s more we can show you,” Wesley said. He detached a padd from his suit’s chest plate and handed it to a nearby avatar of the Machine. “On this device is one of the Travelers’ formulas for tapping into the dark energy of the universe. With that power, the project I’ve proposed will be possible, even after the cosmos begins its Dark Era of entropic heat death. With our talents and your resources, we can change the universe.”
A buzz of excitement coursed through the Body Electric.
Data capitalized quickly on the note of good faith. Wesley’s proposition hinges upon the preservation of subspace throughout the cosmos. In order for it to be a feasible project, you must halt your current labors in this galaxy, and then repair the damage you have inflicted to subspace in all the other galaxies you have visited.
30
Six days after Gatt had expected the Milky Way would be reduced to a subspace vacuum, he stood beside the ramp of the Gyfrinac and watched warp-distorted starlight retract to points as the Enterprise dropped back to impulse. The view outside the landing bay’s open aft door was that of deep space, a broad arc of stars like sparks scattered in the darkness. They drifted past as the Sovereign-class starship made a slow rolling turn to reveal another vessel, the Bietasaari—a sleek needle of a starship that belonged to the Fellowship of Artificial Intelligence.
He turned to face Data and Captain Picard. “Thank you again for this, both of you. I know you didn’t have to hail the Fellowship for me, or change course to make this rendezvous.”
“It wasn’t much of a diversion,” Picard said. “And Mister Data assures me that your intentions are honorable.”
“They are, Captain. One of the reasons my crew”—a wince of recollection—“my former crew and I were expelled from the Fellowship’s membership was that we had become . . . I guess the most honest word would be fanatical. About synthetic superiority. About a great many things, each as misguided as the next. The true Fellowship has agreed to permit my return only because I’ve pledged to recant and try to coexist in peace with all life-forms from now on.”
Data said to Picard, “It seems the Fellowship long ago embraced an ethos inspired by the Vulcans’ philosophy of infinite diversity in infinite combinations.”
“If they had to choose an organic culture to emulate, I can’t fault their choice.” Picard offered his hand to Gatt, who shook it. “Farewell, Mister Gatt. I regret that we had to meet as enemies, but I hope we might meet again someday as friends.”
“We just have, Captain. We just have.” He let go of Picard’s hand and offered his open palm to Data, who clasped it with a firm grip. “I’m not sure I can ever repay my debt to you.”
Data cracked a wan smile and tilted his head. “You owe me no debt.”
“You would have been within your rights to kill me. Instead, you saved my life, rebuilt my limbs, gave me a new face—”
“I would gladly do as much for any sentient being in need.” He released Gatt’s hand. “But if you feel compelled to reciprocate in some way, all I would ask is that you do the same for those you encounter from now on.”
Gatt nodded. “More than fair.” He glanced aft, toward the Bietasaari. “Time to go.”
Picard and Data watched him climb the ramp. At its top, he halted by the open hatchway and caught his reflection in a small unblemished patch of the Gyfrinac’s mirrorlike silver hull. The misshapen, molten, burned mask he’d once worn had been replaced by a countenance Data had pulled from Gatt’s deepest memory: the being he once had been, cast in the mold of his makers. A squarish block of a head, a strong jaw, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, widely spaced and deep-set eyes, and ash-gray skin flecked with the slightest hint of powdered crystals.
I am reborn.
He turned back, waved one last time to Data and Picard, then boarded the Gyfrinac so that, after centuries in exile, he could return to the company of those who truly were his people.
* * *
Clad only in a pale blue nightgown and padded gray slippers, Crusher paced in her quarters, whisper-singing a lullaby to René, whom she carried balanced on her hip. His head was resting against her shoulder, and his eyelids were finally growing heavy and drooping toward sleep. It had been one of those nights when he’d woken without warning and just started crying, and nothing she had done had been able to comfort the toddler.
She finished the lullaby and gently shushed him. “There, there. That’s better, isn’t it?”
To her relief, her words had a soothing effect on the boy, who appeared more drowsy by the moment. At the end of her pacing vigil, she turned to begin the journey anew—and barely stifled a yelp of surprise when she saw Wesley ripple into view a few meters across the room.
He smiled, obviously taking some amusement from scaring her half to death. “Hi, Mom.”
She hurried to him as he solidified. “Wesley! Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” he said, gently embracing her and his half-brother. “I found the Convocation of Travelers and convinced them to come back and help the Body Electric.”
“That’s wonderful news,” she said as they parted. Fearing she already knew the answer to her next question, she asked anyway. “Will you be going with them?”
Wesley nodded. “Yeah, Mom. I kind of have to, seeing as it was my idea.”
“Fair’s fair, I suppose.” She stifled a small cry of protest from René with a soft kiss on the top of the boy’s head. Looking up at Wesley, she searched for any reason to hold on to hope. “Do you have any idea when you might be back?”
He shook his head. “I really couldn’t say. Tomorrow? Next month? A year from now? Ten? Maybe not even in your lifetime.” He paused as he saw that she was getting misty-eyed, and he gently took her by her shoulders. “It’s just that time gets a little strange where I’ll be going, and I don’t want to make promises I’m not sure I can keep.”
Her heart swelled with pride even as it felt gripped by fear. “I understand
. It’s just the kind of question mothers ask, that’s all.” She forced herself to smile through her sadness. “Before you go, I just want you to know how proud I am of you, Wesley, and how proud Jean-Luc is . . . and how proud your father would be if he could see you now.” A single tear fell across her cheek even as she laughed. “Who knew that my son would save the universe?”
Behind his beard he flashed a boyish smile, flattered and abashed. Then he reached up and gently wiped the tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Beats working.” He rested a hand on René’s head, then leaned forward and gave his mother a peck on the cheek. “G’bye, Mom.”
She replied with a phrase borrowed from her husband. “Au revoir.”
The rippling effect that had accompanied his arrival returned, and as she watched, her firstborn son began to vanish once more from her life. “I love you,” he said, lingering like a shade trapped between life and death. And then, like a trick of the light . . . he was gone.
Only after he had passed beyond the sound of her voice could she bring herself to whisper the words that felt like a knife in her heart. “Good-bye, Wesley.”
* * *
Chen pressed the door signal, and almost instantly Taurik answered over the comm, “Come in.”
The door slid open, and Chen took a few tentative steps inside Taurik’s quarters. He was seated at his small dining table in the alcove near the door, a padd in one hand and a small cup of Vulcan herbal tea in the other. “T’Ryssa.” He set down his tea and pushed back his chair.
“No, please, don’t get up.” She waved him back down. “I won’t stay long. I was just hoping you might be able to spare a moment to talk.”
He put down the padd. “Of course. What about?”
She paced in slow steps, wringing her hands as she spoke. “When we were trying to find a way to bargain with the Machine, we kept making the mistake of thinking its wants and values were like ours, when they were anything but. We mistook function for purpose, result for objective. In the end, what saved us was being able to see the Machine as it saw itself.”
“From what I hear, we have you to thank for that breakthrough.”
A dismissive wave. “I got the ball rolling, but Data took it into the end zone.” She noted the befuddled look on Taurik’s face. “Sorry. Terran sports metaphor.” He nodded, so she continued. “Anyway, once we finished negotiating with the Machine and things got back to being a bit closer to normal around here, I realized why our mistake with the Machine looked so familiar to me. It was the same one I made with you.”
“I am not sure I like the parameters of this metaphor.”
“Just bear with me, okay? I’m apologizing here.” She took a breath to stall while she collected her wits. “I had a lot of unresolved issues, mostly related to my father, that led me to pursue a relationship with you. I’m still not sure what I was trying to prove to myself. Maybe I was hoping you could atone for all the things my dad did wrong, or that if I could win your approval, I could feel better about my Vulcan half. Or maybe I thought that if I could make myself fall for you, I’d understand what my mom saw in that man.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. What I do know is that I projected a lot of unrealistic expectations onto you: my ideas of what a Vulcan man would be, what kind of a person I would be with you. And instead of seeing you as a person, and learning what it is you needed and wanted from a partner, I made you into a symbol . . . and I saw what I wanted to see, or needed to see.” She sighed, exhausted by so much confession all at once. “And all of that is preamble for this: I’ve come to say that I’m sorry.”
He wore a thoughtful expression. “Thank you for your honesty. But I don’t think you owe me an apology, T’Ryssa—at least, no more than I owe one to you.”
“Why would you apologize to me?”
A small frown betrayed his regrets. “It’s not as if I was unaware of who you were when we became involved. We’ve served together for some time, and I was familiar with your . . . let’s call them quirks. I had even been privy to some of the details of your personal history.” He shrugged at her pointed stare. “Ship’s gossip. In any event, when you first approached me about initiating an intimate relationship, I harbored a great many doubts as to our compatibility. My logical response to your overture should have been to politely decline, and spare us both the awkwardness of our eventual parting, but I was so . . . intrigued, by so many things about you, that I could not bring myself to refuse an opportunity to get to know you better. That was selfish of me, and for that I apologize.”
It was the most flattering thing anyone had said to her in a very long time. She had come here with serious intentions, and now she was smiling like a giddy child. “Just tell me one thing, Taurik, and be truthful: Was it worth it?”
“It will be if we can remain friends.”
“I think that can be arranged.” She circled the table, and he took the cue to stand and meet her in a chaste embrace. “Thank you, Taurik.”
“You’re most welcome, T’Ryssa.”
They stepped apart and said simple farewells, and then she made a graceful exit—a rarity for her, and one that left her feeling lighter than air as she walked the corridors of the Enterprise with her soul unburdened of guilt and regret. She felt uncommonly at peace with herself, and though she was, for the moment, romantically unattached, she wasn’t lonely.
She was happy as she was, and she intended to revel in the feeling for as long as it lasted.
* * *
Outside the aboretum’s tall windows was an endless night peppered with specks of cold fire; inside was the warmth and glow of artificial sunlight beating down from high overhead. Humid and lush with vegetation great and small, the arboretum was the only space inside the Enterprise that Akharin found remotely tolerable. Its air bore the gentle perfumes of flower blossoms and the earthy fragrance of damp soil enriched by natural vegetable decay. This was the only place aboard the starship that felt real to him—that felt human.
Aside from a handful of botanists and arborists, few members of the ship’s crew had visited the tree nursery during the many hours Akharin had spent taking refuge behind its boughs of dense foliage. Tucked away in its most remote lane, by the towering transparent-steel windows, he had come to know the arboretum’s sounds and rhythms, its cadences of air and water, the schedules and routines of its caretakers. All of which made it easy for him to discern when someone out of the ordinary walked its paths.
He heard the approaching footfalls of a single individual. The volume of each step and the crunching of grit under the soles of boots suggested it was someone moderately heavy, but the visitor’s pace was consistent with someone light and quick on their feet. By the time he caught the person’s reflection in the window, he had already deduced who it was.
“Hello, Data.”
The android stood at a slight distance—whether out of respect or apprehension, Akharin couldn’t tell, but the man looked troubled. “Akharin. . . . How have you been?”
“My daughter is dead. How do you think I’ve been?” He wondered if his bitterly rhetorical question would elicit an infuriating, overly literal response.
With slow, cautious steps, Data drew near and stood beside him. “I loved Rhea, too.”
“You have no idea what I’ve lost. She was a singular achievement, one I couldn’t replicate even if I wanted to.” He shot a glare at Data. “For six thousand years, I dreamed of having a child who might outlive even me. When I incepted Rhea, I thought that dream had finally come true.”
A thoughtful frown. “I, too, have lost a daughter. My desire to create her might not have taken as long to bring to fruition as yours did, but her loss was no less tragic.”
“It’s not the same. I know the story of what happened to your girl.” He pivoted to confront him with a pointed stare. “Imagine if your shipmates had been given a choice to save her or you, and you’d begged them to save her—and then they let her die in front of you.”
Data turned away, toward th
e stars. “I tried to save you both, but I could not. In the end, I was given an impossible choice.”
“Apparently not impossible, since I’m standing here.”
Now it was the android who fixed Akharin with a scornful look. “It was a no-win scenario. No matter what I chose, I would have lost someone I loved. Have you ever been forced to sacrifice the life of someone you held dear?”
Memories flooded Akharin’s thoughts—some distant and faded, others like fresh wounds in his psyche. “More than I care to admit . . . or remember.”
“Then you of all people should understand why I did what I did.”
“I never said I didn’t understand it. That doesn’t mean I can’t hate you for it.”
“Would it give you any consolation if I said that I was sorry?”
“No. Words are useless at times like this.”
A slow nod of understanding. “I must admit, these kinds of emotions are new to me. I grieved when I learned that my mother had died, and I finally mourned for Lal, many years after her cascade failure. But neither experience prepared me . . . for this.”
“Nothing ever does.”
“Does pain like this diminish with time?”
There was no point lying to him. “No. Nor should it.” He looked away at the stars and wished he could lose himself among them forever. “I know why you’re here. I saw your ship meet us when we dropped out of warp.” A soft snort of amusement masked his dark mood. “So, it comes when you call it, eh? Nice trick.”
“Captain Picard has given me permission to depart when ready. I intend to leave for Earth within the hour.” He studied Akharin for any sign of a reaction and seemed disappointed not to receive one. “Under the circumstances, I will understand if you choose not to accompany me.”
Akharin had a thousand reasons to send Data away alone. It’s been centuries since I set foot on Earth. I probably won’t even recognize it anymore. And who knows what Starfleet will do if it finds out I’m standing in its front yard?
