STAR TREK: Strange New Worlds II

by Dean Wesley Smith (Editor)

  “That’s not good enough. I need to talk to you before you ship your goddamn computer playtoy off to operate on living beings.”

  “What ... what did you say?” asked Zimmerman with outraged astonishment. “A ‘computer playtoy’? The Emergency Medical Hologram is the most sophisticated piece of holographic interactive software ever designed, and you want to compare it to a computer game?!”

  McCoy edged closer to Zimmerman, heightening the tension already present in the room. “If the shoe fits,” he shot back. “My God, I’ve written medical texts that are probably more qualified to be a physician than your blasted program.”

  “For your information, the EMH has a medical database taken from over three thousand cultures and forty-seven [117] specific surgeons, including you if I recall correctly. You can’t possibly disregard that kind of potential just because it isn’t alive!”

  “A chimpanzee with a laser scalpel is still a chimp.”

  Now fully angered, Zimmerman leaned over and glared right into McCoy’s aged face. “Why, you—”

  Ensign Walter quickly inserted herself between the two doctors. “Sirs, please!” she called out, abruptly silencing the heated argument Once the young attaché was satisfied that she had their attention, she switched to a softer tone of voice. “I don’t think this bickering is going to get anyone anywhere. Doctor Zimmerman, we came here to examine your work, so why don’t you just give us a demonstration of the EMH? Perhaps the admiral’s opinion will change once he sees what your project has to offer.”

  “And maybe tribbles can pilot a starship,” McCoy grumbled quietly.

  Ignoring the remark, Zimmerman mulled over Ensign Walter’s suggestion and eventually gave his approval. “All right, Ensign. If a demonstration will get you people out of my lab, I say let’s do it. However, I won’t promise that everything will be perfect Mister Barclay and I have had some problems with the personal interaction matrix, so perhaps a little test will help us work some things out. Reg, if you wouldn’t mind ...”

  Barclay walked over to a nearby control panel and, after entering a few commands, he waited for Zimmerman to begin. “Matrix diagnostic ready, Doctor.”

  “Okay,” Zimmerman began, rubbing his hands together. “Computer, activate Emergency Medical Hologram AK-1.”

  There was a momentary pause as the computer [118] processed the request. A holographic humanoid form soon materialized into view next to Zimmerman, dressed in a Starfleet uniform with the blue shoulder trim of a medical officer. To McCoy’s chagrin, however, the hologram looked exactly like Zimmerman himself, albeit with much tidier hair.

  “Please state the nature of the medical emergency,” said the EMH in a flat, emotionless manner.

  Zimmerman nodded in approval. “Well, at least that worked,” he remarked as Barclay continued to watch the diagnostic readout. “Now, let’s see what happens when we introduce external factors. ...”

  McCoy and Walter watched as Zimmerman approached Lieutenant White and motioned for her to move toward the EMH. “You,” he pointed. “You’ve just been drafted as a patient. Stand over there and let the EMH examine you.”

  The security chief gave him a questioning stare. “Why? There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “Indulge me, Lieutenant.”

  “If you say so,” White replied, shaking her head at the situation. Walking over to where the holographic physician was standing, she waited for the EMH to acknowledge her, but received no response. With a mischievous look, White then glanced over at Ensign Walter before turning back to the EMH. “So ...” she asked flippantly, “what’s a nice hologram like you doing in a space station like this?”

  Zimmerman was seething inside. “Mister Barclay ...”

  “I found a small code error in the response subroutine,” announced Barclay while making adjustments at his control panel. “I think I’ve got it working properly now.”

  “Presumably, to be treating someone,” the EMH finally [119] answered in reply to Lieutenant White’s question. “Are you in need of medical attention?”

  White blinked in surprise. “Um ... I think so.”

  “AK-1,” interrupted Zimmerman, “we’re performing a demonstration of your basic diagnostic capabilities. Please examine Lieutenant White for us.”

  “Certainly, Doctor Zimmerman.” The EMH nodded, holding out his hand. “Tricorder.”

  Barclay hurriedly typed at his control panel. “Right. Sorry.”

  Instantly, a standard-issue tricorder materialized in the EMH’s open hand. Taking one look at the device, both the hologram and its creator turned and frowned at Barclay. “Medical tricorder,” they simultaneously corrected in the same jaded tone.

  The standard tricorder was abruptly replaced with a medical design, and the EMH quickly began his diagnostic scans of Lieutenant White. Everyone in the room was fixated upon the hologram, while Zimmerman simply hoped that the program would function adequately to satisfy Admiral McCoy and Ensign Walter.

  A few moments passed before the EMH finished his scans. “You call this a medical emergency?” he remarked in disbelief.

  “Just tell us your analysis, AK-1,” sighed Zimmerman.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll find this terribly fascinating. It seems the lieutenant has a slightly elevated heart rate, increased muscle tension in the lower rear of her neck and right shoulder blade, and a small contusion on her right hand.”

  All eyes turned to Lieutenant White. “I punched out an [120] Andorian smuggler earlier today,” she explained casually.

  “With good reason, I’m sure,” quipped the EMH dryly. “I can treat your injury with a dermal regenerator ... that is, if it’s not too troublesome for somebody to replicate one.”

  Picking up on the hologram’s blatant hint, Barclay used his control panel to replace the medical tricorder with a dermal regenerator. The EMH expertly handled the healing device, and within moments, the security chief’s bruise vanished from view.

  “There you are,” the nameless doctor said as he switched off the regenerator. “Try using a phaser next time.”

  White studied her healed hand, shrugging at the EMH’s suggestion. “But where’s the fun in that?”

  A broad grin instantly formed on Zimmerman’s face. Satisfied with his creation’s performance, he approached Admiral McCoy, who had been curiously quiet throughout the examination. “Well, Admiral? I realize that this was only a simplistic exercise in the EMH’s capabilities, but surely you can see the potential here.”

  McCoy slowly walked over to the EMH and peered up into its face. “You think this is a doctor, do you?”

  “Of course!” Zimmerman replied with total conviction. “You saw how the EMH was able to make a proper diagnosis and then treat the condition. That’s what a doctor does.”

  Turning his head sharply, McCoy gazed firmly at the confident programmer. “Oh, really? I suppose it never occurred to you to try programming some humanity into this damn thing.”

  The EMH arched an eyebrow at the admiral. “Excuse me?”

  “And I thought Vulcans and androids were bad. [121] Zimmerman, I saw more emotion from that dermal regenerator than I did from your damn twin. Instead of offering comfort, he ... it ... whatever ... was too busy being snide and callous to establish the proper rapport with his patient.”

  “With all due respect, Admiral,” began Zimmerman, “I don’t think you realize that the EMH is only supposed to be used for short-term emergency situations in which the medical staff is overburdened or incapacitated. It doesn’t need to establish a personal rapport to perform its function.”

  “He’s right,” added the EMH. “I’m a doctor, not a counselor.”

  Upon hearing the hologram’s disturbingly familiar remark, McCoy abruptly paused and allowed the smallest hint of a grin to creep into his wrinkled face. “Cute. But I still think a doctor needs to try to make his patients feel more at ease. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years ...”

  The debate among
McCoy, Zimmerman, and the EMH continued for several more minutes, with no man—or hologram—conceding his position. Barclay simply stood back in stunned amazement at the argument taking place before him, while Lieutenant White and Ensign Walter began whispering to one another in mild amusement.

  “... And you came here in a runabout with the admiral?” asked White quietly. “You’re gutsier than I thought.”

  “He wasn’t like this in the runabout,” Walter replied. “I’m just surprised you haven’t hit Doctor Zimmerman before now.”

  The security chief smiled. “The day’s not over yet, is it?”

  Shaking her head, Walter sighed heavily as she saw that McCoy was about to raise his cane at Zimmerman. “I [122] suppose I’d better do something before they end up killing each other.”

  “Want me to stun them for you?”

  Deliberately ignoring the question, Ensign Walter took a deep breath and called out to the admiral. “Um ... Doctor?”

  McCoy, Zimmerman, and the EMH immediately turned to face the young attaché. “Yes?” they replied in unison.

  “Sorry,” Walter apologized. “I meant Admiral McCoy.”

  “What is it, Ensign?” asked McCoy, irritated at having his argument interrupted.

  “Sir, it’s starting to get late. Is there any chance that we could continue this ... discussion ... of yours tomorrow? I really think that it would be in everyone’s best interest.”

  “You do, hunh?”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  Pursing his lip in thought, McCoy glanced over at Zimmerman and the EMH and then gave a relenting nod. “Well ... all right. I should go and get some dinner, anyway.”

  Walter sighed once again, this time in pure relief. “I’ll be more than happy to escort you, sir.”

  “There’s a cafe about two levels down,” offered Zimmerman, surprising everyone with his helpfulness. “The food isn’t bad, and the waitresses can be quite charming.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. If that’s all right with you, sir ...”

  “Yeah, whatever,” McCoy said with a shrug. “As long as I can get a good, stiff drink.” Taking another look at the EMH, he turned and exited the lab, followed closely by Ensign Walter.

  As the door shut behind them, Lieutenant White appeared somewhat stunned by the whole experience. “He’s ... an interesting man, I’ll give him that.”

  [123] Zimmerman, meanwhile, had a curious look on his face, one that he would be hard-pressed to explain if asked. “Yes, he is, isn’t he?” the programmer remarked with an unusual touch of respect in his voice. All at once, however, Zimmerman slapped his hands together and began to rub them. “Well! Mister Barclay and I have a lot of work to do, so if you’ll excuse us ...”

  Later that evening, after McCoy had finished his dinner and been escorted to his quarters by Ensign Walter and Lieutenant White, he secretly made his way back to Zimmerman’s lab. Using the special security clearance provided to him as a Starfleet admiral, he was able to gain access to the lab and was relieved to find that Zimmennan and Barclay had apparently left for the night.

  Earlier, McCoy had made mental notes of how the two men operated the control panels for the EMH database and proceeded to use that knowledge to suit his own needs. “Computer,” he announced in a small whisper, “activate the Emergency Medical Hologram.”

  The EMH rippled into existence once again. “Please state the nature of the medical—Oh, it’s you.” The holographic doctor frowned upon recognizing McCoy. “Came back to insult me some more, did you?”

  McCoy grinned. “Not this time. I wanted to ... hell, I don’t know. ... I guess I wanted to talk a little.”

  A puzzled expression formed on the hologram’s face. “I’m afraid that I don’t understand.”

  “You’re not supposed to, so kindly shut up and let an old man ramble for a bit. You know, I’ve got a real problem with all of this ...”

  “Really? I didn’t notice.”

  [124] “... But I never thought about why I had a problem until I went to my quarters tonight. There was a mirror by the door, and do you know what I saw when I looked into it?”

  “A crotchety old man?” answered the EMH dryly.

  “Besides that, dammit.”

  “I don’t know. What?”

  McCoy pointed to his own face, weathered with time and the experiences of a full, rich life. “Mortality. That’s what motivates a doctor—the awareness that people can die and that your knowledge and skill can possibly prevent that from happening. A doctor has to understand mortality before he can fight against it.”

  “So how does that apply to medical holograms?”

  “Easy. A hologram can’t die. If you can’t die, you can’t understand mortality.”

  The EMH pondered that for a moment. “But we can be deleted,” he countered. “Our systems can degrade and lose the ability to function properly.”

  “That’s not the same thing,” replied McCoy. “Deleting a blasted program isn’t the same as someone dying.”

  “Unless you’re the program.”

  The admiral abruptly paused, allowing the hologram’s comment to sink in. “Yeah, well ... maybe from that point of view.”

  “I’m glad you agree. It certainly took you long enough.”

  “Oh, brother,” groaned McCoy, shaking his head at the EMH’s condescending tone. “You’re an arrogant thing, aren’t you? Just like your creator.”

  “Is that a problem? My personal opinions should have no bearing on my performance as a physician.”

  “Let me clue you in on something, hologram. Whether [125] they realize it or not, Starfleet needs people who can put somebody’s nose out of joint. The higher-ups are always acting so damn proper and holier-than-thou that they need a good kick in the pants to remind them about what really matters. If you can do that and not end up getting yourself deleted by the captain, then you’ll be a good doctor.”

  The EMH gave McCoy a curious look. “So where do you stand now, Admiral? Are you going to drop your objections about the Emergency Medical Hologram or do you still have more concerns?”

  “Oh, I still have some concerns,” McCoy answered, looking around Zimmerman’s lab with no real interest, “but I’ve heard enough to keep me from yelling at Starfleet Medical for a while.”

  “Glad to hear it,” came a voice from behind.

  McCoy turned around to find Lewis Zimmerman entering the lab from a side door connected to an adjoining room. “Where the blazes did you come from?” McCoy asked gruffly.

  “I’ve been working on some EMH crisis simulations in the room next door,” explained Zimmerman. “When my monitors detected you using your clearance to gain access to the EMH, I decided to wait and see what you were up to.”

  “Hmpf. Sounds like you just wanted to eavesdrop.”

  Zimmerman suddenly projected a guilty appearance, but the programmer was unable to deny his true motive. “I suppose that goes without saying.”

  Surprised by Zimmerman’s honesty, McCoy gestured his thumb at the holographic doctor. “So this is the future of Starfleet medical officers, hunh?”

  Beaming proudly at his creation, Zimmerman gave a [126] confirming nod. “At least in part. I’m not trying to replace living doctors, you know, just help them when they need it.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s all right then.” Unable to resist tormenting Zimmerman one more time, McCoy pretended to gaze harshly at the programmer. “However, there’s still one very important thing you haven’t told me about the EMH.”

  Zimmerman groaned inwardly. “And what’s that, Admiral?”

  “Does it drink?”

  I Am Klingon

  Ken Rand

  [THIRD PRIZE]

  Counselor Deanna Troi leaped around the corner, phaser ready, and blasted the Klingon by the door to engineering. The warrior fell, and his half-raised disrupter pistol flew from his grip, skittering down the corridor. An acrid stench filled the air of the Enterprise as lavender blood flowed.


  “Freeze.” Deanna aimed her phaser at the other Klingon.

  This warrior had both hands buried in the ripped-open access panel, no doubt trying to rig a bypass to the computer-locked door. Caught with her disrupter bolstered, no weapon in hand, the warrior looked at first surprised, then angry. She growled, teeth bared and eyes blazing defiance at the phaser pointed at her five meters away. She growled, but she stood still.

  “Take your hands out of there,” Deanna ordered.

  The Klingon looked for options in the bare corridor. Her glance skittered over her comrade’s smoking corpse, to his disruptor too far away to reach, to her own bolstered disruptor and d’k tahg knife, to the phaser aimed at her. Her defiant glare melted to resignation as she seemed to see no way out. [130] Her shoulders sagged and she took a step away from the panel.

  “Now you will—”

  Deanna didn’t finish the command. A triumphant glint flickered in the Klingon’s eyes as she cast a quick glance over Deanna’s shoulder. Deanna whirled, crouched, ready to fire.

  Nobody there.

  Turning back toward the lone Klingon, Deanna got a glimpse of the warrior’s boot slamming into her head. The hammer blow knocked her to the floor.

  An instant later, through pain-blurred eyes looking up at the ceiling, Deanna saw a d’k tahg arc in a smooth, lethal sweep down toward her exposed throat.

  “Computer! End simulation!” Lieutenant Worf barked.

  The corridor, the weapons, and the Klingon invaders vanished, replaced by stark black walls and yellow holodeck grid lines. Chief security officer Worf appeared and knelt over the dazed Betazoid. “Are you all right, Deanna?”

  Deanna, panting, sat up. Worf helped remove her safety helmet. Her sweat-soaked black hair fell free. She blinked and tried to focus.

  “She moved so fast, Worf. I’ve never seen such—”

  “You moved as if asleep.” Worf helped her stand on trembling legs, the helmet in her limp hands. “What went wrong?”