“Good, I could use some. What is it?”
The two of them glanced at each other, and then Soloman began. “We do not believe that the entity you have been conversing with is Commander Gomez.”
Gold almost didn’t process that. It took Corsi a moment to pick up on it too, which Gold used to ask the heavens above to make this true.
Corsi raised an eyebrow and turned to the Bynar engineer. “Then who have I been negotiating with for the last two hours?”
“We believe it to be a computer simulation of Commander Gomez.”
“Oh, that’s just great,” Corsi said.
Soloman was not in the habit of making statements he couldn’t back up, but this was almost too good to be true. Gold said, “That would be one heck of a simulation, and what about Gomez’s personal logs?”
“On closer review,” Abramowitz said, an apologetic tone to her voice, “we think they are an elaborate fabrication.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Gold said, playing devil’s advocate above the table while his fingers were crossed under it. “Personal logs have very tight security, as do Starfleet computer systems. Your revised conclusion is based on what?” Gold asked. “You found something in her records that didn’t ring true?”
“No,” Soloman said, “It’s what we didn’t find.” Before Gold could ask, the Bynar began to explain. “Carol,” Soloman indicated the woman to his left, “reviewed in detail Starfleet’s report on the prisoners whom ‘Commander Gomez’ was demanding be released, to aid Commander Corsi and give her some insight into Commander Gomez’s current psychological state.”
Abramowitz cut in, their back-and-forth reminding Gold of when Soloman had been part of a Bynar pair. “The choices were entirely consistent with the extremist positions that had been expressed in the commander’s logs, so I thought nothing of them beyond their obvious insanity. Soloman, however, focused on the extent and complexity of the list. There are thousands of names on it, spread out throughout the galaxy, from Federation and non-Federation planets.”
“I know that,” Gold said, “Please continue. Soloman, no need for false modesty. We’re burning time here.”
“Yes, sir,” Soloman said. “As you acknowledge, the list is quite extensive and detailed. Compiling it would be the work of months, at least. It took Starfleet hours just to confirm it. To dig up the information in the first place would have been a monumental task.”
“And?”
“And Commander Gomez never did any such thing. To compile the list would have taken myriad contacts with myriad planetary governments and their criminal tracking systems. The da Vinci records show no such communications transmissions or data exchanges between the da Vinci and any planetary government on that topic—none at all, from anyone.”
“It’s out of our line.” Gold then asked, “Could Gomez have gotten the information when she was off-ship? Or could she have wiped the communications files?”
Abramowitz shook her head. “Ship’s records, compared with the time of the incarceration of a number of prisoners on the list, show that Commander Gomez was right here on the da Vinci when some of that information became available. And what my modest Bynar friend here is reluctant to say is that while it might just barely be possible for her to have wiped the communications files on the da Vinci beyond his ability to trace—barely possible—it’s not possible for her to have wiped systems on worlds all across the galaxy to that extent. We’ve checked those systems, and they show no such inquiries from anyone who could possibly have been Sonya Gomez.
“The only reasonable solution is that the commander could not have collected that information. And yet the Sonya Gomez we have been dealing with clearly does have it. Therefore…”
Soloman picked up the thread. “…that is not Gomez, but a simulacrum, a very good one.”
Gold leaned forward, while allowing himself to believe in this new, much wished-for scenario. “In that case,” he said, “where the hell is my first officer?”
Corsi jumped in. “Sir, sensors confirmed that she is alone in the station command center. So unless sensors have also been rendered unreliable, she’s in there.” Gold was impressed by how quickly Corsi had changed gears, adapted to the new situation. Not surprised, but impressed. “If she’s okay…”
“No reason to assume she isn’t unless we learn otherwise, Corsi,” Gold said, his natural optimism enhanced by the sudden change in the situation. “Go ahead.”
“Then despite the static field that’s been placed on station communications, a tight-beam transmission focused on her specific combadge frequency should be able to establish a link with her.”
Gold raised his eyebrows at that. Technical information was not the security chief’s forte. Soloman and Abramowitz seemed a bit surprised themselves.
“What?” Corsi said. “You work with engineers all these years, you pick stuff up.”
Gold stood up, and as he did so he allowed the edges of his mouth to turn upward for the first time since they had received the first message from the computer simulation of his first officer. “Soloman, get that signal to Gomez. Corsi, continue the negotiation with the program. It may be reporting to someone, let’s keep it—or them—from suspecting we’re on to it. You two,” Gold said, addressing Soloman and Abramowitz, “good work.”
Commander Gomez was taking a forced break from her struggles with the equipment. She lay on her back on the floor with her legs above her chest just as prescribed by Starfleet hypoxia training. The position diverted her poorly oxygenated blood to her brain and cleared some of the fog out of her head. She was worn out, not just by the thin air but from banging her metaphorical head against metaphorical walls and was worried that if she didn’t take it easy for a minute, she might start banging her literal head against the literal walls. Besides, lying on her back on the floor and watching Corsi negotiate terms with the fictional Gomez was entertaining, in a bizarrely surrealistic way. Rooting against “herself” was particularly mind-bending.
Corsi had just finished explaining the precise details of a prisoner release from Sigma V to “Gomez” and was now confirming with “her” the particular prisoners who were included in the release. To Gomez’s earthborn ears and oxygen-starved brain, the alien names sounded like a bunch of nonsense syllables strung together: Rendar Grepnackten, Yarnat Netgrel, Jertnal Echtoy, Ardack Sprachnee, Lemanr Tacketo, Sibkel T’Nuncen. In her current state Gomez found Corsi’s recitation hypnotic, and she caught herself falling asleep. In low-oxygen conditions, that could be deadly. With an effort, she rolled to one side, then forced herself to stand up. She walked on shaky legs over to the control console to start trying once again to get a handle on the situation.
Something nagged at her as she pushed switches and dials almost randomly, looking for some kind of reaction that would give her a clue to a way in. Something on the list of names Corsi had read off sounded familiar, but she was certain she knew no one from that planet. But there was something, something recent, maybe something important. What was it? With some effort she was able to bring the conversation between Corsi and “Gomez” back up on the display and replay it. It took almost a dozen run-throughs before she spotted it.
Okay, she thought, now I understand what’s going on. But I can’t do anything about it from in here. If only I could tell someone outside this goddamn control room…..
At that moment her combadge chirped.
Gomez almost didn’t recognize the sound, then for a moment, couldn’t believe she’d heard it. The combadge chirped again. “Corsi to Gomez, respond please,” Gomez heard, and struggled to her feet while simultaneously tapping her combadge.
“Gomez here,” she said. “Very happy to hear from you.” Gomez held her breath for a tense moment—for all she knew, this communication wasn’t meant for her, but for her computer-generated duplicate.
“Hate to have to ask you this,” the security chief’s voice came back, “but what was the last thing I said to you before you left for sh
ore leave?”
Gomez could feel her combadge getting hot—whatever signal they were using to punch through the static field around the station, it packed a pretty good punch. She took a deep breath and thought back. “You said, ‘Live it up.’ You satisfied it’s really me, now?”
“Yes. You up to speed on what’s going on?”
“Actually, I may be a little ahead of you,” Gomez answered. “Just wasn’t able to tell anyone about it. With some help, I think I can get the station back online, and catch the bastard who did this.”
“Anything you need,” Corsi said.
“Great. Patch me through to Soloman right away.”
“He’s listening. You owe him a thank-you when this is all over. We’ll explain later.”
“Soloman,” Gomez said, “I need you to lower the security levels on the da Vinci communications array and find me a particular piece of tribblecom.”
“That,” Soloman’s soft voice came over her combadge, “is an unusual request.”
“I know,” Gomez said, “here’s what I’m looking for….” She rattled off the key components of the tribblecom she had deleted just before all this started. “I have work to do here—flag me when you’ve found it.” Gomez smiled for the first time since the whole nightmare had started.
Chapter
6
It had taken Soloman only moments to locate the particular tribblecom Gomez had requested, but it had taken her several hours of hard work to link her combadge directly into the station communication and computer systems. It was dual access—it would let her talk to the da Vinci via the station’s communication array, and it would allow Soloman, on her command, to upload the tribblecom directly into the station computer’s memory unit. In the meantime, to keep the program busy, and in case what Gomez had in mind didn’t work, Corsi was continuing to “negotiate” with the false Gomez, which added the bizarre note of Gomez’s own voice ranting on in the background as she worked.
At last she was ready. She hoped this would work, because if it didn’t, she was entirely out of ideas. “Okay, Soloman,” she said, “let it rip.”
“Upload commencing,” Soloman replied.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the Gomez on the display screen began to falter, as if searching for her next word. The Gomez image froze, then moved again but in a jerky, unrealistic fashion. It tried to speak, but it’s voice was first garbled, then became more of an incoherent squeak like nails on a blackboard. The screech got loud enough to make Gomez cover her ears, but then the picture on the screen broke up into a random array of tiny squares, each containing a different distorted image of Gomez.
Then the screen went black, and at the same time, the lights on the board in front of Gomez flashed green shields were down, life support was climbing back to normal—and while the systems were running slow, due to the tribblecom, they were holding steady. A noise behind her made her turn quickly, but it was only the control center door sliding open, at long last able to obey the signal from the switch she had pressed…just how long ago it was Gomez wasn’t certain. On the other side of the door stood Tobias Shelt and the three station engineers. All four of them started talking at once, but before Gomez could even start to answer them Captain Gold’s voice came over the comlink.
“You okay in there, Gomez?” he asked.
“Just fine now,” she said, waving the others to silence. That was true. Her headache had vanished the moment the control room doors slid open.
“Glad to hear it,” Gold said. “I’ll let Starfleet know they can call off the prisoner release on Sigma V.”
“Sir,” she said, “I think I figured out who caused all this and why. I’ll want to check this with Commander Corsi, but if I’m right, Starfleet should let the release go ahead.”
“Interesting,” Gold said, “then I’ll tell them to let it continue. Looking forward to your explanation, Gomez. Prepare to be beamed aboard.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tobias Shelt motioned to her as the transporter beam caught her—he was signaling that she should call him. She had time to signal back but didn’t, and then the control center faded out.
Ardack Sprachnee, former finance minister for Sigma V, was not surprised when he was told his thirty-day sentence for drunk-and-disorderly behavior in the council chambers was being commuted. After all, he had not only arranged to be in jail in the first place, he had arranged for his and his fellow prisoners’ release and for the type of transportation that would be provided.
The guards ushered him and his fellow parolees to just inside the large metal bars of the prison gate, and he listened with rapt attention as the warden explained that due to events far beyond his control, the Federation had requested their early release, and that they be transported to Bartha IX by hauler. As the protest started—his fellow prisoners objected, this close to the end of their sentences, to being released so far from home—the warden explained that the Federation had provided return transportation as well.
The warden went on to say that the whole thing sounded as foolish to him as it did to them, but orders were orders, and a free trip to Bartha IX would certainly beat another night in their cells. That, Sprachnee noted, was a point the other prisoners agreed with wholeheartedly, and so did he. So while there was puzzlement among the released prisoners, there was no resistance to the notion, especially when luxury hovercars pulled up to the gate to take them to the spaceport.
There were intoxicating drinks in the hovercars, but Sprachnee left them to his seatmates. He had to keep his wits about him, because this next part was tricky, and his timing had to be precise.
They pulled up to the cargo ship, and were led on board it by guards, but once everyone was in their seats and the door was closed, they were free—and a cheer went up from the crowd. Sprachnee ignored the noise; he was busy looking through the packet of personal effects that had been returned to him. Yes, there it was. He took a certain device in his hand and waited for the sound of engine startup. As the whirring kicked in, he pushed the button on what looked like a small writing implement. The lights on the hauler flickered for a second, but that wasn’t unusual at startup.
The lighting levels returned to full power in moments, but Sprachnee stayed tense until he was certain the pilot hadn’t noticed the drain on the energy levels—and why should he, Sprachnee thought, since this little gadget of mine has tweaked his readouts to ignore the massive cargo he’s just taken on?
While there were times when Sprachnee wasn’t certain whether it was the lure of being fantastically wealthy or the simple intellectual challenge of the thing that motivated him, he usually tilted toward the latter. How to get five billion bars of gold-pressed latinum, the entire wealth of the planetary government, off-planet? That had been quite a problem to solve.
Sprachnee’s position as finance minister was one he had worked long and hard to get because it gave him access to the codes that worked the shielding on the planetary latinum storehouse. Coming up with the rest of the scheme had taken a long time, and many false starts.
Sprachnee relaxed into his seat for the trip to Bartha IX, secure in the knowledge that, per the readout on his little device, the buffer on the cargo transporter of this very ship now contained, in super-compressed coding, all five billion bars of latinum that made up the planetary treasury of Sigma V, and in their place was a hologenerated image that wouldn’t fool people forever, but would for just long enough. When they landed on Bartha, another push of the button and the latinum would be beamed to thousands of mini transporters he had hidden all over the planet on his last vacation. From there it would be a simple matter to recover the latinum piece by piece.
Sprachnee sat calmly in his seat for the entire trip, which took most of a day, not tensing up until the pilot announced their landing approach. As soon as the heat shields were dropped, Sprachnee was ready to push the button, disperse the latinum, and become one of the galaxy’s richest men—under an assumed name and species, of cour
se.
The ship landed, and Sprachnee’s finger was on the button in a moment. Oddly, though, the shields weren’t dropping. Probably just a malfunction. Maybe he should offer to help them resolve it?
Without his noticing their arrival, two Starfleet officers in security uniforms were suddenly flanking him. Both were very large, very strong, and were very polite as each took one of his arms and hefted him from his seat. They patted him down expertly, quickly taking his gadget and all his emergency backups away from him. The taller of them tapped his combadge. “It’s okay, we have him, you can drop the shields.”
Gomez stared at the short little balding man who had caused all the trouble. Sitting sadly in his old-fashioned metal-barred cell, he didn’t look like any kind of a threat. It almost hadn’t been worth the high-speed shuttle run it had taken to get Corsi and herself to Bartha IX, but Gomez just had to meet the man who had done this to her. She needed to learn what she had done to him to make him single her out.
“Are you sure that’s him?” she asked. Corsi nodded. “I’ve never met him before. I have no idea what his beef with me might be.”
“Well, let’s ask him. Hey, Sprachnee,” Corsi said. “Come over to the bars. Somebody here wants to see you.”
The little man stood up and walked over, and it was clear to Gomez that he didn’t recognize her any more than she recognized him. Gomez looked at him, looked him up and down carefully. “Why me?” she asked him.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said politely, “but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Why me?” Gomez asked again. “Why did you pick me for this thing out of the entire galaxy?”
“Oh,” Sprachnee said, “was that you?” The little man paused, then continued. “I was in a cell, remember, I wasn’t able to watch my program play itself out. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Everything that happened was done automatically, by your program?”
“Yes.”
Identity Crisis Page 4
