Star Trek: The Next Generation - 112 - Cold Equations: The Persistence of Memory

by David Mack

  By the time I’d piloted Archeus back into Federation space, I’d concluded that my only hope of finding Juliana was to find Vaslovik. But how does one trace the steps of a man who’s spent six millennia learning to be a ghost among the living? I thought about little else on the way back to Orion. After I’d settled back in at the resort and handled the hundred-odd crises that my staff had mismanaged in my absence, I sequestered myself as much as possible from its daily operations and began my investigation into the former lives and methods of Emil Vaslovik.

  I began by exhuming a trove of secrets from Starfleet’s archives. In addition to their recent dealings with him in his Vaslovik persona, they had at least one prior documented encounter with him, in the last century. It seems he once lived as the enigmatic financier Micah Brack. Later, reusing that name as an alias, he bought his own private planet—Holberg 917G in the Omega system, where he then lived as Flint. It’s unclear how many names he’s used since then, when his encounter with the crew of James Kirk’s Enterprise forced him to abandon that identity. All I know for certain is that he surfaced decades later as Emil Vaslovik and embarked upon one of history’s most brilliant careers in cybernetics and artificial intelligence.

  How ironic. I didn’t know that Brack was one of Vaslovik’s past incarnations, but his purchase of a planet was one of the chief inspirations for my own post-change plan. Even now, I seem to be lagging more than a century behind Vaslovik—in both genius and guile. All the schemes I thought so novel, all the research I thought so groundbreaking, he pioneered decades before I was born. It’s almost as if I’m his shadow brought to life, echoing his every move.

  A note in Data’s log of the events on Galor IV caught my attention one night. The holographic expert Barclay had mentioned Vaslovik wielding unexpected influence with technology corporation Brock-Cepak when the holotronic android project was in need of cutting-edge hardware that was in short supply and heavy demand. It occurred to me that Vaslovik might be a shareholder in the company. A review of its public filings didn’t turn up his name—but what if the corporation knew him under a different identity? He told Kirk that he had been born in Mesopotamia as Akharin. That, too, failed to show up on Brock-Cepak’s shareholder list, but I sensed I was on the right path, that I would need to look backward before I could go forward.

  I started with every last shred of documentation regarding the purchase of Holberg 917G. That led to a web of holding companies and shell corporations, all of which were tied to other aliases without apparent origins or endings. I catalogued every name that had even a tangential connection to the Immortal’s many possessions. Weeks of research turned up financial records dating back more than two centuries, from banks and financial institutions on several worlds throughout the Federation. Sudden influxes of cash linked corporate entities that I would otherwise never have imagined shared a common factor. I followed the money all the way back to Earth, where the Immortal first amassed his multimillennial fortune. The chain of information ended abruptly in the early twenty-first century; many financial records predating the 2030s have been lost. Even so, I had compiled a staggering volume of information about the Immortal—enough from which to begin profiling his financial tactics and strategies.

  As the economies of Earth and its neighbors evolved in response to interstellar flight, the Immortal’s means of manipulating them and concealing his finances changed with them. A few elements of his modus operandi seem to have remained consistent, however. He tends to reuse names from his past, sometimes with minor changes in spelling, or with inversions of surnames and given names. He also appears to be fond of anagrammatical names—turning “Danforth” into “Thanford,” for instance. Also, as much as he tries to be a recluse (whether out of misanthropy, fear, or pragmatism), his abodes never range far from the edges of Federation territory. The financial and technological empire he’s built over the centuries still exists, most of it operating now independently of his control but still at his disposal whenever he needs it, which suggests that he continues to have a need for it. No matter how earnestly he tries to divorce himself from the peoples and affairs of the Federation, he continues to rely upon it, however indirectly.

  That narrowed my search radius to the periphery of the Federation. Before you mistake that for progress, however, I should point out that there are several million unpopulated star systems abutting the Federation’s territory—the Immortal has a marked preference for taking refuge in uninhabited areas—and there was no practical way for me to search all of them. I couldn’t limit my inquiries to systems with Class-M worlds, because Data recounted that his recent brush with the Immortal took place on a cloaked space station, constructed by sentient AI robots called exocomps, and orbiting a gas giant populated by vast clouds of sentient nanites.

  I couldn’t even be certain the Immortal had situated his new lair in orbit of a planet or a star. What if he’d placed it in interstellar space, near anomalies that would discourage the use of the region for shipping? He could dwell in the darkness, invisible and untouchable, for eons. No, if I was going to track down this man who’s proved as elusive as a fistful of water, I would have to think as he does, envision the life he leads, and then use that insight to find some errant clue that’s escaped his notice. I would have to find a mistake by a man who doesn’t make them.

  Fortunately, I have the luxuries of being very patient and all but immortal myself.

  I began several months ago by meeting with Chairman Molob to discuss a business proposition. In exchange for my making generous donations to selected Orion “charities,” he had his associates in the Orion Syndicate send some of their disreputable experts to infiltrate the Immortal’s numerous extant business interests, as well as the financial institutions through which he disguises his transactions. Without knowing they were acting on my behalf, those operatives insinuated several pieces of software I’ve designed that will enable me to monitor all internal and external communications from those organizations. Then I began the laborious process of analyzing that daunting crush of raw intelligence for patterns and commonalities. There were more than I expected; the close relationships between many of the Immortal’s corporations have led to a variety of partnerships and joint ventures unrelated to his efforts.

  Over time, however, I found evidence of directives and transactions at many of them that originated from the same external agent. Requests for raw materials, arrangements for discreet and anonymous shipping and storage of those materials on a handful of planets in a fringe sector of the Federation, and the liquidation of assets to pay for all of it. All the instructions arrived via encrypted subspace messages that had been routed through hundreds of different comm relays to conceal their point of origin. It took months to recover all those comm logs and trace the signals.

  Reassembling those traces has led me to a most unexpected destination.

  In a star system known to the Federation only by its catalog number, a Class-M planet orbits an unremarkable F2V star of middling size. Except for the signals that I’ve tracked back to this planet, no artificial signals or energy signals emanate from its surface. By all accounts it’s an unpopulated world, one not under consideration for colonization because Federation scientists believe its ecology is too fragile to survive the disruptions large-scale development would cause. It’s exactly the sort of world the Immortal would have selected a century ago. Perhaps his cloaked space station was a unique construction, one he’s not prepared to duplicate so soon after its destruction; maybe he simply prefers to live with grass beneath his feet instead of steel.

  Regardless of what led the Immortal to this planet, I knew I needed to be cautious. He probably monitors the entire sector for threats of any kind. To pay him a visit, I had to conceal my approach and my presence. To that end, I equipped Archeus with a cloaking device, built from schematics acquired by my ever-helpful Orion friends, and “borrowed” a Starfleet-made isolation suit, which uses holographic illusions to render its wearer all but invisible
, from the Xenology Department at my alma mater, the Daystrom Institute of Technology.

  And now I’m here, on the planet’s surface, standing less than thirty meters from a large and beautiful Tuscan-style villa that’s nigh-undetectable from space. It stands at the top of a cliff, on the edge of a rain forest, looking down upon a lush valley where six-legged herbivores gambol through waving fields of tall grass.

  It’s a few minutes before sunset, and this world’s white star has been turned pink by atmospheric haze as it sinks into the horizon. Vaslovik stands on the villa’s covered promenade, garbed in a pristine white toga, swirling dark purple liquid in a Bordeaux glass with his right hand. He observes the day’s end with a wistful gaze, his bearing proud but serene.

  He doesn’t look a day older than when I first met him, when I was barely nineteen years old, a naïve undergraduate awed by his reputation and his pompous self-assurance.

  The sight of him fills me with toxic rage. I fantasize about seizing his head in my hands and crushing it into pulp. I want to drown out his howls of agony with cruel laughter.

  I know better than to try. He possesses ancient secrets and terrible power. The forces at his command aren’t obvious, but by all accounts he’s not a man one should challenge rashly.

  Then she appears, and all my anger melts away. Juliana drifts out of the villa, onto the promenade, a vision bathed in the ruddy glow of dusk. She’s young again, her wild mane restored to its dark coppery luster, the lines of her face elegant and youthful. I’m snared by the sight of her as she was when we met, when our lives were full of hope, before decades of broken promises and buried resentments drove her from me.

  She joins Vaslovik at the promenade’s low wall, entwines her arm around his, and rests her head against his shoulder while she admires the sunset. They don’t speak. Affectionate glances pass between them. I can see it in their eyes: they are beyond the need for words. It’s an image of perfection, of blissful companionship . . . and all I can think is, Damn you, Vaslovik.

  He’s bested me in every respect. It wasn’t enough he made my work obsolete with his holotronic android, he did the impossible by reanimating a dead positronic brain, and then he restored my Juliana as I’d hoped to do. He’s given her everything I could have—the truth of her existence, eternal youth, and a private paradise for two—and more: the gift of resurrection.

  I couldn’t imagine how to win her heart from an ordinary man; how can I hope to seduce her from the man who rescued her from Death itself?

  Minutes elapse, the sun passes from view, and the sky becomes a study in indigo. Vaslovik and Juliana head inside their home, hand in hand.

  All I can do is stand and watch. There’s nothing left to say.

  Darkness falls, and I watch the lights inside the villa switch off.

  Then I walk back to Archeus, thirsting for a revenge I have no idea how to take.

  • • •

  An hour later, I’m at warp speed, pushing my ship to its limits, desperate to outrun my shame and sorrow. I can’t get the image of Juliana and Vaslovik out of my mind. All I want to do is scream and smash things, to feel something break beneath the force of my anger, but this isn’t the time or the place. Damn it, I wish I’d put a holodeck on this ship!

  Juliana’s lost to me forever. I know it in my heart. But the farther I get from Vaslovik’s new Eden, the more my thoughts turn to an even sharper loss: my former mentor has eclipsed my legacy. He’s done something I never dreamed possible. But now I know it is. I’ve seen it.

  I can’t pretend it doesn’t infuriate me. How long has he had such knowledge? How did he acquire it? I can’t take it from him by force, but maybe I can duplicate his achievements—and advance beyond them. Yes, that’s what I’ll do! If he can resurrect a collapsed neural net, so can I. If he can build a holotronic brain, I can make a better one. I revolutionized the science of cybernetics once; I can do it again.

  To hell with Vaslovik. Let him hide on the edge of civilization.

  I’m going home. I have work to do.

  OCTOBER

  2376

  17

  I admire the view from the mountaintop. Hundreds of meters below, beneath a ragged blanket of gray mist, the densest jungle I’ve ever seen sprawls away in every direction to the horizon. A dark-striped and rainbow-ringed gas giant, this Class-M moon’s parent world dominates the lavender sky. Warm breezes waft up from the jungle’s canopy, rich with the perfume of fruit blossoms and the stench of rotting organic matter.

  Turning my back on the verdant splendor below, I regard the quaint village that occupies the manmade plateau carved from the mountain’s bare peak. Dozens of attractive little houses stand in orderly rank and file around a central green space. In the middle of the dark green lawn ringed by well-groomed shrubberies are a gleaming marble statue of the village’s founder and a charming gazebo. This was a private research colony founded four decades ago and operated at a significant financial loss by a collective of ecologists, geologists, botanists, and various specialists in the disparate sciences of living things.

  Its de facto mayor and last remaining resident, an undernourished-looking Bolian named Kobb, eyes me nervously as he awaits my decision. He looks as if stress has torn away his youth and vigor, leaving only this exhausted, slump-shouldered husk standing before me.

  You see, Kobb and his colleagues have been trying to sell this moon for years. The problem is, Yutani IIIa has no resources worth exploiting, and it sits on the edge of the Paulson Nebula, which Federation scientists predict will smother it with lethal radiation in fifty years.

  I take one last gander at the pretty little village and nod.

  “It’s perfect. I’ll take it.”

  His face brightens as he exhales with relief. “Wonderful! How long will it take you to arrange the financing for the purchase?”

  “No need. I have the money.” I take a padd from my jacket’s front pocket, turn it on, and hand it to him. “Press your thumb on the green square, then let the device scan your retina, and the amount we discussed will be transferred to your collective’s account.”

  Kobb blinks in surprise as he processes what I’ve told him. “Are you serious? You have the kind of wealth that lets you buy an entire moon on just a handshake?”

  “I never agreed to shake your hand. But yes, I am that well capitalized.” I’m growing impatient with him, so I stare him down. It’s not difficult; it’s like intimidating a puppy. “My time is valuable, Mister Kobb. Do we have a deal or not?”

  “Of course. My apologies, Mister Weizenbaum.” He’s in such a hurry to get his thumb on the padd that he nearly drops the damned thing. It shakes in his hand as he holds it up to scan his retina. Then it beeps softly, confirming the biometric verification process is complete.

  He hands the padd back to me. I put it away as his personal comm device chirps in his pocket. The emaciated blue scientist checks his incoming message with widening eyes. “The credits have already been transferred,” he says in a hushed tone of disbelief. “The full sum.”

  “As promised. This concludes our transaction, yes?”

  A giddy nod. “Absolutely.” He puts away his personal comm, then reaches out and shakes my hand with fierce gratitude. “Thank you so much, Mister Weizenbaum. I thought we’d never recoup our losses on this rock. You’ve saved our research program.”

  I pull my hand free and feign distaste at the fleeting contact. “My pleasure.” I tap the communicator on my wristband to hail Shakti on the Archeus. “We’re all set down here. You can begin.” I beckon Kobb away from the village. “You might want to get behind me.”

  He darts behind me, and only then pauses to wonder at my instruction. “Why?”

  I look up.

  A dark shape descends from orbit directly above the town, like a spider dropping on a filament of web toward unsuspecting prey. I watch with pride and anticipation; I designed this automated vessel, and I’m eager to see it in action. As it draws near, it casts a shad
ow over the orderly rows of houses and their immaculate common greensward.

  Kobb stares agape at the machine and points upward. “What . . . what is . . . ?”

  It answers his question before he finishes asking it. Repulsor beams flash from its belly, pulverizing the storybook houses into kindling and rubble. The picturesque brick town hall is crushed into red gravel seconds later, before a wide-dispersal phaser beam sterilizes the ground from one edge of the town to the other, setting ablaze anything that can burn. A great tower of smoke rises from the ashes and mushrooms beneath the demolition ship’s belly. My dark angel of destruction activates a force field a few meters in front of me and my shocked witness, then sweeps the field away from us, scooping up the burning debris like a shovel of golden light. Moments later, the wreckage of the failed science colony is pushed over the edge of the artificial plateau, and it plunges into the jungle, which swallows it up as if it were nothing.

  The demolition ship ascends, returning to the outer darkness whence it came.

  The Bolian beside me shivers, his face a mask of horror and grief. I have no pity for him. We all learn to live with disappointment eventually.

  I once aspired to buy a planet; I had to settle for a moon. Even so, I was forced to liquidate my stake in the resort for less than half what it was worth in order to get off Orion with a fortune in my hands and no price on my head. Regardless, I still had more than enough to make this investment and retain enough capital to finance what comes next.

  Transporter beams flare across my empty swath of alpine real estate, and a swarm of small construction robots materializes. These have been deployed from another automated starship in orbit, one programmed to build upon this site my new abode, the most advanced cybernetics laboratory and fabrication center I’ve ever conceived.

  The robots waste no time. As soon as the transporter effects fade, they start excavating granite to create a shielded foundation in which to assemble the fusion reactor that will power my redoubt. Drilling lasers split the air with piercing shrieks, and the disintegrating stone kicks up clouds of acrid gray fog. Though it will take months to build this sanctuary, I intend to supervise every moment and detail of its construction.