Strange New Worlds VIII

by Dean Wesley Smith

“But what about Jean-Luc Picard?” Beverly Crusher asked.

  Doctor Russell blushed. “I didn’t mean to minimize what he’s going through, but the mission was always to get evidence that the Ka’Tral were creating and distributing biological weapons. We got that information, thereby saving millions of lives.”

  “And what about Jean-Luc Picard?” Beverly Crusher repeated.

  The red in Doctor Russell’s face darkened. “All we can do now is sit back and see if the retrieval nanites do their job.”

  “And keep running your tests,” Beverly said. “Collecting more data about your nanites. You had an unqualified success with instigator nanites. I’m sure Starfleet will give you a commendation for that. So the failure of your retrieval nanites to bring him back will be just a footnote in your paper.”

  Doctor Russell said nothing.

  Doctor Crusher pushed the young scientist away from the biobed. “If you can’t do more for him here, then I’m taking him back to the Enterprise. Data can run your tests for you. I’m going to try to help him. Because he’s my patient. He’s my captain! And dammit, he’s my friend.”

  “Doctor,” Data said, reaching for Beverly Crusher’s arm.

  “Don’t, Data.” Beverly turned on him. “I can’t even look at you right now. The idea that you did this to him . . . ”

  Riker gently pushed Beverly away from the biobed.

  “Enterprise,” a hoarse voice whispered.

  Everyone in the room stopped and turned toward the captain.

  “Did he just . . . ?” Riker asked.

  Doctor Russell ran her tricorder on the captain in silence. Several minutes passed before she lowered the tricorder and smiled. “The retrieval nanites are working.”

  “Will he be all right?” Riker asked.

  “We can’t be sure for a few more hours, but the scans look good.”

  There was an awkward silence, then Beverly Crusher spoke. “I apologize for my outburst. It was unprofessional.”

  Doctor Russell shook her head. “Don’t apologize. I’m well aware of your feelings toward me. You expressed them quite well the last time we met. And you are correct when you say there’s nothing we can do for him here that you can’t do aboard the Enterprise. Data can monitor the nanites. I think the captain will recover more quickly in a familiar setting.”

  Doctor Crusher stepped closer to the biobed and touched the captain’s arm, relieved when he didn’t jerk away from her. At least her touch didn’t burn him anymore. She nodded at Riker.

  “Enterprise, four to beam directly to sickbay,” Riker said, pausing when Doctor Crusher held up her hand. “On my command.”

  Beverly Crusher looked at Data, her hand still touching the captain’s arm. “I should apologize for my outburst at you too, Data. I’m calm now, and I know you were following orders. I also know that you retain the knowledge of what kind of shock is needed to activate any nanites remaining in the captain’s system. And I’m telling you here and now, if you use that knowledge, I know where your off switch is.”

  (THIRD PRIZE)

  Final Flight

  John Takis

  He can see it now: the Scimitar. It drifts into view, wreathed in smoke and sparks from damaged conduits. The corridor in which he stands is ruptured, terminating in empty space. Gases and debris spill out into the Rift. Geordi is behind him, watching, protected from the vacuum by a forcefield. Geordi, tender and warm-hearted . . . Geordi, his closest friend.

  Geordi, who must now be left behind.

  He runs.

  His speed is tremendous, especially given the fact that he faces essentially no air resistance. His artificial legs move as fast as they ever have. Yet his mind is faster. He notes the pitch and yaw of the deck beneath him. He calculates and adjusts as he runs. The whole time he keeps his optical sensors locked on to the Scimitar. The Reman warship is not entirely visible, being partially obscured by a cloaking device. He fills in the missing data based on prior observations. He follows the ship’s movement, calculating its trajectory and creating a mental projection in three dimensions. There can be no margin of error in his calculations. He will have time for only one jump. He considers that no biological being could make this leap with confidence. But he is confident.

  He is nearing the ragged lip of the deck now. The starfield grows continually more visible. It is an arena of battle, and his superenhanced vision can pick out every twisting fragment of shrapnel. Mercifully, there are no bodies in his field of vision. The space outside the breach is lit by a soft green glow. Clouds of particles cast off shimmers of reflected starlight. Electromagnetic distortion creates flashes of staggeringly complex energy patterns, invisible to human eyes—but not to him.

  It is beautiful. The thought breaks over him, and in his mind he seems to stumble. The shock of the emotion is powerful; he has not had an active emotion chip in some time. His forward motion seems to cease. The stars become frozen, two-dimensional . . . for a moment they swarm with guessed-at constellations. Then he is moving again. He consults his chronometer; no time has passed. His feet pound forward, oblivious of his mental goings-on. It is a strange experience, but he has little time to wonder before the critical moment is upon him.

  His boots grip the rim of the sheared-off deck and send him launching into the void . . . .

  * * *

  For a 152-year-old man, Leonard McCoy had an amazingly steady grip. He took a sip of tea, grimacing somewhat at the heat, then set the cup down without a hint of a tremor. Age had not dulled his eyes, evident by the way the retired admiral peered at Picard from within a network of cobwebbed wrinkles. They were piercing eyes, intelligent, and not lacking in compassion.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Jean-Luc,” McCoy said. “I’ve said my final good-byes to more friends and shipmates than I care to remember.”

  “It never gets any easier, does it?” Picard asked.

  McCoy shook his ancient head. “Nope.”

  Picard took hold of his own Earl Grey tea, allowing the warm china to settle against the cusp of his hand. It was a wonderful feeling. The admiral had insisted that authentic, handcrafted china made all the difference—“None of that modern replicated crap,” had been his exact words—and Picard was beginning to believe him.

  “I appreciate your sympathy, Admiral.”

  “Doctor,” McCoy broke in, with a dry cackle. “Always hated being called ‘Admiral.’ They haven’t revoked my certification yet, so you can call me “Doctor.” Or how about ‘Bones’? You’re the captain of the Enterprise, I s’pose you’ve earned it.”

  Picard shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Perhaps ‘Leonard’?”

  McCoy shrugged, and Picard could see indentations rise beneath the fabric that covered his shoulders, where an exoskeletal frame was mounted. “I appreciate your sympathy, Leonard,” Picard continued. “But I’m not sure I’m quite ready to consider him lost.”

  “Oh?”

  “That’s actually the reason I requested this meeting with you. As you know, the Enterprise is still undergoing repairs, and it’s given me some time to reflect.”

  McCoy took up his cup of tea and settled back into his chair. “Go on, Captain.”

  “You are familiar with the unusual case of B-4, an android of Doctor Soong’s who is apparently an early prototype of Lieutenant Commander Data.”

  “Yeah, I’ve read the reports.”

  “What you may not have known is that before Data’s . . . before he saved my life, he transferred his memory engrams into B-4 in an attempt to unlock his brother’s potential for growth . . . ”

  McCoy did not let him finish. “You’re going to ask me about Spock.”

  The bluntness of it startled Picard, and his jaw hung open momentarily. After a moment, he composed himself, sitting straighter and tugging at his tunic. “My position in Starfleet has given me access to certain classified files, including the private logs of James Kirk regarding the Genesis incident. I was struck by . . . certain parallels. You acted as ho
st, for a time, for Spock’s katra—his life-force, his inner being—until the regeneration of his body, when his katra was restored to him.”

  “The fal-tor-pan.” McCoy shook his head. “I’m still a bit fuzzy on all the ritual details, Captain. I can’t tell you how it was done, or if it would work on androids. To the best of my knowledge, no non-Vulcan has ever managed to accomplish it. Doesn’t even work for all Vulcans, so I’m told. They don’t even all believe in it. Anyway, it sounds as though the transfer has already taken place in your case. Did it work?”

  Picard frowned. “It’s impossible to say at this point. Data himself believed the experiment was a failure. I have reason to believe it may have had some effect . . . but if the Data I knew is in there, somewhere within B-4, he has yet to concretely express himself. I wonder if it’s even possible . . . ” He trailed off, at a loss for words.

  “Captain,” McCoy said, “are you asking me if an android has a soul?”

  “Oh, no,” Picard said, shaking his head. “If any of us has a soul, Data did—of that much I am certain. Whatever it is that makes us human, that drives us to be more than we are, he possessed in abundance.”

  McCoy snorted. “Wouldn’t have thought it the first time I met him, just before they launched your Enterprise-D.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Of course, I didn’t think there was anything human about Spock the first time I met him, either. So I guess the question’s not did he have a soul, but rather, does it still exist?”

  Picard nodded slowly. “I have always tried to remain open to extreme possibilities.”

  “Wise,” said McCoy. “Remind me to tell you about the incident at Sigma Draconis.”

  “I suppose what I’m looking for . . . ” A small, weary smile formed on Picard’s lips. “ . . . is hope.”

  “That’s not a bad thing to look for,” McCoy said. “But I’m afraid I’m not going to be of much help. Never was much good with figuring out machines, sentient or not. You’ll have to look up Scotty if you want any high-tech voodoo done.” He abruptly broke into a massive yawn, then blinked his eyes. Very suddenly, he looked his age. He sagged in his chair. “Dammit, Jim, we never used to get this tired this fast,” he muttered.

  “I appreciate your taking the time for me,” Picard said softly, a heartfelt smile on his face. “It was certainly very good to speak with you, and I didn’t really come expecting anything more than that. I’ll let you return to your rest now.” He made as if to stand, but McCoy reached across the table and grabbed his wrist with surprising force.

  “Listen to the voice of experience, son . . . .” McCoy’s wizened voice was slow and deliberate. “I’ve been where you are. Cosmic thoughts. You’re looking for answers, asking the big questions.” His bright eyes gleamed. “Go ahead. Ask. Petition God Almighty if you want to. Just remember . . . it doesn’t matter what the religion or what the planet: sometimes the answer you get back isn’t the answer you wanted, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it but accept it and move on.” He paused. Beneath his shirt, his exoskeleton flexed and he drew in a breath. “But if he was your friend, you have to take every chance, explore every possibility. The human conscience demands nothing less.”

  Picard’s smile faded and his gaze became distant. “Is there reason for optimism, do you suppose?”

  McCoy laughed. “There’s never a reason for optimism. But don’t let that stop you!”

  * * *

  He flies free, traversing the space between the Enterprise and the Scimitar. His arms and legs flex, adjusting his balance in order to maintain the necessary course. It is a relatively simple act for his positronic brain to perform, which leaves him ample time to reflect that the situation in which he now finds himself is his own fault.

  He thinks back to the moment when the captain had declared his intention to beam over to the enemy ship. Everyone had seemed to understand that it was a probable one-way trip. Everyone had understood the risk. Data himself had thought he had understood it. His duty had been clear—he had volunteered to go in his captain’s stead.

  But had it been only duty that led him to volunteer—a product of his Starfleet programming? Examining his memory, he found a curious lack of data . . . as if experiences had passed through him without leaving any record. How to account for this mental gap—the inexplicable sluggishness on the part of his positronic network? Unknowing exposure to Thalaron radiation, perhaps? Normally, he would file the conundrum away for later analysis . . . perhaps in consultation with Geordi or Counselor Troi. But he is not sure he will have that opportunity. And in the face of possible deactivation, the question seems unusually significant:

  How to account for the fact that he had forgotten about the Emergency Transport Unit?

  Of course he had not “forgotten” it, precisely . . . . Soong’s children were incapable of forgetting even the smallest detail; even the prototypical B-4 exhibited this characteristic. The real puzzler was: Why had he not thought of the ETU before his captain’s departure? One of the most highly advanced computers known to science, he experienced millions of thought processes per second. He had engaged the problem. The ETU would have been a logical response to the scenario . . . had he thought of it. Perhaps there had been an error . . . unlikely, but not impossible. Whatever the root cause, the impulse to offer himself in his captain’s place had been so powerful—and had seemed so logical at the time—that it had assigned itself maximum priority, overriding all other considerations. The implications were striking: there had been mental processes taking place of which he had not been consciously aware. He had been . . .

  Preoccupied.

  Distracted.

  What a triumph this would have been under other circumstances! He recalls experimenting with dreams, his consultation with a holographic representation of Sigmund Freud. But if this is a breakthrough, it brings him no pleasure now. There is, after all, a very good chance that his all-too-human error will be responsible for the death of his captain . . . his friend. This thought loops continually through Data’s mind, and he finds that he cannot subdue it. It resurfaces again and again, replicating itself across his neural net, clogging positronic pathways. Realizing that his processing ability will become compromised in short order, he scans his subsystems for any trace of a virus or defective code. He finds nothing. Is this the experience which humans classify as guilt? he wonders.

  Ultimately, it is the urgency of the approaching hulk of the Scimitar that breaks the discomfiting thought loop. As the moment of action draws near, his rigorous calculations kick in. As he predicted, his grab at a spar of wreckage is insufficient to halt his momentum. Instead, he uses the brief contact to modify his trajectory, allowing his body to go limp. Now he must trust to his memory engrams. Given his recent self-questioning, it is something of a leap of faith.

  Seconds later, he slams forcefully into an invisible section of hull. Grabbing tightly, he climbs along the invisible surface. Microsensors in his fingers assess the metal beneath him, probing for resonances and electromagnetic fluctuations that will give some indication of what lies underneath. It does not take him long to locate an access panel; it takes less time to rip it open with his bare hands.

  He is inside the ship now, standing in a corridor that he will follow until he can find his way to the bridge. On impulse, he turns and takes one last look at the stars. He has calculated the odds; he does not think he will ever see them again. A raw and inexplicable energy courses through his positronic pathways. This sensation . . . is it . . . fear? Gratitude? There is no emotion chip to consult for reference. He has noticed that humans sometimes speak to themselves when they believe that no one can hear them . . . acts of vocalization, Counselor Troi once told him, that are reassuring of themselves. The gesture seems appropriate. “Thank you,” he says aloud, to no one in particular. And then, “I am frightened.” He suspects this is true.

  Then he is running again.

  * * *

  “The life-force
survives the destruction of the body. This is testified to by the unyielding traditions of numberless worlds. You bear witness by your own science. For—is it not so?—transporting me here to your ship, you destroyed my physical form and created in its place an exact duplicate. Yet I know that my katra is unbroken. You also sense this fundamental truth, or you would not have sought me out. Is this not so, Captain?”

  The speaker was male, slightly taller and thinner than Picard. He sat facing Picard across the ready-room table. He was draped in elaborate, overlapping sand-colored robes that were inscribed with strange symbols and characters. His face was thin, his gaze hypnotic. His eyes shone with passionate intensity. His name was Symek.

  He was Vulcan.

  Picard considered his response carefully. “I do not wish to debate semantics,” he said. “You are certainly entitled to your metaphysical beliefs.”

  “Then you’re not a believer?”

  Picard took a deep breath. “That depends on what you mean by ‘believer.’ I do not wish to remove possibilities out of hand. You see, I owe a great debt to my friend. It was his . . . quest, I suppose you might say, to grow beyond himself. I have learned to look beyond myself in order to survive on a number of occasions. I have learned to respect that my own beliefs about what is possible and what is not possible are not always correct.”

  “A hard truth.”

  “I had some hard teachers.”

  Symek spread his hands in a gesture of receptivity. “Where should you like to begin?”

  Picard ran a hand over his chin. “To begin with, you were a difficult person to get ahold of,” he said. “Even for a man with my connections. I know very little about you, other than the fact that you’re one of the few Vulcans still writing publicly about the practice of fal-tor-pan.”

  Symek cocked his head slightly to one side in a pedantic fashion. “The Order of Sybok prefers to remain out of the headlines, Captain, as I’m sure you will appreciate. Vulcan society, in its ‘enlightenment,’ shows little patience or toleration for our way of thinking.” He pursed his lips. “They are . . . shall we say, selective in their reading of the Scrolls of Surak. In his day, Sybok, our own noble patron, was driven away in disgrace.”