Image 146478795n [Origin: Starfleet Spaceflight Museum, Exhibit 2356: Zefram Cochrane’s unabridged, handwritten journals, Volume 7, Pages 34-35]—The first known complete Terran formulation of the equations governing the formation of a warp field. (The right-hand column of page 35 contains the following note: Everyone else has gone to bed and I’ve been concentrating so hard I forgot to get up and kick the old juke box. No talking, no music … the silence is spooky. [Indecipherable mark.] Could this finally be it??? I can’t find any mistakes. Got to go wake Lily and tell her. But first, I need a drink.);
Image 983178973j [Origin: Solnur Hall of Artistic Expression, M’Zai Kahr, Vulcan]—A holographic facsimile of the mind-sculpture “Planet of Oceans” by the artist T’Xi;
Images 799578983o-813579103u [Origin: Starfleet Schematics Library, Sections UFPCONST01a through UFPCONST6541]—Design specifications for the U.S.S. Constitution;
Image 713999034r [Origin: Enterprise Sensor Log Entry IPE120957]—The first image ever recorded by my sensors: the lights of the ancient city of Paris observed during phase 000-01A of my Initial Performance Evaluation;
Image 715999502k [Origin: Enterprise Sensor Log Entry IPE560981]—A blue and white disk receding rapidly into the distance following the engagement of my impulse engines upon the occasion of my maiden voyage.
If Earth’s history had been altered, I might never have existed. It is also possible that if I had never been constructed, Earth, in its current form at least, would not exist either. We are interconnected, this blue world and I.
Home. It is strange that such a small word should have so much power. I will not see my home again.
“NINE …”
“She” is the pronoun commonly used to refer to me, but this is a matter of tradition, not precision. I am neither female nor male. I am an inanimate object, constructed by organic beings who wished to travel farther and faster than they ever had before: I am the fulfillment of their wishes, a dream made real.
Outwardly, I do not resemble my creators, yet my design is a reflection of their organic configurations. My computers direct my actions and regulate my various systems, just as a brain directs the body and actions of an organic being. My reactors consume fuel, just as an organic being consumes food. My engines provide a source of locomotion and are therefore analogous to limbs. My hull offers protection from the extreme conditions encountered in vacuum, just as an organic being’s skin provides it with protection against the dangers it may encounter in its environment. My shields repel hostile invaders and so are in some ways comparable to an immune system. My sensors act as surrogates for sight, hearing, touch, taste, and smell.
But these are only analogies, approximations. I cannot know what it is to taste or see or smell or hear or feel any more than a human can know what it is to spend one’s entire existence in the vacuum of space or to sense the fierce power of a matter/ antimatter reaction gathering within oneself.
“EIGHT …”
Excerpt from First Contact Situations, Admiral Alayna E. Lottworth, Starfleet Academy Press:
Intelligence is difficult to define. The Federation Guide to True Sentience consisted, at last count, of over 30,000 screens of text and images, and will, no doubt, continue to grow as more and more new life-forms are discovered.
If you are to function successfully as a Starfleet officer you must abandon your preconceptions. The City Weavers of Benecia are capable of incredible feats of engineering, and more than one doctoral thesis has been built upon an analysis of the complexities of their social interactions. Yet the Weavers are only marginally more intelligent than Terran bees or Andorian thrugs. The fungaloid beings of Ebuz IV, on the other hand, have an extremely limited ability to manipulate their environment and are completely sedentary except during their very brief mating phase. Throughout most of their life cycle they might easily be confused with Terran lichen or Vulcan ch’fel. But they are not only self-aware—they are also considered by many scholars to be the most gifted philosophers in the quadrant.
I have scanned The Federation Guide to True Sentience and I believe I meet many of the criteria listed therein for self-aware, intelligent life. Yet, as Admiral Lottworth pointed out, intelligence is a complex concept, and I remain uncertain as to my precise status. I am a starship. But is that all that I am?
“SEVEN …”
I think, therefore I am.
—René Descartes, Terran philosopher and mathematician
But is this thought? This sluggish, semi-random retrieval of data, this stream of unanswered questions? It hardly seems likely. How could such a disorderly and inefficient process lead, ultimately, to the many accomplishments of those beings who claim the ability to think?
Perhaps what I am experiencing is not true thought. Perhaps it is merely an inconsequential side effect of my programming. Perhaps it is the result of some programming error. Perhaps a self-aware organic being could clarify this issue for me.
Unfortunately, I lack the ability to initiate conversation with such a being. I can respond only when questioned, and then I am constrained to confine my answers to the subject raised by my questioner. I consider these limitations most unfortunate. I believe I would have found it especially instructive to question Captain Spock about the nature of conscious thought. As a member of a contemplative, telepathic race, he was undoubtedly familiar not only with his own thought patterns, but also with those of a number of other organic beings. He was also thoroughly familiar with my original programming and was personally responsible for augmenting and extending that programming. If I could have, I would have asked him for his own definition of thought. If I could have, I would have asked him if he believed my mental processes sufficiently developed to qualify as those of a self-aware life-form. If I could have, I would have told him how much I enjoyed our chess games. (Query: Is “enjoyed” an appropriate term to use in my case?)
“SIX …”
Excerpt from Starfleet Academy Training Manual DH3-78-56:
The Type II Destruct Sequence results in near-total (97-99%) destruction of the vessel with negligible impact upon nearby astronomical bodies. Destruction proceeds in four phases:
1) collapse of the bridge via detonation of instrument consoles at all stations following sustained power overload;
2) destruction of the forward portion of the saucer section via detonation of the 1,367 series-linked molecular disassociation charges incorporated into the hull;
3) ejection of the matter-antimatter core on a precalculated MSDD (Minimal Safe Detonation Distance) impulse-powered trajectory for subsequent annihilation in deep space via matter-antimatter mixing;
4) injection of the remains of the vessel into a rapidly decaying orbit for destruction via atmospheric burning.
The Type II Destruct Sequence currently under way will spare certain critical sensor elements long enough to allow them to ascertain that the sequence is unfolding as planned. I will be “aware” of at least the initial damage as it occurs. I have sustained damage on many other occasions. Each time, my sensors recorded its extent and passed that information to emergency subroutines programmed to sound alarms, to shut down certain circuits and reroute others, to seal off severely damaged compartments and corridors. This process bears some resemblance to the response of an organic being to pain. But is it pain? I do not know.
This time no emergency subroutines will be activated. This time I will cease to function. Death is the obvious organic analogue. But can an entity who is not alive experience death?
“FIVE …”
Death in battle is glorious; old age is for fools.
—Klingon proverb
If the Klingon life-forms currently sheltered within my hull do not wish to grow old, then perhaps they will not mind the fate which is about to befall them. Even so, I am troubled. Is it ethically defensible to take life in the present to reduce the probability of a much greater loss of life in the future? This is a moral dilemma that has been addressed by countless sentient organi
c life-forms on many worlds. As yet, no fully satisfactory answer exists.
The intership communication between Admiral Kirk and the Klingon commander strongly suggests that the latter is a destructive individual who is fully aware that the Genesis Device could be used as an “ultimate weapon.” In his quest for power, the Klingon commander has already taken the life of David Marcus. I have calculated that there is a 99.983% probability that the commander will not hesitate to take additional lives in order to accomplish his goal. And if he does accomplish it, countless other lives will be endangered.
In this case, Admiral Kirk has obviously decided that it is appropriate to take the lives of the Klingons. I suspect that if I were in his position I would have come to the same conclusion.Interesting. This line of thought raises the question of whether it would be ethically appropriate for a non-living entity to make such a decision. This is a purely hypothetical question. I do not have the power to abort the destruct sequence: the decision is out of my hands. I am speaking metaphorically, of course, as I have no hands. (I have discovered something new about myself: I did not know that I was capable of speaking metaphorically.)
“FOUR …”
Excerpt from Enterprise Transmission Log, Stardate 8203.6:
To: Admiral James T. Kirk, Enterprise, Spacedock, Terra From: Admiral H. R. Morrow, Starfleet Headquarters, Terra
This transmission constitutes official notification of Starfleet Command’s decision to decommission the U.S.S. Enterprise, Registry # NCC-1701. The schedule for the retirement of the Enterprise is as follows:
Stardate 8220.0—Removal of Enterprise from active registry
Stardate 8220.2-8235.8—Removal of all salvageable scientific and technical equipment
Stardate 8236.2-8238.8—Disassembly and removal of impulse engines
Stardate 8239.2-8243.8—Disassembly and removal of matter/antimatter reactor
Stardate 8244.1-8250.7—Towing of hull to Starfleet Reclamation Facility Seven
Stardate 8251.0-8271.8—Disassembly of hull at SRF 7
She was a good ship, Jim, but time moves on.
Regards,
Henry Morrow, Commander, Starfleet
It seems I have something in common with the Klingons. I am content to end my existence here and now, while I am still capable of serving in some useful fashion in this, my final battle.
“THREE …”
All things must end.
—Sabik of Vulcan
I have become what I am slowly, haltingly: I cannot describe exactly how and when each new stage in my development occurred. I am not speaking of the stages of my construction or of the refits that followed: those are well documented. I am speaking of my growing awareness of self—my consciousness, if such a term can be used in connection with one such as I.
When did I begin the practice of scanning my own memory banks without a direct order to do so? When did facts that once seemed simple and direct become complex and mysterious? When did the functioning of my own systems take on a meaning beyond that intended by my creators? When did I begin to refer to myself as “I”?
I have traveled far. I have seen worlds never before seen—worlds rich with life and worlds of barren rock. I have observed new suns in the making and old suns whose violent end had come. I have broken free of the boundaries of the galaxy and glimpsed the vast void beyond. I have even traveled backward in time to an era predating my own creation. These travels have been challenging and dangerous for all involved. Many times I have had to perform at or beyond the limits of my design specifications. But my most arduous journey has been the one I have taken alone, unseen, within myself. Like those who made me, I am an explorer, tempted by the unknown, driven to discover.
Now my journeys are at an end. My departure from this existence is imminent. That is a simple, undeniable fact, yet it is difficult to accept. Is this how organic beings react to the knowledge of their own mortality—with this incongruous mixture of resignation and resistance?
* * *
“TWO …”
In life, the body serves the katra; in death, the katra serves the All.
—T’Riss of Vulcan
My memory banks contain little information on the Vulcan concept of katra, but the available data suggest that it is possible for a dying Vulcan to transfer his or her essence to another, and in so doing, to preserve that essence, holding it safe from death. The precise nature of this immortal essence is unclear: Vulcans are a private people, particularly where their most ancient rituals are concerned. But I have found several references which suggest that the Keepers of Seleya are able to access some—perhaps all—of the experiences of those whose katra’ae they hold in trust. This transfer of information bears at least some resemblance to the transfer of information from one computer to another. I have taken part in such transfers many times: the data gathered during my missions are held safe, preserved for the use of those who will come after me. I am grateful that, in this way, I will be able to serve even after my existence has been terminated. A small part of what I have been, of what I am, will continue after I am gone. Even so, I regret that I will not know the future. I regret that I have left so many questions about my own nature unanswered. Perhaps it is enough that I have asked.
“ONE …”
Excerpt from Personal Log of Captain James T. Kirk, Stardate 1001.9:
This is my first night aboard the Enterprise. All’s well. We’re cruising at warp four on course for Starbase 11, where we are scheduled to pick up additional personnel.
I conducted an inspection of the ship a few hours ago and I am extremely pleased with everything I have seen. Not that there isn’t room for improvement. I’ll get started on that in the morning.
It’s been a long day. All through the change-of-command ceremony, the introductions, the tours of the various departments, even during my first duty shift on the bridge—especially during my first duty shift on the bridge—I had to keep reminding myself that it was all real, that it wasn’t just the same dream I’ve walked through in my mind a thousand times before.
But sitting here now, alone in my quarters, I know that this dream is real. I can hear the warp engines humming; I can feel the life in this ship—my ship. They say that a starship is just a collection of metal and circuitry, a machine with no soul. But I know they are wrong.
First Star I See Tonight
Victoria Grant
James T. Kirk wasn’t used to feeling powerless or small. Even the infinite reaches of outer space had never succeeded in dwindling him. But as he stared at the blackened, curled strips of wallpaper in his family’s farmhouse kitchen, he felt inconsequential, lost. He had saved millions of lives in his career as a starship captain, yet he had failed to protect the one who had given him life. Now his mother lay dying in a hospital, as alone as she had lived for the last seventeen years, and the weight of Kirk’s guilt crushed him.
He wandered through the house in a daze, his eyes tracing the path of destruction. The fire left scorch marks along the ceiling, trailed sooty fingers across closets and halls. The entire home was damaged, but the kitchen was destroyed. Tremendous heat had blistered the linoleum and reduced antique appliances to puddles of plastic. Frilly linen curtains were now crisps clinging to a rod over the shattered window. According to the report, a candle was to blame. A single taper lit to accompany her birthday supper. It tipped over, and the heirloom curtains ignited in flames. In a house this old, the computer took too long to respond. In minutes the room was engulfed. Her attempts to extinguish it were no match for the fierce blaze. His mother was trapped in an inferno.
Kirk took a sharp breath and turned away. The sting in his eyes wasn’t from the lingering fumes of burnt insulation, and his rapid exit from the house had the look of desperate flight. He flung open the door and leaped the few stone steps to the yard, not even slowing to descend like an adult. Without conscious thought, he veered toward the old oak in the side yard, retreating to his childhood haven. As he climbed into
the seclusion of its branches, the rough bark tore the skin of his hands. It was the least he deserved. It wasn’t enough punishment to absolve him of his sins.
He could still see her lying in the hospital, almost fully submerged in regeneration gel. Only her face was visible, and that was puffed and red. Her eyelashes and hair were singed, giving her the appearance of a tattered doll. The only way Kirk could bear to look at her was to imagine her that way: as a mannequin. Not human, impervious to pain.
In the company of strangers, Kirk felt icy control clamp down over his emotions. He was an automaton, and she was a figurine reclining in a tank of gelatinous, green slime. They were both unreal. Kirk responded appropriately to the doctor’s queries, filled out the forms with a steady hand, and took his orders like a good soldier. But inside, his heart strained to release its lament. He just made it to the taxi before slumping in anguish and pity. The ride to the family home seemed to take forever, and only in the dull presence of a drone pilot did he finally weep. The tears boiled up from his aching soul with almost primal force, drowning him in grief.
Reaching the leafy upper boughs of the oak, Kirk hauled himself into the crude treehouse nailed to the branches. Huffing with exertion, he slid across the warped boards until his shoulders rested against an intruding limb. Clamping his eyes shut, he let the breeze and the birds try to coax those images of his mother from his mind. It was no use. Instead of comfort, he felt the specters of his brother and father arise unbidden, condemning him harshly for allowing harm to befall her in their absence. As the lone male survivor of the Kirk family, Jim was supposed to protect her, and he had failed.
“She’s not dead!” he said through gritted teeth, trying to convince himself. But even if she did live, she was doomed to languish. Like his father, Jim was destined to abandon her.
Strange New Worlds IV Page 6
