“Oh,” Robert said. He didn’t laugh. He in fact seemed uncomfortable.
“Well, that’s a bit of luck for us,” my father said.
“Really? Why is that?”
“We could use your help with the shipment tomorrow,” my father said. “If you’re available.” This last comment had a slight sarcastic bite, but only slight. It has taken me a lifetime to understand that in that moment my father and brother felt bad for me. They took no pleasure in my failure. The next day I helped them pack shipments of wine. It was in some way cathartic for me, helping me move past my failure.
Soon, however, things returned to normal around our house. Robert went back to demeaning me at every opportunity, and I in turn dismissed him with a condescending arrogance. My father continued his loud contempt for my goals, which I pursued with even more fervor. The next year, I succeeded at getting another chance for admission. I went through the testing again, this time with a new group of applicants, still supervised by Tichenor. As with the first time, I did well on the computer monitor testing. On the final day, Tichenor again escorted me to the bridge simulator.
The same three students were there again. Tichenor shut the door and the red alert klaxon sounded.
I was momentarily confused. I had spent the last year going over this situation in my head, preparing what I would do if confronted with a similar test. I had decided that I would take the helm control myself, turn on the viewscreen, and immediately try to pilot the “ship” out of danger, since one man couldn’t properly take the three ships on in a battle. But what I hadn’t considered was the possibility that the situation would be exactly the same, with the same three people. My instinct was to ignore that, take the helm and proceed with the plan, but those other three applicants convinced me that their presence was part of the test.
And then I realized: they weren’t applicants. They couldn’t be. I decided to ask an obvious question.
“Are the three of you now any more experienced operating this simulator than you were last year?”
“Yes,” the rotund boy said. “We’ve received complete training.” I smiled, feeling victorious. I could start giving orders with a fair amount of confidence that they’d be able to carry them out.
Then I hesitated.
The rotund boy’s phrase “complete training” stuck in my head. I hadn’t received any training, I’d just read and studied on my own. I decided on a new strategy.
“If you’re all completely trained,” I said, “maybe you should take charge.” The thin guy smiled.
“All right,” he said, “you take the helm and activate the viewscreen…”
* * *
I wish I could say that was the moment I stopped being a cocky bastard, that I learned to show humility and a modest sense of inquisitiveness, but all I did was pat myself on the back for beating the test. I didn’t have any real insight into why, and it would cost me dearly.
But right then, all that concerned me was that I passed, and was going to the academy.
A few months later, I left for school. I got up at 4:30am. I had hoped to leave the house without saying goodbye to my family. I knew that, given modern modes of travel, I wouldn’t really be that far from home, and convinced myself that I didn’t want to deal with my mother’s emotionalism. In truth I think I was probably afraid of my own. I gathered my belongings in my duffel and headed downstairs. As I did, I noticed a light in the family room.
“So, you’re leaving,” my father said. He was sitting in a chair, illuminated by a small table lamp.
“Yes,” I said. He didn’t have a book or a drink, he was just sitting there. It was impossible for me to believe it at the time, but I think he was waiting for me.
“It is a dangerous path you’re on,” he said. “Don’t do anything stupid.” From another man, this might have sounded like a joke, but from my father there was not a hint of humor. At the time, all I read in my father’s face was disparagement and rejection, but I see now it was actual concern he didn’t know how to express. I regret that at that moment, I turned and left without saying goodbye.
1 EDITOR’S NOTE: There is no official historical record of a Henri Picard or a ship named Saturne at the Battle of Trafalgar. However, it is well known that record keeping of the time was not always accurate; private family histories often contain precise details lost in the more official histories.
2 EDITOR’S NOTE: Though Isaac Cody was a well-known and successful developer in the region during the 19th century, there is no record of him selling a farm to Franklin Kirk.
3 EDITOR’S NOTE: A French father passing along a love of the Bard and a very British tea seems to confirm the previous note.
4 EDITOR’S NOTE: It is a regrettably common mistake Picard makes here: the Archer Building was in fact named for Jonathan Archer’s father, Henry, who designed the warp 5 engine.
CHAPTER TWO
I WAS ABOUT TWO AND A HALF HOURS INTO THE MARATHON, the last hill just ahead of me. It was almost 30 degrees Celsius, and I hadn’t had a drink for almost five miles: the last time people on the route handed out cups of water I didn’t take one, I didn’t want to risk slowing my pace. My focus was paying off—most of the other runners had fallen behind. There were five of us who’d opened up a lead from the rest of the pack of academy students. The four runners, all ahead of me, were upperclassmen. Cadet Captain Sussman and Cadet Lieutenant Matalas, both fourth-years, were in the lead, followed closely by Cadets Black and Strong. The four were competing against each other; they didn’t even realize I was there.
But they would. I decided on my first day at the academy that everybody would.
When I entered in 2323, Starfleet Academy was over 150 years old. Generations of its graduates had helped shaped the events of the last century, and for that reason it was one of the most revered educational institutions in the Galaxy. This fed my own desire for respect and achievement—by being associated with such an admired institution, I assumed I would also be admired. (This belief would lead to one of many rude awakenings.)
The first day at the academy is a trial in and of itself. After being signed in, you are given a large red bag, and sent on an organized scavenger hunt to acquire your needed supplies. In the old days I am told that you would face an angry upperclassman around every corner telling you how worthless you were. This was a leftover tradition from the military academies of old Earth, which had to create soldiers from children, ready to respond to orders on instinct. Over the decades Starfleet was able to chip away at the more barbaric traditions; the individuals of our evolved society respected the chain of command without the need of vicious discipline. Still, that didn’t eliminate the difficulties involved in interpersonal relationships.
After I’d gathered my belongings on that first day, I found my way to my room in one of the older dormitories from the original campus, Mayweather House. My roommate lay on his bed, his feet up, the bag of his belongings still packed.
“Jean-Luc Picard,” I said. “You must be Cortan.”
“I prefer Corey, Corey Zweller,” he said. “Pleasure to meet you, Johnny.”
We were off to a bad start. No one had ever referred to me by that nickname; I hated it at once, and Corey along with it. I gave him a thin smile, and turned to put my belongings away. As I did, Corey started asking questions about where I was from, to which he received curt responses. Corey himself was from the American continent, the city of St. Louis. He was friendly and outgoing, but I couldn’t forgive the nickname.
“So what classes have you registered for? Maybe we’ve got a few together…” Corey said.
“I haven’t registered yet,” I said. I had assumed that registration for classes would take place once we got to school, but I could tell from the expression on Corey’s face that I was mistaken.
“You better get on it,” Corey said. He showed me his computer screen where he had signed in and registered for his classes. I turned to the computer monitor allocated to me; this was a first,
I’d never had my own computer. And I was also face to face with how the Luddism of my upbringing disadvantaged me. Unlike every other academy student, who was used to having unlimited access to a computer, I not only hadn’t registered for classes ahead of time, I was unaware that I could.
“You never see a computer before, Johnny?” Corey said. He was joking, but I was so embarrassed I could only ignore him by staring intently at my computer as I stumbled through class registration. Corey chuckled to himself, I thought somewhat derisively, then left the room, as I faced the realization that I was already behind.
The education at Starfleet Academy was wide-ranging, with a heavy load of requirements for its cadets in science and engineering, as well as a plethora of courses in the social sciences and humanities, all with a bent to better a cadet’s understanding of the Galaxy. There were some courses a student had to take (starship engineering, galactic law, etc.) and some requirements could be filled with one of several courses. I had planned to take a survey course to fulfill my galactic history requirement, but the class was full, and the only history course still open was Xenoarchaeology, a subject I had no interest in because I didn’t really know what it was. Nevertheless, I breathed somewhat easier in that at least I’d completed my registration. I was certain that once I started classes things would fall into place.
I was of course completely wrong. The first summer at the academy, before the academic semester begins, cadets face a grueling series of athletic challenges. Starfleet requires students maintain a high level of physical abilities, and the “Plebe Summer” ritual is meant to weed out any cadet who isn’t up to the challenge. I had succeeded in school sports, but I grew up on a vineyard; I’d never been through survival training, never carried a hundred-pound pack on a run, never climbed a real mountain. I got through the summer with a barely passing grade.
The feeling of physical superiority I had as a teenager vanished during that summer, and now the surety that I was smarter than everybody else disappeared on the first day of the fall academic semester. Though at the top of my class in my village school, everyone else who was at the academy was also at the top of their class. Many of my fellow cadets had been through a much more rigorous education; next to the several Vulcans in my advanced mathematics seminar, I felt like a shambling Neanderthal watching a Cro-Magnon make fire.
After the first day of classes, I sat in my room alone after dinner. Corey had invited me on excursions to find women and drink for the first few weeks, but my standard “no, thank you” eventually led him to stop, even to the point where he dropped his usual “see you later.” I sat at my computer console pretending to work, but in fact wondering if I’d made the right choice. I hadn’t made any friends, I felt intellectually and physically inferior. I never thought I’d be homesick, but I longed for the soothing voice of my mother, who had made Herculean efforts to stay connected to me, calling and writing at every opportunity. But I kept our conversations short, too proud to reveal to her (and then, by extension, my father and Robert) that the academy might be too much for me. The dreams of going into space and becoming a starship captain seemed very out of reach.
The second day of classes it wasn’t much better, especially when I showed up for my first session of Xenoarchaeology. When I arrived, the classroom was empty, and I double-checked to see if I was in the right place. As I did, I was joined by another student, a young man of African-American descent, named Donald Varley.
“Did you get shut out of all the history sections too?” I asked.
“Uh, no,” he said, with a smile. “I actually am interested in this. Is it possible there’s only two of us?”
“That is my average class size,” a man said. We turned to see a man in his seventies, wearing a worn safari vest and carrying a satchel. We assumed correctly that he was Professor Galen. He was a rare breed. Most academy instructors were Starfleet personnel of one form or another; older cadets who’d stayed on after graduation, or officers on leave or retired. Professor Galen however was strictly an academic of the pipe-smoking, tweed-jacket variety.
“Which of you is Varley and which is Picard?” he said as he made his way to the lectern in the front of the room. We identified ourselves, and he motioned us to sit right in front of him.
“The Federation has been in existence for almost two centuries,” he said. “It is considered by many of its inhabitants as the greatest civilization in history. The work we will review here will prove the inanity of such a judgment…”
I settled in for what I expected would be a lot of dull photos of potshards and fossils. Instead, Professor Galen took two objects out of his satchel and handed one to each of us. They were small figurines, what appeared to be the torso of some kind of humanoid, perhaps in armor.
“Any idea what you’re holding?” Neither of us knew. “That is a figurine from the Kurlan civilization.”
This seemed to peak Varley’s interest, and he began to examine his very carefully.
“They were created in a workshop by a Kurlan who is now only known as the Master of Tarquin Hill. He used materials and tools several centuries ahead of his time to create those pieces. Any idea of their age?”
“Well,” Varley said, “the Kurlan civilization disappeared over ten thousand years ago…”
“Yes,” Galen said. “In fact, the objects you hold in your hand are over twelve thousand years old.” I now considered the object a lot less casually.
“Because of his artistic eye,” Galen said, “and the advanced techniques he used, those objects have survived. Can we make an assumption as to why?”
Varley didn’t have an answer, but as I stared at the small object in my hand, I pictured a lonely artist using primitive tools and materials in some ancient workshop. He was focused on his work, and he had only one goal in mind.
“He wanted to be remembered,” he said.
“If that’s the case,” Galen said, “why not inscribe his name on his work?”
“The work is what was important to him,” I said. “He left his mark.”
“Rather impressively I would say,” Galen said. “But, as my old professor said, archaeology is the search for facts, not truth. So we will stick to the facts…” But I wasn’t listening. I felt in some way Galen was telepathic; like an archaeologist in my head, he’d uncovered for me my true motivation, which had gotten lost in the insecurity of Plebe Summer and the first day of classes.
I wanted to leave my mark.
It was childish, to be sure. I wasn’t interested in accomplishing anything other than my own aggrandizement. I wanted immediate gratification of my desire to make the people here remember me. I saw my answer on my way across campus as I passed a viewscreen with a list of upcoming academy events:
ACADEMY MARATHON REGISTRATION OPENS TODAY.
I’d never run more than ten kilometers at a stretch, and that was during Plebe Summer; I came in almost last, just ahead of a Tellarite cadet, the large, slow-moving porcine species. But the academy marathon was one of the most visible contests the academy sponsored; it was broadcast via subspace, so much of the Federation had a chance to watch it. If I could do well in this, they would have to notice me. I signed up immediately. Now all I needed to do was figure out how to run a marathon.
I did some research, and began my training immediately. I ran five times a week, and quickly got up to a long run once a week, increasing to 20 kilometers in less than two months. Adding this extra challenge further isolated me from my classmates. I suppose in retrospect I was in a kind of hiding; it was easier for me to focus my energies on physical and intellectual activities, rather than face the emotional insecurity I felt. But I rationalized I was happier alone.
One night after a run, I returned to my room to find a surprise. A woman lay on my bed, relaxed with a small bottle in her hand. It took me only a second to recognize her.
“Marta!” I said. I hadn’t seen Marta Batanides since our final testing together. I wasn’t even aware that she’d gotten int
o the academy but was very pleased to see her, and that surprised me as well. “How did you find me?”
“Oh my god, Jean-Luc,” she said. “Is—is this your room?” She hurried off the bed and stood awkwardly, and I immediately realized she wasn’t there to see me.
“Hey, Johnny,” Corey said. He came in behind me, having returned, I assume, from the bathroom. “Do you know Marta?”
“Yes,” I said.
“We failed our first set of entrance exams together,” Marta said. This added to my discomfort—in my constant insecure state, I would never have volunteered to Corey that I’d failed anything. “I’m really sorry. Corey kept saying his roommate’s name was ‘Johnny,’ I didn’t know that was your nickname…”
“It’s fine,” I said, and moved to get my toiletries and towel for a shower.
“Corey and I are going out for a drink,” Marta said. “You should come…”
“Don’t bother, Marta,” Corey said. “Even if Johnny wasn’t prepping for the marathon, he wouldn’t have a drink.”
“You’re going to do the marathon?” Marta said. “That’s terrific.” I gave her a curt smile. Though I had a brief flash of delight upon seeing her, I forcibly suppressed it. In a bit of juvenile pique, I decided I wasn’t going to let myself show even friendly interest in someone who’d be friends with Corey. (Looking back I am amazed and ashamed at the extent of my infantile behavior.)
“You’re going to win that thing, Johnny,” Corey said, as I gave a quick goodbye and headed to the showers. Though Corey’s tone seemed sincere, I wouldn’t let myself trust it or him. He was taunting me, I was sure of it; no freshman had ever won the academy marathon. When I entered, all I hoped for was a respectable finish, perhaps breaking the standing freshman record. That night, because I was so disappointed that Marta was there to see Corey and not me, I became determined to do the impossible.
The marathon was part of a three-day-long biannual Academy Olympics that took place on Danula II, a planet several light-years from Earth. When it came to the marathon, upperclassmen had a distinct advantage: aside from having more of the academy’s physical training under their belt, if they had participated as a freshman or sophomore they had familiarity with the course and could train accordingly. I’d received a superficial description of the terrain when I signed up for the event, but if I was going to win I couldn’t let myself be satisfied with such minimal information.
STAR TREK THE NEXT GENERATION THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JEAN-LUC PICARD Page 4
