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:'''''Note:''' The Arcadia website is currently undergoing reconstruction due to a previous database corruption. Content is in progress and will be available in [[User:Sasoriza|the webmaster]]'s time.''
Arcadia # 4873 | |
| — The Humanist War — | |
| |
| year | 345 CE (2408) |
| posted | April 3 2008 |
| previous | Ebb and Flow |
| next | Snatch 'n' Grab |
[326 CE]
Rhoan na-Ki'tiki couldn't believe her eyes. It was true. Through the forward viewport of her personal, one-man ship, ahead of her, sat nothing but empty space... the space the Ki'tiki habitat, where she came from, once occupied, in the Eta Carinæ system. Reports had indicated the habitat's destruction by unknown attackers. Scanning to confirm it, she found there were indeed still small traces of the tiki which once comprised the station, scattered into an orbital ring by the gravity of the Eta Carinæ sun. Someday, it might become part of a new planet, or a new system after the sun exploded, scattering its elements into a new era of star formation. But for now... the habitat was gone.
Some of the Ki'tiki had escaped, however, and moved on. She didn't know where, but she determined to find them. She didn't know if they would welcome her back, after she had essentially deserted them, but they were still her people... and she needed more of the tiki spheres. She had only one left, more precious than ever. An unfortunate accident had resulted in the destruction of the other five. The first was lost during the Cadre's first mission to Alpha Kyriakis III, four years ago.
Four years ago, her former teammates in the Cadre left to pursue other goals, so she did the same. Jordan Rampart elected to remain on Romulus, tending his wife's recuperation. Braize Kitana Verasqos had gone back to Bartok, on to other assignments as a member of the Sacin Ceitorie. Brett Sterling... She was not sure what became of Brett Sterling. Brett's moods had grown very mercurial, the last she had known of him. Their too-brief friendship was something she missed, but when they all moved on, she knew she had to as well. There were other Cadres, but it would not have been the same without her original teammates.
She tried going back to Alpha Kyriakis III, hoping to examine those mysterious space-time spheres more closely, but the Federation had closed off the system, after the Cadre's first mission. Rhoan didn't feel like spending time in prison, so she left, pursuing other interests, other adventures, for the past four years.
Perhaps she might rejoin her people, if they would have her. Things were happening in the galaxy. Bad things. It was growing unsafe for lone travelers. Though Rhoan could take care of herself, she felt alone, and increasingly unwelcome. The Federation was becoming a dark and dangerous place. Though she never cared for Federation rules and protocols, she felt sad for what was happening to it. There was potential, that might now never be realized. She had tried to contact Rampart through Starfleet, hoping to get his perspective on it, learning that after his wife's recovery, he went on to command a ship, the Arcadia, then abruptly disappeared, and so did his wife. Verasqos reportedly died in a training accident as a Sacin Ceitorie instructor. Sterling... no one knew where Sterling was, and he couldn't be reached. It was like he had vanished from the face of the galaxy.
Then came word that her habitat had been destroyed, a year ago, and she didn't even know about it. She had to go and see for herself.
Guiding her craft with her tiki augments, through the empty space she once called home, she wondered who had managed to do this, and why. Who could bypass the Ki'tiki's external-threat warning system? Only someone with a knowledge of tiki – the technological basis of their entire society – and how it worked, could have done so. Could it have been another of her kind? Someone, perhaps, who also tried escaping the Ki'tiki overmind as Rhoan did, but failed, and destroyed the station as a resort? The Ki'tiki didn't do such things. It went against their social and educational upbringing, everything they were taught to believe. It was too shocking, and morbid, to comprehend. Perhaps, if she tracked down her people, they would have clues, or insights, or better yet, answers.
Something lanced through her tiki -enhanced awareness. A surge. A palpable sense of danger registered in Rhoan's supplemental consciousness – something had infected her ship, from the tiny, scattered, microscopic remnants of debris. It raced quickly, before she could react, through her connection to the ship, into her awareness, like a virus... like the virus which infected her sphere on AK3, four years ago. Before she knew it, it had taken over her, and the ship. Alarmed, no longer in control of her own actions, she watched from the mental sidelines as her own hands operated the ship's controls, without her guiding them.
She had set the auto-destruct sequence.
Moments later, she was no longer aware of a thing.
[January 345]
Space is dark... empty... vast... and endless. It harbors a crushing sense of isolation, of loneliness, that great black desert stretching between the tiny, distant bulb-lights we call stars.
It was possible to lose one's mind in that endless nothing... an inverse cabin fever. Inverse, externalized: In reverse, this lent to the feeling of cabin fever aboard the small, early starships, stuck in the void for weeks and months at a time. A few crews had gone mad. A few ended up hallucinating... to death. It took educated social minds to survive that wilderness, able to stimulate and be stimulated, and outside contact, and plenty to keep them busy.
Starfleet was a high-employment organization. Waiting lists for starships were longer than lists of available positions. Someone was always anxious to get to space... anticipating what recruiters and Academy propaganda promised: Adventure, excitement, a sense of romance. This kept the ships always filled, always active, and reduced propensity for stress.
That was Starfleet. And while this ship, this new UFS Arcadia, was constructed and originally staffed by Starfleet... Starfleet no longer held it. It was part of the United Freedom Force now... a fledgling society, still in its infancy.
"New", and empty. Three miles long... equipped to hold thousands... carrying less than three-hundred souls. A ghost town, wrappped in a state-of-the-art hull, strapped to state-of-the-art engines. They could get where they wanted to go, and get there fast... but the void's lonely echo carried in its walls, empty rooms and corridors.
Paul came out of the back door, what they called the infirmary on bridge-deck, troubled. Lucky Lou Reynolds had done it again: Beat the odds. He didn't know what happened earlier. Didn't remember a thing. Whatever got into him, and tried to trash the ship... if it was a pah wraith... it was gone.
Unfortunately, that didn't set anyone's mind at ease. If it could take him over, and threaten the ship once, it might do so again. Paul made the reluctant decision, based on the doctor's recommendation, to place Reynolds in stasis, and under surveillance. Reynolds agreed, with no hard feelings, even suggesting that if he started glowing red again, they eject him into space immediately. The man didn't want to endanger his own crewmates. Paul wasn't ready to go that far yet, but did order the transporter grid to tie in and keep a lock, in case Reynolds' bioreadings fluctuated out of the norm.
One of the crewmembers from the Freedom, Laruskie, stopped Paul as he exited.
"Skipper." (Some of the crew had taken to calling him skipper – they knew he didn't prefer captain, but felt uncomfortable themselves with "Paul".) "Heard we almost lost it back there."
Paul nodded and rubbed his hand through his hair. "Got hairy for a minute. I'm not the smartest guy you ever met."
"Smart enough if you ask me, Skipper. You saved our butts. Thanks." The crewman walked on, heading towards the bridge.
"Yeah, thanks," Paul mumbled, after the man was out of earshot.
This ship, Arcadia, named after his planet, had a lot of empty rooms. The late Walter Heidler gassed most of the former Starfleet crew unconscious in his takeover, then dropped them off at a neutral planet. Though other personnel now manned the ship – Starfleet renegades, members of the United Freedom Front, and Arcadians who knew how to work a ship like this – they were fewer in number. The ship was massive, three miles long, virtually a mobile city, capable of holding thousands. Paul was still finding it hard to believe that all of this was his, under his command.
It felt like a ghost town.
As CO, Paul Thunder had any choice of quarters. For practicality's sake he kept residence near the bridge, on the same deck. Turbocars moved fast; he could get from one end of the ship to the other in thirty seconds, but thirty seconds could be crucial in an alert condition, and there was no sense riding the rail when that energy could be conserved. All nonessential, unoccupied areas of the ship had been shut down. Computers and mechanoids didn't need light or atmosphere to work.
He walked the hall to his quarters quickly. The door slid open at his approach, keyed to his DNA signature. Rushing in, he told it to close, entertaining a stray thought:
Was he losing his mind?
He never stopped to dwell on such notions – or doubted his own sanity... though it might well be the bastion of the insane. Did anyone crazy actually think they were crazy?
He had almost cracked, on Starbase 376, in virtual detention, at the mercy of interrogators determined to break him. Maybe he did. In that brain-addled state, what might he have told them? What was the point of such brutal interrogation, if it wasn't real? Psychotropic manipulation? What else might they have done to him, put into him, that he didn't or wasn't allowed to recall? Given the sophistication of virtual prisons and torture methods, for all he knew, he could be living in a concocted fantasy. He could still be there, in that room on the starbase. All of this could be an elaborate trick on the imagination. After all, how did virtual prisoners live their lives? What did they do with their time?
But even that wasn't necessary. They could be scanning, listening in on his thoughts, from sectors away. It seemed paranoid, but it was entirely possible. Like the saying went, 'Just because you're not paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you'. Maybe this was part of their plan: Make him think he's got help from some divine voice, and fly the entire ship of Starfleet traitors and Humanist activists right into their waiting hands.
Orders. From a voice in his head... the speaker, unseen.
If not for those orders, Paul might never have figured out, on his own, who gave those orders – which, if this was real, saved the Arcadia and everyone on it. Trapped between a blockade of the Bartok system and a Starfleet task force sent to recapture the ship, now serving as flagship for the United Freedom Front, he had no choice but to attempt escape. The UFF was new, with few vessels under its collective belt; that made every ship they had invaluable, especially this one.
But he was new, himself – to command. Inexperienced. Accustomed to following orders, over giving them. Though he had faced his share of tough scrapes, escaping them, in these circumstances, did not sit high on his record. He could be honest with himself: He knew, if it had been up to him, he would have failed. Heidler's faith in him was not a faith the crew shared. Others vied for the captain's seat after Heidler died. They only followed him because of Heidler, and because Paul had not failed them... yet.
In any event, it was a faith misplaced. Starfleet would have won the battle, and he'd now be back in their custody, confined to a virtual prison while they pried information out of him... or worse.
Then came the voice. In his head. Paul had no internal complant; he wore a complug in his ear, which served the same purpose for the most part, to facilitate command ops on the bridge. Yet the voice came not from his complug, but from within... without a complant, which would have explained how he was hearing it, and maybe why he listened to its confidence, a calming assuredness, and heeded the instructions, calling out those orders as if they were his own... the reason he refused a complant: Mind control. The Federation could influence and control people's minds, through complants or other means, and while most denied that as simply paranoid, he believed it was true.
The orders themselves provided the clue. Paul went through Starfleet; a tactical officer. He recognized the tactics, born of a master's mind; a response to enemy ships outnumbering his, which he never would have dreamed up personally. The response had been dubbed the "Sorcerer Maneuver", for its near magical skill – required reading at the Academy. Ironically, the man who devised & perfected it wasn't well-known on the planet named after the ship he commanded, when performing that feat... but Paul Thunder knew his name. It had to be him – the only man in Starfleet history to have successfully executed it: Stephen April.
Paul Thunder. In command of the (second) UFS Arcadia... receiving help from the captain of the first. How likely was that?
Ignoring the why or how, he waited until his ship cleared the system, safely at warp and cloaked, before marching to his quarters, to be alone, where he hoped to get some answers.
*You know who I am, don't you.*
"April...?"
*I was known as Stephen April.*
Was? "You were the... captain of the Arcadia. The ship our colony is named after. But..."
*I disappeared? I'm believed dead? So how can I be talking to you, like this, and where am I anyway?*
Paul nodded; mentally or unmentally, he wasn't sure.
*I'm in a place between time and not-time... between what you think is real, and what isn't.*
"What?"
*I know. You don't like thinking about things like that. But it's time to start. You have a destiny, Paul. You need to widen your perspective.*
"How would you know that?"
*There's a lot you don't see with your own two eyes. I know... I used to have eyes like yours. There's a dimension, a level of existence which permeates the universe, all around you. I've been able to watch what's going on. And I have to say, I don't particularly like what's been done with the place.*
Paul spotted a chair nearby, and made for it. In case he hadn't fainted already – and hit his head – he worried he might.
*There are things in this universe, Paul... Go ahead; sit down... all universes, which you don't understand. You can't, so it'd make no sense to try explaining it. But, simply put... You're me. I'm you. You're... a divestment, if you will, of who and what I am. My energy has been passed off to you. Congratulations, kid: You've inherited what it means to be me. Can't say I envy you, if you knew what kind of life I've lived. Yours might get worse soon. You need to change your heading.*
"Why?"
*In exchange for helping you, I need you to do something. I have a mission for you.*
"A mission."
*I want you to save my daughter.*
[Antarctica, Earth]
Only a few feet more. A few feet to freedom.
The tunnel, like the lair, was part of an array of old, second-century digs, when people were colonizing Earth's southern polar continent. Underground tunnels could be heated and regulated, giving protection from the frigid, windy surface. The ice itself kept their shape, ever since – a genius of engineering. They were now mostly deserted, sealed off to the public.
At the tunnel's end, an open door beckoned with its single transporter pad within. One pad, but it would be enough to beam the three of them out of there: Brenda and Stephanie Shoemaker, and their comrade, George Moussakis. Their breaths made ragged frozen plumes in the subterranean dryness, as they hurried along in heavy parkas and thermal wear. They had left the relative warmth of the main lair, and the temperature plummeted with every step. A runabout was en route to retrieve them.
They sprinted for the opening, boots crunching hard-packed permafrost, spurred by desperation, by the fact that they were almost out of time. The authorities were closing in, and the explosives were set to go off any minute. The explosion would vaporize this tunnel, the entire lair, destroy any evidence of their presence, of the work they'd been doing.
A dark shape issued out of the doorway, and Brenda's heart stopped, just before her feet followed. Stephanie and George stopped too, avoiding running into her from behind.
They had gotten in. They were already inside!
It wasn't just the figure's presence, or that the figure held a phaser, pointed at them. It was the figure's face. Brenda balked.
"Jordan?"
Jordan Rampart... the man who captained the Arcadia after Stephen took promotion.
"Brenda," he returned, as chilly as the air. His face, eyes, tone, were hard, like steel. He fixed them with that expression, eyes flicking once to register Stephanie and George. Rampart's poise spoke loud and clear: One wrong move and one, or all of them, would get it. The tunnel's cold air wisped slightly around his body: A personal forcefield. He wore a padded, dark gray field uniform, no doubt lined with all the little Starfleet 'extras'. Even if Brenda had a phaser, it would not have pierced the protective envelope.
He blocked the door to the transport chamber. She saw it behind him, within: Powered down... deactivated.
She had no idea Rampart was one of those authorities.
"Put your hands on your heads," he told them, "and turn around."
Brenda glanced at her daughter and George, and put her hands on her head, but didn't turn. She stole another quick look at the transporter pad through the door. Expensive, sensor-reflecting antidium laced the walls in that one chamber. If they could get to it... There was still time. "What are you doing here? I thought you—"
"What are you doing here?" Rampart said. "You went Humanist. You're criminals, and murderers."
Brenda licked her lips in the icy dryness. "You don't understand—"
"Your associates have been captured. The explosives you set...? Disarmed. Your activities are finished."
Brenda sighed. He was right, partly: The work of her particular underground resistance cell was over... but other cells operated. She didn't know if the others had been caught, or Rampart spoke the truth. That claim was made often, for its discouraging effect.
Trying to buy time, she said, "I know."
"Good. So turn around, and start walking. The only place you're going is straight to prison."
Brenda wiggled one of the fingers interlaced behind her head. "Not even a trial?"
"Terrorists don't get trials." Rampart cocked his head, looking at her, as if he could see through her. "If that finger is a signal... don't waste your time."
That confirmed her suspicion. He had comtacts. He could see them from both directions.
Brenda thought of what Stephen always said: Be prepared.
It was sort of funny. As captain of the Lib, she'd never had to deal with the unusual situations some starship COs faced. Stephen, on the other hand, had experienced some of the most unusual, and exotic. Since she came back (Did she die?), Brenda found herself trying to think like her husband... imagining what he would do, planning along those lines.
For Stephen, defeat was unacceptable: Not an option. He could find his way out of this. He had beaten death several times: Rumor had it death itself could not hold him down or get the better of him. He'd find his way back from the grave, it that was his choice. With Brenda, he'd always dismissed it as hogwash, fantasies of overactive minds disconnected from reality, but she was never sure that she believed it, or that he was being totally honest. He seemed... coy, about it, when he dismissed the rumors, as if teasing. Of course, that begged the question: If it was true, why did he die? For that matter, how did he die? His body was never found. Was he really gone? Did he let himself die? Did he just give up? How could he give up... on her?
And if he was still alive out there, somewhere... why didn't he come back? Wasn't she important enough to him, to make that effort, for her? She didn't need him, in order to survive on her own. But she needed him, to live. She missed him... his smile and affections, the things he would say and do. She hated him for not coming back to her. Forcing her to handle this alone was cruel; not a cruelty she'd attribute to him intentionally committing. She never asked herself why she loved him. Truthfully, she didn't know. He could be difficult. He wasn't perfect, not a great husband or family man (but good in bed). Not all of the crew who'd served under him liked him. But he always tried to do right... what he believed was just, and fair. The difference between him and others was, if he could, if he had time, he'd put every ounce of himself into separating right from wrong, to be sure he made the best choice. That man could spend hours just thinking. And rarely was he wrong. He had a sixth sense about the world. He tapped into something few beings understood, or possessed. He was almost psychic.
Steve refused to believe in no-win situations. But no-win situations existed, so, given the technology of the day, and his imaginative insights and solutions, he would be prepared. Limited technology? No escape? Plan ahead. She had tried... but was it enough?
She needed his clarity, now. His guidance. His assuredness. She just needed him.
For a stray moment, she imagined him coming to her rescue... her undefeatable white knight. Her hero.
But that was just in fairy tales. Stephen was gone. And he wasn't coming back.
Rampart's presence promised lockdown: If they didn't beam out soon, it would be too late... if there wasn't a forcefield overhead already, blocking their escape. She had underestimated them. They moved faster than anticipated.
No-win situation. Under her direction, they had planned for this... tried to, anyway – tried to project every possible contingency. But there were only so many options, with their limited resources and limited technology – limited by necessity. Too much technology, underground, in the Antarctic wilderness, would have betrayed their presence to planetary sensors.
Brenda stayed calm. George and Steph would know what to do. She just had to provide the cue, and take the lead.
"We aren't terrorists," she told Rampart.
"But you are under arrest, and I'm not here to debate, so save it. Turn around, and start walking... or I'll execute you right here."
"You, Jordan? You would do such a thing?"
Rampart took aim at Stephanie. Nervously, involuntarily, she stepped back. Brenda stepped in front of her.
She had never seen the look in his eyes... not in anyone's eyes. Pointing that phaser at her head, Rampart held no remorse, no compassion. But then, many people viewed Humanists the same way. "What happened to you, Rampart?"
"I won't say it again."
Commotions from both ends of the tunnel indicated Rampart's cohorts had breached the lair. Another set of explosives was programmed to go off in exactly one minute, assuming they hadn't disarmed those too. Those would be harder to find.
Brenda swallowed. This was it. Change in the agenda: No escape for her today. "George... Stephanie... They've got us."
Behind her, George and Stephanie exchanged glances.
Behind Rampart, the transporter console came back to life. George and Stephanie dematerialized. Rampart blinked, whirled and fired, wide-beam slagging the console in a heartbeat. Brenda lunged, crashing into him hard. The forcefield rebuffed her, but she knocked him to the ground. Still clutching the phaser, he tried to take aim at her, eyeing the controls, readjusting the weapon's settings through his comtacts. As he got a bead, she rolled off, slapping the phaser, jamming epoxy into its tip.
A sudden warmth swept through him. He looked down in time to see his skin bubbling through his uniform as it dissolved. His forcefield sputtered and crackled wildly, then died. Rampart's last breath came out a hissing gargle, his eyes melting in their sockets. In seconds, there was nothing left, not even bones. Brenda snatched the weapon out of his outstretched hand, tried a take a shot. It didn't work: Coded, for his personal use. She tossed it aside, looked both ways down the tunnel, and saw them, in more of the field uniforms: Rampart... another Rampart... and another... and another, coming from both directions.
No escape. She hoped Steph and George made it to the runabout. Transporters worked fast. Otherwise, their patterns, in the buffer, had been lost forever.
She hadn't made it... but she hoped, she prayed, her daughter did.
[UFS Arcadia, Thunder's quarters]
A hologram appeared, a young blue-eyed woman with hair dyed reddish-blonde, fairly attractive. The voice of April said, *Her name is Stephanie.*
Stephanie. After Stephen. "Like father, like daughter?"
*Not precisely. She's part of a Humanist resistance cell on Earth. She's trying to escape, but won't make it without help. With slipstream, you can reach her before it's too late. You're the only ship who can. But you need to go now.*
"Earth?"
*The Sol sector.*
Paul was shaking his head. Such a mission would be the height of folly, even for this ship. "There'll be heavy resistance."
*I got you out of one impossible situation, didn't I?*
"That was a handful of ships. This will be—"
*Paul, I told you: Relax. Trust me. I see things in a way you don't. You have an advantage no one else does.*
"What's that?"
*Me.*
Why am I doing this? he thought, to himself, or April – if he could believe it was April – or both. "Why should I listen to you?"
*You have potential... but you also have things to learn about command.*
"And, what... You're going to teach me?"
*If you want to succeed.*
Paul felt his temper growing a short fuse. He didn't know what came over him, before, when he suddenly let this... this voice, out of nowhere, in his head... practically take him over. But he... it... did save the ship. And at the time, there was no time for a debate. In a necessary split-second decision, inexplicably, he gave in. How could he know he was really hearing it, or what he was hearing? He didn't doubt his sanity; he knew he wasn't crazy, and there were such things as telepathy, both biological and artificial, but... This was... weird. Off the scale of weird. And now it wanted to make special requests. Wanted him to take this whole damn, understaffed ship into a hornet's nest.
"Well, thanks," he said, "and we appreciate the save, but I don't need a voice in my head telling me what to do. I've got one: My own."
*Paul, you don't know what you're dealing with. There are forces at work; bigger factors in play which you can't begin to comprehend.*
"I'll do my best."
*Your best won't be good enough. You know I'm right, or you wouldn't have needed my help already.*
Paul's temper slipped another notch. Was he arguing? A goddamn voice? "Look. I believe what I see, and I don't see you. For all I know, you could be... well... I know what's real and what isn't. What's possible, what makes sense, and—"
*Do you? Do you know what's possible, Paul? Do you know what's real?*
He was back... in his cell. The interrogation cell. The virtual one – he had been told it was virtual – on the starbase. The isolation returned. The fear, the hate, the anger, the crushing solitude. One-man cabin fever. Was he hallucinating? Had he ever left? Chills swept over him; his heart skipped then started beating faster. No windows, no doors; too small, not enough room, not enough air....
"Let... no... let me out...."
So real. So vivid. So real, so unimaginably vivid, holy hell, he was there; he was there. Two months ago and it felt like two minutes. Sweat broke on his brow; the discomforting, annoying ache in his skull, his bones, where they had struck him, whipped him, cut him, again and again. He was close. So close. He'd forgotten how close. Close to cracking, breaking, confessing, giving himself up to their mercy. The bag over his head, suffocating, cutting off oxygen, help me, I can't breathe... He squeezed his eyes shut, barreled up a lungful of hot, raging air, ready to unleash it, a scream, his demand to let me OUT!
His vision flickered... mouth hanging. Still in his quarters. Larger, spacier... the door in front of him. Over his shoulder, a row of fake viewports offered endless void.
*Just what do you see? Was that real... or is this?* April asked. *Reality is in the mind,* he said. *The truth is, you don't see reality. Your eyes process signals, which your brain interprets to form a mental picture, based on past input. Just like the interrogation, Paul: It's all in your head. You don't know what you're seeing. You can't tell what's there. What exists around you may not be what your eyes perceive. Put another way: There are things that you do not see. The world has layers and dimensions. You live in only one.*
"And where do you live?" Paul managed, steadying himself. "What are you, some kind of god?"
*What is a god, Paul? What makes a god?*
Paul sighed. He hated that, when people... or voices, or a 'god', possibly?... answered questions with questions.
*You have to accept that there are simply some things you are not yet ready or meant to know.*
Paul stared across the room at another image – his sister's, on the wall. Paula would be worried, if she knew her twin brother was talking to voices in his head. From the beyond. Wherever it came from. He had yet to make it back home to see her, and he'd been so busy, he hadn't talked to her personally since the siege.
Well, there was no point arguing... and apparently no denying 'April' was pulling the strings. At least this 'Stephanie' was a Humanist, according to April. Rescuing her should help the cause in some way.
He commed the bridge. Tasha, still manning the helm, gave an ETA of thirty minutes. The helmswoman didn't contest the order, but Paul sensed her reticence, despite 'his' miraculous saving of their butts at Bartok. They were still uncertain about him, though he came up through Starfleet, like they did... and turned on Starfleet, like they did. He didn't blame them. Sector 001 was one of the most fortified in the Federation. Since the Cirean incident of '22, the Breen attack in 312 before that, and the Borg incursions before that, they weren't taking any more chances of unwanted intruders.
He still felt uneasy. "Do you... have knowledge of the future? Do you know what's going to happen?"
*I can't answer that. Not yet.*
"Why not?"
*You're intelligent. You know why.*
"Free will? Determination? No man can know the future? Something like that?"
*Something like that*, April repeated.
"But you said 'not yet'...."
*You'll know the future... when it comes.*
Paul didn't press it. "Okay... but one thing I don't understand."
*Why I'm helping you.*
"Yeah. From what I know about you—"
*I wasn't a Humanist, and turned down an offer to join them. Circumstances were different then. I didn't know what I know now. Humans and non-humans can coexist peacefully, Paul. But they cannot cohabitate. It upsets the laws and balance of nature.*
"That sounds pretty Humanist."
*And racist... yes. But whether anyone likes it or not, racism is part of life, and nature. It's why races are created separately. It's what makes each race unique. Most people perceive 'racism' as hatred of other races. While some racists are indeed hateful, that's a misinterpretation, fostered by the media. Its true meaning is not hate, but love for one's own kind. There is nothing wrong, and everything right, with loving your own kind. Hating your own people, as promoters of racism's misinterpretation would have you do, IS wrong. It's not about hate: It's about love. It's that philosophy which provided the original basis of 'infinite diversity in infinite combinations'. I understand that now, more than I used to. But the rulers of the Federation have forgotten that. They've twisted it, betraying the ideal on which it's based. Differences can't be celebrated when all differences are eliminated. Their intended goal, to eventually merge all races into one, doesn't bring diversity, but homogeneity. One race is what they want: One race they can control. Mixing them into one destroys all. But then, you know that.*
"I don't deny that," Paul said. "Maybe we can coexist... but we won't have them on our planets, polluting our environments, taking our jobs, infecting our way of life."
*And I understand. However, I don't have a political motivation like you, not even a racially biased one. I'm a Humanist of a different sort. You could say I'm a transhumanist. Maintaining the balance is my interest. And you need my help.*
"It's that serious?"
*You've suspected a shadow government in the Federation. It's true. The Federation's true rulers don't want humanity to survive. They see you as a threat. They're planning humanity's destruction, even now, in your time. Humanity is on its way to becoming an endangered species. You don't see it yet, but it's coming. Eventually you'll face extinction. That can't be allowed to happen.*
"Great. But isn't that giving me knowledge of the future?"
*It isn't something you don't already know.*
"You keep referring to us... humans... like you aren't one of us."
*I'm... more than human, Paul.*
"What do you mean?"
*I was human... once. But now I'm... more. There's no other adequate way I can describe it, which you'd understand. I don't have a body anymore, as you understand it. But I still care, and you are my people. Only a fool wouldn't see the jeopardy humankind faces.*
"I... can't say I entirely get it."
*Have faith, Paul,* the voice assured him. *In time, you'll understand. Like I said: Trust me.*
And, again, as before, not sure why... Paul did. "Fine. But one thing: I don't want you in my head, constantly. I need to make my own decisions. And one more thing: That little... thing you did, with the cell... Don't do that again."
[bridge]
The holosphere activated, showing the tactical situation. The runabout had escaped the Sol system, on course for Sigma Draconis, heading towards Meloc... under pursuit, by two ships: The Noram and the Now.
A sick feeling crept through Paul. He had served on Now as a training ensign... developed an attachment to the El Paso-class ship. It was like coming upon a favored old automobile, and getting ready to trash it... smash it to bits.
He was unsure what to do, and the voice of April had gone silent, per his wish. The UFF was still new. Too new. No policy existed yet for disposing of crewed ships. What they did now might set the foundation for that policy.
Paul served as Heidler's XO for the short time until Heidler's death. Since then, he hadn't replaced himself. Rotating tactical officers had filled the spot. Paul sensed a rapport with Tasha, the helmsman, however, and valued her counsel as second officer. He crossed his arms, standing next to her station, sharing her view of the holosphere. Slipstream ETA indicated five minutes to intercept.
"Well, Tasha, what do you think? Do we destroy them? At least save the crews, like Captain Heidler did? Drop 'em off somewhere neutral?"
"He did, for this vessel."
"But a lot of the previous crew were human... even if they were working for Division Five. I'm not certain he would have, otherwise."
"I believe he would have," Tasha opined.
Paul nodded in agreement. Heidler failed to take the Progress[1], which remained under its mostly alien complement. But Heidler's break from Starfleet had been recent; he'd still behaved like Starfleet-indoctrinated, as Paul pointed out to him[2]. Noram and Now had a fairly even alien distribution between them – essentially one full ship of the inhuman gutterscum. Did he slay one group and spare the other? "Civilized warfare has rules," his voice of conscience dictated.
"But it's also a war we intend to win," Tasha said. "If we are the victors, we can afford to say we played dirty. It's all about winning."
"If we play this civilized... Will mercy gain sympathy for our cause?" Or, he left unspoken, would it damn future Humanists when those aliens they spared came back after them?
Tasha gave it only a moment's thought. "You knew the answer to that."
Again, Paul nodded. This was why he trusted Tasha. "Right."
Aliens. = Destroyers. They didn't appreciate the gesture or grace of human kindness. They'd use it as an excuse, to do what they did... which was why he was here, and the Humanists existed. The invaders and their human puppets needed to understand what they were dealing with: The UFF was determined – period – and not playing games. The invaders needed to be taught the lesson that all needed to understand: Humans were not the weak, bland, spineless jellyfish aliens believed they were. Some had had enough, and they were fighting back. The human energy for retaliation would shock the shit out of those barbarians.
"Back us into a corner," Paul thought aloud, "and you'll see how weak we are."
Nonplussed, he heard Tasha say, "Or, as the wise philosopher Henry Rollins once stated: We're crazy motherfuckers."
She looked up at him. He wasn't expecting that out of her. She was usually so quiet. They shared a grin, and he thought-activated his com-plug, addressing all bridge personnel, so they could share in that understanding. "No quarter." As soon as Starfleet realized the UFF would try to avoid human deaths, they'd take advantage of it, and put as many humans on the line as they could, hampering the war effort.
He heard no objections, and a quick tally of faces revealed none in their expressions. Not that it would have mattered: He was the captain, and he had given his order.
"Red alert," he said. "Stand by on weapons."
▷ TBC ◁
- ^ "The Future Is Ours"
- ^ "Walls"
