STAR TREK THE NEXT GENERATION THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JEAN-LUC PICARD

by David A. Goodman

  “Grab it!”

  I looked up. Robert was kneeling on the gangplank. He had retrieved my paddle, and held it out to me. I grabbed onto it, and he pulled. Once I came up out of the muck, he reached down and grabbed my arm. He pulled me up over the gangplank, where I caught my breath and calmed down.

  “You’re as stupid as the moon,” he said. I felt embarrassed, and would soon face punishment for ruining several hundred bottles of wine, along with the added humiliation of having purple skin that lasted several days.

  It was only with the gift of hindsight that I realized the only way Robert was there so quickly was that he had to have been watching me. The same was true when I fell down the stairs in the basement, and who knows how many other times. Whatever my brother’s feelings for me at the time, he also felt responsible, and for that I owed him my life.

  I would eventually leave home and Robert behind; it would take years for me to repent my ingratitude.

  * * *

  “Congratulations,” the computer voice said, “your application for entry to the Starfleet Academy Class of 2326 has been approved for final testing. Please report to Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, on September 28, 2322 at 0900.”

  I smiled at the news, and found it in no way surprising. I couldn’t wait; my academic achievements led me to expect that I would gain entrance to the academy, and that this was almost a formality. I was 17, and had grown from a quiet, bookish child to a bold, arrogant teen, well past cocky. My life outside in the world was active and social, but things with the family were very different.

  I’d become almost a boarder in my own home. Given my size and athletic ability, Robert could no longer effectively bully me physically or mentally, and now that he was in his twenties he had little interest. He was well on his way to becoming the winery’s next cellarmaster. He had also gotten what he always wanted—he’d become my father’s best friend. They spent most of their time together, talking about their wine, their grapes, their soil, and other people’s wines, other people’s grapes, and other people’s soil. It was an endless wine symposium that they both enjoyed as it fueled my brother’s need for approval and my father’s need for admiration.

  As far as I was concerned, though my father had complimented my academic and athletic achievements, he made no secret that he thought it a waste to use them to gain entrance to the academy. The closer I got to the age of admission, the harsher his disdain for the service and the people in it; it seemed to actually anger him, that somehow my decision was a personal betrayal. This only reinforced my desire to go.

  The only person in my family I still had a good relationship with was my mother. I sensed her conflict as a loving parent and a loving wife. And she wanted to encourage my interests but knew that those interests would take me away from her. When I brought her the news of the final step in my application, I could see she was ambivalent.

  “That’s wonderful, Jean-Luc,” she said, “but please keep this to yourself for the moment.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to delay upsetting your father for as long as I can,” she said. This was, of course, exactly the opposite of what I wanted to do, but I decided to accede to her request, especially since I needed her help to get to San Francisco.

  I would be staying in San Francisco in a dormitory for the three days of testing, so I packed a small bag and we set out early on the morning of the 28th. The day happened to coincide with Robert and my father shipping out a new vintage, so they were properly distracted; we didn’t have to say goodbye. We took an air tram from La Barre to Paris, and then my mother surprised me with an energy matter transport to San Francisco. I’d never gone through the process before, and hid my excitement for fear of looking like a child.

  The municipal transporter in Paris was outside, a small pad near Notre Dame on the Île de la Cité. The weather was warm and humid, and a technician led us onto the pad. I looked down at it, which was unfortunate, because a moment passed and I was looking down at an almost identical pad. I looked up to see I was now standing in San Francisco near Fisherman’s Wharf. The city was covered in fog and a good twenty degrees cooler. I was furious with myself; I’d missed the transposition between cities because I had been looking at my feet.

  I’d been to the North American continent several times before, but never to San Francisco. The home of Starfleet Command and Starfleet Academy, this city was the largest spaceport on planet Earth. The crisscrossing of shuttles and trams over the Golden Gate Bridge and ultra-modern skyline was stunning and exciting, and it was impossible to maintain my façade of teenage indifference. Walking the streets was a spectrum of alien life unlike any I’d ever seen. This was the world where I wanted to be, away from what I felt was the primitive, stultifying environment I’d grown up in.

  We found our way to Starfleet Headquarters; the testing took place in the Archer Building, one of the older structures, named for Jonathan Archer, captain of the NX-01 Enterprise.4 After I signed in, my mother gave me a hug as she handed me off to a young female ensign.

  “Right this way, Mr. Picard,” she said, as she led me to a turbolift.

  “Call me Jean-Luc,” I said. At this young age, I fancied myself a ladies’ man, most days greatly overestimating my appeal.

  “No, thank you,” she said. She led me to the testing room and gave me a curt goodbye. I entered the room. There were four computer stations arranged in a square each with a chair facing away from the others. Two people were there already, a human male around my age, and a humanoid alien of a species I’d never met in person before, blue-skinned with a ridge running down the center of his face. The human stood and gave me a friendly smile.

  “Robert DeSoto,” he said as we shook hands.

  “Jean-Luc Picard,” I said.

  “Parlez-vous francais?” he responded. I smiled and we had a short conversation in French, which DeSoto seemed to delight in speaking. He told me his mother had been raised in France and taught the language to her children. I broke off our conversation to introduce myself to the other occupant of the room.

  “Fras Jeslik,” he said.

  “Are you a Bolian?” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. He seemed surprised. “I have to admit, you’re one of the first humans who didn’t think I was an Andorian who’d had his antenna chopped off.” We began chatting, all of us a little nervous at being there, all immediately recognizing that some of us would not make it through this round of testing. We were soon joined by a young woman, also human. She held out her hand to me.

  “Marta Batanides,” she said. She was attractive, with brown hair and an appealing smile. I took her hand. In my immature, adolescent mind I decided she must be attracted to me, and depending on how things went over the next few days I thought I might take advantage of it. (It is with embarrassment and a small amount of nausea that I relate my thinking regarding women at this age, but I feel honesty is an essential part of capturing my younger self truthfully.) The four of us engaged in a lively discussion until an officer entered and we immediately fell silent.

  “I’m Tac Officer Tichenor,” he said. He was tall with curly blond hair that seemed to match his wry, puckish demeanor. “You’re here for three days of testing. Right now there are only a few open spots left in next year’s class, and there are testing rooms like this all over the Galaxy. If you can’t do the math on your chances, you’re probably not going to get in.” If this was meant to discourage me, it had the opposite effect.

  Tichenor showed each of us to a computer console, and we began the tests. Over the course of the three days, the tests covered a variety of subjects ranging from Galactic history, warp physics, and astrobiology. The four of us would finish our testing for the day, go to dinner, then go to sleep. As young and energetic as I was, this was the most stress I’d ever been under, and I was exhausted at the end of each day.

  At the end of the third day of testing, Tac Officer Tichenor informed us that we had two tests left, the tactical simulatio
n and the psychological exam. Tichenor told me I was first, and took me out of the room. He led me down a corridor toward an area marked bridge simulator. I entered and found a detailed recreation of the bridge of an Excelsior-class starship. I’d seen pictures of them and had studied the systems with an almost obsessive interest. I was convinced I could operate any of the control panels. I couldn’t wait to show off my abilities—I was certain I would impress whoever from the academy was watching us.

  Sitting casually in the simulator room were three other students in civilian clothes, all about my age. I assumed they were from another testing group, but before I could introduce myself, Tichenor left, shutting the door behind him. The room was bathed in red light as a klaxon blared.

  “Red alert,” the computer voice said. I was momentarily startled; this tactical simulation felt very real. I looked at my fellow “crewmen,” all of whom seemed genuinely flummoxed. I took this as an opportunity.

  “You,” I said, pointing to a rotund fellow, “take the science station, activate sensors.”

  “Where is it?” he said. I realized that my years of studying spaceships probably put me ahead of a lot of my peers. I pointed out the science station just behind the captain’s chair, then turned to a young woman.

  “Can you get the viewscreen on?”

  “I think so,” she said, and sat down at the helm station. I turned to the last crewman, a thin reed of a man.

  “Man the weapons console,” I said, indicating the corner station by the viewscreen. He went over to the console, and tentatively sat down. I then turned to the rotund boy.

  “We have anything on sensors?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m looking at.” He was staring helplessly at the science station control panel. Annoyed, I ran up and activated the sensors. I saw three images of ships closing in on us. Sensors said they had weapons locked on.

  “Shields up!” As I yelled, my voice cracked.

  “Who are you talking to?” the woman said.

  “And what are ‘shields’?” Thin Guy said. Unbelievable, I thought. These people think they deserve to be in Starfleet?

  Frustrated, I ran to the weapons console and threw the switch to activate the shields. I was too late; the simulator registered a hit and the weapons console shorted out. I looked at the indicators; we now had no weapons. I turned to look at the viewscreen; it was still off.

  “Turn on the viewscreen!” I was getting very angry. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  “I thought I knew how to do it, but I guess I don’t…” the woman said. This was insane. Did I have to do everything? I ran down to the helm station.

  “Get out of the chair,” I said, and the woman got up. I sat down, activated the viewscreen, just in time to see three old Romulan birds-of-prey firing their energy plasma weapons. I keyed the control for warp speed; the simulator recorded another hit. The engineering console shorted out, and the lights dimmed. I looked over and saw that we had no engine power.

  “Simulation ended,” the computer voice said. Anger overflowed, but I kept my mouth shut. Then someone had to speak and ruin it.

  “Sorry,” the rotund boy said. The weakness I sensed in his apology set me on edge, and I lost it.

  “Sorry?! You’re sorry?! Why are you even applying to the academy?!” I’m not sure I’d ever heard myself yell that loudly, but I’d worked so hard to get here, and in my mind these three strangers just ruined it.

  “We did the best we could,” Thin Guy said.

  “Imbecile! Your ‘best’ would’ve gotten us killed!” I was making so much noise that I hadn’t noticed the sound of the door opening.

  “Now, now,” Tichenor said, “let’s all take a breath.” I wheeled to face him; his dry tone made me realize I’d lost control, and I fell into silent embarrassment.

  “Picard, I’ll take you back,” Tichenor said. “The rest wait here.”

  He led me out of the control room. We walked in silence back to the classroom, where my other three classmates waited. They could immediately see I was upset.

  “Hey, Picard, what’s wrong?” DeSoto said.

  “Tactical simulation went badly,” I said.

  “It couldn’t be as bad as all that,” Marta said. I noticed she looked at Tichenor, whose half smile did nothing to confirm or deny Marta’s supposition.

  “Mr. Picard, you’re done for the day,” Tichenor said, and then turned to DeSoto. “You’re next, come with me.” DeSoto followed him out, and I stayed behind and told Marta and Fras what happened.

  “I just don’t know how that could be considered a tactical simulation,” I said.

  “Maybe it wasn’t,” Marta said. “Maybe that was the psych test.” That thought hadn’t occurred to me, mostly because I couldn’t see how it made sense.

  “What were they testing?” I said. “How fast I would get annoyed at incompetence?”

  “I don’t know,” Marta said. “Did Tichenor say it was the tactical simulation?” I realized that he hadn’t said anything; if it was the psych test, I had a sinking feeling I’d failed it spectacularly. And I wasn’t even sure what they were testing. Since I was done for the day, I decided to go back to my room and sulk.

  The next day, I showed up in the classroom. I hadn’t seen my classmates the previous evening, and they all looked somewhat nervous as Tac Officer Tichenor addressed us. He informed us that, of our group, only Robert DeSoto had gained entrance to the academy. DeSoto and I had become friends, but I was also so overcome with jealousy and confusion that it was a struggle to offer him congratulations. He saw through it instantly, reading my expression.

  “Yeah, I agree,” Robert said. “It should’ve been you.” I was embarrassed at my self-centeredness.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am happy for you.”

  “Ce n’est pas grave,” he said. “I’ll see you there next year.”

  Marta and I walked out of the building. I was so lost in thought, it was a moment before I noticed Marta was laughing at me.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You,” she said. “You’re so arrogant it’s unbelievable.”

  “Look,” I said, “I worked really hard for this…”

  “And I didn’t?” she said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you weren’t the only one whose dreams were postponed.” She of course was right, but I couldn’t let it go. “Did you even find out whether that was the psych test?”

  “No,” I said. I had been too humiliated to ask. I didn’t want to admit to Tichenor that I didn’t know what I was being tested on. This of course was ego, and self-defeating; if I came back next year, I would be no closer to understanding what I needed to do to gain acceptance.

  Marta and I said our goodbyes, and made what would turn out to be empty promises to stay in touch. My mother wanted to come pick me up, but I had talked her out of it. This meant I had to take an air tram first to Paris, and then one to La Barre. It was a couple of hours traveling, more time for me to bathe in my own self-pity.

  I arrived in La Barre, threw my duffel bag over my shoulder, and walked home from the station. As I passed the familiar trees, I was overcome with a feeling of dread. I knew Robert would take great pleasure in my failure, and I’d been so arrogant in the time leading up to the test, on some level I knew I deserved it. I had no clue as to what my father would do, but I imagined the two of them would share some hearty laughter about it.

  I approached the door to our home, which suddenly opened and my mother was there to greet me. She gave me a warm hug.

  “It’s all right, Jean-Luc,” she said softly, and I started to cry. I thought myself such a man, but I was still a child, and my mother’s maternal sympathy broke down the false construct of masculinity. She brought me inside and I quickly wiped away my tears.

  “Where’s Father and Robert?”

  “In the barn, still packing wine,” she said. “Don’t worry, we have a few moments. I want to hear what happened.” I told her in some det
ail, including the mystery of what that last test was.

  “It’s no mystery,” she said. “It was the psych test.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “You want to leave here and make your mark on the world,” she said. “You have for years, and at some point you decided that Starfleet was the way you wanted to do it.” My mother could see me so clearly; my youthful arrogance had convinced me that my motivations for self-aggrandizement were well hidden to everyone.

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  “You were presented with a test that you thought you were quite ready for. Yet there were three incompetent people standing in your way,” she said. “Your biggest fear.” Realization dawned on me.

  “My fear, that I won’t have control,” I said. And then Marta’s comment came back to me. “And that it’s all about me.” What worried me was that, even with this knowledge, I didn’t know what the right way to handle that test was.

  “So he’s home,” Robert said. He and Father had come in from outside. Robert’s tone was what I expected, full of derision. They sat down as they removed their dirty boots.

  “I’m home,” I said.

  “And when do you leave again?” Robert said. “Off to the stars, I suppose?” I was confused by this, and looked at my mother, whose expression said that she had not told them.

  “I didn’t get in,” I said. I saw Robert and my father exchange a look, and fully braced myself for an onslaught of ruthless snickering at my expense.