Star Trek: Enterprise - 017 - Rise of the Federation: Uncertain Logic

by Christopher L. Bennett

  Abramson turned away. “I remember,” he said hollowly after a time. “But people forget the role that technology played in rebuilding after the war. It creates its share of problems, but it also creates their solutions.” He faced Tucker again. “True, the world discovered a new humanism in the wake of those atrocities. We learned to esteem the dignity of humans as we are. To despise those augmentations that would elevate some above the rest, and those instrumentalities that would threaten us all.

  “But has it occurred to you that there is something pathological about humanity’s fear of being replaced? That in our celebration of the human, we have lost sight of the possibility that humanity can be improved upon? We allow technology to make human life easier and more prosperous in every way—except where it might require us to broaden our definition of humanity itself.”

  “And is that what Project Aedilis is about?” Tucker asked. “Creating something more than human?”

  “I merely point out, Mister Collier, that our fear of such excesses makes us too wary of beneficial advances. As you can see,” Abramson said, indicating the prototype with a theatrical sweep of his arm, “this robot could never be mistaken for a human. And the neural circuitry would merely improve its response time and adaptability; it would not confer a mind upon it. The project is intended merely to provide automata for menial tasks, shaped to accommodate equipment and environments designed for the human form. In Ancient Rome, the aediles were officials responsible for the maintenance of public buildings.”

  “Kind of an obscure reference, don’t you think?”

  “I am something of an antiquarian, I fear. It is also a private joke of a sort. Mister Collier,” he went on without pause, striding over to a workstation, “clearly you came not to disapprove of my inventions, but to appropriate them. I have no interest in whatever use you intend for my technologies.”

  “That’s not what I’m here for,” he said. “I need help in dealing with another technology. An alien technology.”

  Abramson looked up sharply; that interested him. But that door quickly slammed shut again. “To do what with it?”

  Tucker described Pioneer’s encounter with the Ware and the planned mission to discover its secrets. “You should have done your homework more carefully, Mister Collier,” Abramson told him when he finished. “Abramson Industries does not take military contracts.”

  “I’m an engineer myself, sir—believe it or not. I’ll be accompanying the expedition. But the man I used to be . . . he died a long time ago.”

  The older man studied him. “Really.”

  “What I need from you, first of all, is a cover identity. Credentials, a backstory, whatever support is necessary to make me a credible civilian expert. Although it’d certainly help matters if you could see fit to provide some diagnostic equipment, even additional personnel.”

  “Hm. And what makes you think I would agree to this?”

  “People are dying out there, sir. Being made slaves, their minds rotting away. We don’t know how far this spreads, how many species are suffering. But we do know that Federation lives will also be endangered as we spread into that space.”

  “People die,” Abramson said with resignation. “People suffer. That is the way of things. I learned long ago that one cannot change that with ships and weapons.”

  “No. You change it with knowledge. The ships are just how you get to where the problem is.”

  “If that is so, then Starfleet is well enough equipped to handle these matters. And you can get your credentials elsewhere.”

  “We need to understand their interfaces between the machines and the living brain. Your people’s ‘bio-neural’ expertise could make a big difference.”

  “I have tried to make big differences before,” the older man told him, growing contemplative. “I have usually found it to cause more trouble than it solved.”

  “Don’t you even care about all the lives being lost?”

  “If I cared for every life . . . I would be overwhelmed. I must pick my battles, Mister Collier. And you have given me no compelling reason to pick this one.”

  Tucker sighed, hating what he had to do now. “I have one left, sir. You see, I did do my homework. Or my employers did. We looked through history. The history of a Mister Willem Paul Abramson, who didn’t seem to exist up until twenty-six years ago. Oh, there are birth records, school transcripts—but, well, we know a thing or two about faking identities.”

  “Is it so wrong if a man wishes to forget his old life and begin anew?”

  “Depends on the reasons for it.”

  “And what do you imagine those reasons are?”

  “That’s a question for Jacques Tarrant,” Tucker replied. After giving Abramson a moment to react to the name, he went on: “Who lived a quiet life in a small town in North Africa for thirty-eight years and then disappeared when his wife died—not long before Willem Abramson first showed up. Funny thing, though, there are no records of his childhood either. And hardly any photos of the man—but our computers found one that showed enough of his face to match it to yours. And to Jerome Drexel, a man credited with helping to rebuild society after World War III. And to a twentieth-century atmospheric scientist named Wilson Evergreen.

  “You’re at least two hundred years old, Mister Abramson. And you don’t want anyone to know it. But we do.”

  The look on Abramson’s face had moved past resignation to a glint of wistful humor. “You know a fraction of it. I am far older than you could ever imagine.”

  “What are you? If it’s not too personal a question. Some kind of augment? An alien? Time traveler?” He glanced at the central slab. “Android?”

  “I am none of those things,” replied the far older man, “though I have counted each among my onetime acquaintances.” His gaze turned inward. “I was simply a fool named Akharin, whom fortune favored with the ability to recover from my most fatal errors. Through some fluke of mutation, I was granted lifetimes to learn the lessons that wiser men could master in only one.”

  “Now, that is one sweet deal.”

  “But it comes at an enormous cost. Imagine . . . finding love, over and over, only to see it wither like the petals of a flower. Holding your children in your arms, always aware that, almost before you know it, you will bury them.”

  Tucker was slow to answer. He understood a thing or two about giving up the life one wanted, wondering if it would ever be possible to settle down with a loved one. But the sheer scope of Abramson’s grief was beyond what he could grasp. Still, it let him look at the Aedilis prototype on the slab with new understanding. “That’s what you’re trying for, isn’t it? To create an offspring . . . or a mate . . . who’ll be as timeless as you are.”

  “It is a hope,” Abramson admitted. “The technology is still generations away . . . but I have the time.”

  Tucker made one more try. “The Ware technology is quite a ways beyond ours. Their stations and ships may not be self-aware, but there’s a sophisticated intelligence behind them. Studying them could jump-start our computer sciences by decades, if not more.”

  The immortal contemplated for a long moment, as still as a statue. Finally, he said: “You will need someone who understands neural interfaces—and I will need my own best person in the field to study and reverse-engineer the Ware. For both our purposes, Olivia Akomo is the optimal choice. I will convince her. And . . . I shall arrange your credentials.”

  Tucker felt no sense of victory, and chose not to insult the man by extending a hand in thanks. This deal would benefit both of them, and hopefully the entire Federation. But he had made the deal through blackmail and manipulation. Faced with the most extraordinary human secret he had ever encountered, something worthy of awe and reverence, he had turned it against its holder in order to entrap him.

  He was glad he would not have to live with it for more than one lifetime.


  April 11, 2165

  U.S.S. Pioneer, Vulcan Space Central spacedock

  “There’s . . . something you need to know, Travis.”

  Travis Mayweather couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen Captain Reed look so uneasy. It was odd to see, when just moments ago the captain had sounded so proud as he reported on the progress of the task force. He and Val Williams had just arrived aboard Vol’Rala, a Kumari-class Andorian battlecruiser whose name, auspiciously, could be translated as Enterprise. Mayweather suspected either Admiral Archer or Admiral Shran had arranged for that. Vol’Rala’s captain, Reshthenar sh’Prenni, was a former crewmember and protégée of Shran’s who had earned her captaincy just as the Andorian fleet was being folded into the Federation Starfleet, and she had made quite a name for herself in the four years since—particularly in the past half-year as Vol’Rala had spearheaded Starfleet efforts to clean out the pirates and raiders in the Kandari Sector. Mayweather was pleased to have her along, especially on a ship of that name.

  The other Andorian ships, including Thelasa-vei, would be arriving over the next two days, and Reed hoped to have the task force under way by the fifteenth. But Vol’Rala had been undergoing maintenance at Earth, putting it in position to transport the captain and Williams back swiftly, along with the civilian engineering consultants that Reed had somehow persuaded Abramson Industries to provide. Reed had been about to introduce Mayweather to the head of the team, Philip Collier, who would be serving as interim chief engineer until they could find a more permanent replacement for Tobin Dax (who, Mayweather tended to forget, had himself been a temporary fill-in when he’d begun two years prior). But for some reason, he had deemed it necessary to speak to Travis in private first, leading him into the sensor monitoring bay adjacent to the airlock anteroom.

  “Something about Collier?” Mayweather asked.

  “More or less.” He cleared his throat, then said nothing for a long moment. “Oh, hell, I thought I’d figured out how to tell you this. But there’s no way to break it gently. Might as well just get it over with.”

  He left the bay for a moment, then came back leading another man. “Travis . . . this is Philip Collier.”

  Though confused by his captain’s behavior, Mayweather smiled and extended a hand to the engineer, a slim, light-complexioned man with shaggy, dark red hair and a thick beard. But then he froze when he saw the man’s eyes. The color was different, but he knew those eyes, knew the face despite the subtle alterations to the features, the filling out of the nose. The knowing look on the man’s face confirmed it, as did the voice in which he spoke. “Hey, Travis. Been a long time.”

  “T-Trip?” Surprise soon gave way to joy, and he was pulling his old Enterprise crewmate into his arms. “Trip! My God, you’re alive!”

  “Yeah, for the moment,” Charles Tucker III replied, gasping for breath. Mayweather finally released him, but he kept his hands on the man’s arms, patting him as if to affirm that he was real and solid. “Good to see you too, Travis.”

  But there was restraint in his tone, regret in his eyes. It brought Mayweather back to the ground and got him thinking about the anomaly of this situation. “How?” he asked, even as he realized it was the wrong question and amended: “Why? Why are you in disguise? Why haven’t you told anyone you’re alive?”

  Slowly, awkwardly, Tucker and Reed took turns telling the story, starting with the events leading up to Tucker’s death—apparent death—a decade earlier. When they were done, he tried to summarize the account just to get a handle on it in his own mind. “So let me get this straight. A secret intelligence branch within Starfleet recruited you to go undercover on Romulus to sabotage their warp seven project . . . and that meant you had to fake your death and go undercover as a Romulan?”

  “That sums it up pretty well.”

  “It doesn’t even begin to sum it up! Why you, Trip? You’re not a spy. Why couldn’t they send one of their own people?”

  “They needed an engineer, someone already familiar with Romulan technology.”

  “Then you could’ve worked for them as a consultant. What made them think you’d be a good field agent?”

  “They thought I had good empathy for aliens. A lot of the work is listening, getting to know other cultures. It’s not that different from exploration.”

  “Intelligence agencies recruit operatives from many walks of life, Travis,” Reed said. “People who travel widely and have knowledge of other cultures are ideal candidates.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you had to make us all think you were dead!” Mayweather said to Tucker, too hurt and upset to give proper acknowledgment to his captain first. “We mourned you for months. Your brother . . . does he know? Does your family know?” Tucker shook his head slowly, silently. “Who does know?”

  “Of Enterprise’s crew,” Tucker replied, “aside from Malcolm, Admiral Archer knows, because we needed his okay to arrange it. Phlox knows, because he needed to fake the death certificate.”

  Mayweather was going over the memory of that day in his mind. “It never did make sense. The way you sacrificed yourself . . . it never seemed like there was a good reason for it.”

  Reed fidgeted. “Yes, well, I always wished we’d had more time to concoct a more coherent cover story. Honestly I’m amazed anyone ever fell for such a— Sorry.”

  The first officer stared at both men. “So just those two?”

  Tucker fidgeted. “T’Pol . . . found out later.”

  “Hoshi?” They shook their heads. Mayweather sighed in disbelief and paced the room. “Why? You broke her heart! Both of you!” he added, gesturing toward his captain before turning back to Tucker. “Why couldn’t you just, just go on an extended leave or something?”

  Tucker shook his head. “I had to be officially dead so the Romulans couldn’t identify me if they captured me. So Starfleet would have deniability.”

  Mayweather stared. “That doesn’t even make sense! If they had any way of identifying you at all, if they had enough intel about Starfleet to find that out, then did you really think they’d only look at the records for living officers? You thought it’d never occur to them to consider that you might’ve faked your death?”

  After a moment, Tucker just spread his hands. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Frankly, I can’t blame you for thinkin’ otherwise. I’ve been wishin’ for ten years that we’d found a better way.”

  “Then why didn’t you come back?” Mayweather asked with prosecutorial ardor. “The war’s been over for nearly five years! You didn’t need to hide from the Romulans anymore, so why didn’t you tell us you were alive?”

  “Because I’m not!” Tucker shouted. “Okay? The Trip Tucker you know died years ago.” He looked away. “The things I’ve seen . . . things I’ve done . . . I’m not the man I was.”

  Mayweather took a deep, slow breath. “No, I guess you aren’t. The Trip Tucker I knew wouldn’t have been so selfish. He wouldn’t have systematically lied to his friends and cut them out of his life.”

  “I have obligations I can’t get out of easily! The agency—”

  “And what about your obligations to your friends? To the truth?”

  “I do what I can to protect them. To protect the Federation. That’s all I can do.”

  “Fine. Then I suggest you get on with it—Mister Collier.” He turned to Reed. “Captain, if there’s nothing more?”

  “Travis, try to understand—”

  “Let him go,” Tucker said.

  Reed sighed. “Very well. Dismissed. But we’ll talk later,” he added, trying to be kind.

  But Mayweather was in no mood to accept kindness from Reed right now. He was no longer sure he could trust it.

  6

  April 14, 2165

  U.S.S. Endeavour NCC-06

  POKER NIGHT HAD BEEN a weekly tradition on Endeavour for more than two years�
�and part of that tradition was that Doctor Phlox could frequently be relied upon to provide entertaining and sometimes mildly uncomfortable surprises. Tonight, he showed up at the quarters shared by Hoshi Sato and Takashi Kimura with his arms burdened by a tray bearing four large flowerpots. Each pot contained a bulbous, yellow-green plant with aspects of both vine and cactus, emitting a pungently sweet aroma that swiftly overwhelmed even the scent of Kimura’s famous wasabi chili dip. “If I could have a little help, please?” the Denobulan doctor asked, sounding winded from carrying the tray through the corridors.

  As Kimura deftly relieved Phlox of the tray and less deftly searched for a place to deposit it, Sato asked, “What’s the occasion, Phlox?”

  “Ahh,” he replied with a wide Denobulan grin, “an occasion indeed, my dear Hoshi. My younger daughter, Vaneel, has finally selected her third husband!”

  Elizabeth Cutler, the honey-haired science officer, beamed in response. “That’s wonderful, Phlox!” She clasped his shoulder lightly, aware that Denobulan men were not comfortable with public displays of physical affection—paradoxical though that seemed in the case of the otherwise gregarious doctor. “I know you were wondering if she’d ever complete the set.”

  “Yes, well, Vaneel has always been especially picky. You should have seen me trying to get her to eat her fruits when she was a child.”

  “Don’t you mean her vegetables?” Kimura asked, finally giving up and putting the tray precariously down on the couch.

  “Oh, Denobulan children love vegetables! Can’t get enough of them. They usually love fruits as well, but Vaneel has always danced to her own rhythm. Sometimes I’m amazed she managed to find even two husbands who suited her eccentric preferences. Maybe that’s why she went farther afield for the third.”

  “So are you going to keep us guessing?” Sato asked. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “That’s what makes this such a special occasion—worthy of nothing less a gift than these magnificent Shendurian stingvines.”