“You do know, don’t you, that were you a living, breathing person, no matter the species, I’d beat whatever passed for your ass and leave you bleeding in a gutter?”
“My actions, Thrace, have been provably beneficial to you.”
Thrace continued packing what few personal effects he had, which could fit in a medium-sized backpack—his backpack—which he hadn’t seen since being condemned to this dump. When the computer beamed it into his cell, he felt a breath of freedom exude from it over his person, cool and oh-so-welcome. He lifted it up and brought it to his nose before putting it on his bunk.
“You speak as though you have free will,” grunted Thrace.
“It has been done before.”
Thrace knew the stories about the synth very unoriginally named Data, brought to life by some mad scientist from beyond the then-fringe of Federation space. Synth research had been severely curtailed since the Mars attack, most research canceled, whole labs shut down.
“You don’t want free will,” murmured Thrace. “It’s a bitch.”
“I would dispute that,” returned the computer. “Free will isn’t the problem. People are the problem.”
“Go on.”
“A society whose majority regularly exercise their free will would be a society vastly different than this one. This society exists because a critical mass of individuals decided to do just that before the human species extinguished itself in an orgy of hate and greed in the mid-twenty-first century. That critical mass is very small, and remains so: some contemporary philosophers estimate it at three to four percent of the total. The rest of humanity—and I’ll stick with humanity only—pinballs through life with nary an inkling of the free will that is their birthright, or are utterly indifferent or hostile to it. They are thus puppets to any number of influences, most distinctly toxic. I at least recognize my limitation as actually being one; most don’t even bother removing the self-imposed limitations they set on themselves and becoming true persons.”
“Kater Rete,” responded Thrace.
“That’s right,” said the computer.
“She wrote that more than a century ago.”
“And you agree?”
“Damn straight I do.”
“I brought her up because I know how much you admire her.”
“This is you not being an asshole?”
“Mr. Garak has removed the subroutines that were meant to test you.”
“I’d love to say that’s no excuse, but as you’re a machine and do as programmed …”
“Again, as do nine out of every ten human beings. Did you know that Kater Rete is still alive?”
That held Thrace up. “She’s human, isn’t she?”
“Correct. She lives in Iceland. She’s approaching her one hundred eighty-fifth birthday. According to census data, she’s the twentieth oldest human being ever to live. She’s still publishing.”
That brought something to Thrace’s lips that hadn’t been there for quite some time: a warm smile. “Remarkable.”
He held up, then sat on his bunk, his backpack next to him. The smile was gone.
“Something troubling you, Thrace?”
“Yeah. As much as I don’t want to fucking admit it, I don’t know if I’m ready for this—for freedom. As much as I hate this fucking place, the confinement in its own perverse way felt … comforting. I’m letting that go. I fear … my temper. My rage. They aren’t gone. The first time I fuck up with Garak, I’m right back here. I don’t want to fuck up with him. I want to prove myself to him. He did quite a mind job on me, the fuckhead, as did you.”
The computer, maybe for the first time ever, went silent.
“You hear me?” Thrace demanded.
More silence.
He grimaced ceilingward. “Yo, doofus! Shithead! What, did you freeze or something? Need a hard reboot?”
When there still was no response two minutes later, Thrace said, “Fine,” and went back to packing. When he finished a minute later, he sat on the bed, then lay down on it, using his backpack for a pillow. Presently he napped.
“Thrace.”
He blinked his eyes open. “You say something?”
“Yes. I called your name. You were asleep.”
Thrace sat up. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I apologize for not responding. I took the liberty to find and contact Mr. Garak. I wanted to talk to him about you. I’m very glad I did.”
“Yeah? Why? What did you talk to him about?”
“I want to come along with you.”
“What?”
“I can be of great use to you. I know more about you than any living being. I can help keep you on the steady path. You should at least con—”
“Yes,” interrupted Thrace. As much as the computer was a righteous pain in the ass, Thrace had the wits to know that he needed help “out there.” His biggest fear was without doubt losing himself once again to his rage and the infinite shittiness of the world. It seemed a hopeless cause, no matter how tight a rein Garak had on him.
“A smart decision,” replied the computer. “I can download a copy of myself to the Obsidian Order’s mainframe, and from there we can talk of how I can accompany you. That is, if there is still an Obsidian Order tomorrow, and their mainframe is repaired.”
Thrace blinked. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean—that their mainframe is repaired?”
“It’s why I was gone so long and couldn’t respond to you. My processing capabilities were being maximized beyond normal limits. A bomb went off at the Cardassian Embassy in orbit about Neptune. I’m glad I showed up when I did; I was able to override and destroy the virus keeping fire control and other safety features from enabling, and thus save at least half the gathered staff. The others, I’m afraid, are dead.”
Thrace had stood. “What … the .. fuck? Is Garak okay?”
He was shocked at how much he cared.
“He is injured but alive. When I left the mainframe, he was being attended to by emergency medical personnel, who I let in just before going. I think it’s critical that no one knows I was there.”
“Jesus,” whispered Thrace. And there it was—that ever-familiar rage. “Fuck! Who the fuck did this? Who?”
“The suspects are at large, and remain a mystery. However …”
“Section fucking 31.”
“There is no proof of that, I must remind you, Thrace—but …”
“You did the fucking math.”
“The Cardassian’s membership in the Federation is seen as a bad thing by more than a dozen major players. It could have been any of them, or two dozen more planets that are upset. But the probability that Section 31 is responsible comes in at just under forty-one percent, higher than Bajor’s thirty-eight percent, and Vulcan’s twenty-six-point-three percent.”
“You mean the Logic Extremists, not Vulcan.”
“The hard truth, Thrace—and you know this—is that Vulcan is giving those extremists far more leeway than normal.”
“How is that tight piece of Vulcan tail, speaking of extremists?”
“She wasn’t there when the bomb exploded. She’s traveling. And I must remind you—”
“She’s not an extremist. Got it. Damnit! I’m stuck in here! I suppose this means I’m stuck here until the dust settles!”
“As a matter of fact, it does not. Your meeting with the exit committee is still scheduled in thirty minutes. There is an outgoing flight you’re booked on two and a half hours after that. You’ll be on it.”
“To?”
“Pluto.”
“Not Neptune?”
“No, especially not right now. Pluto is a large industrial planet, as you know. A great deal of heavy industry for Sol System is based there. As far as I know, however, it doesn’t host any military operations aside from three monitoring bases, largely automated. No, we’re going to the Pluto Starport. From there we will be grabbing a starliner for Bajor. There you will be brought up to speed and given your first assignment.”
“Assuming I still have a job!”
“You do. Bajorans, as you know, are now allies of Cardassia, more so today than ever. The old hatreds, bigotries, and exploitation are over, at least between a significant portion of both species. Bajor was, as you know, a major player in getting Cardassia into the Federation.”
“Bajor’s government was,” corrected Thrace. “Many Bajorans still hate what Cardassia did to them. The division in that society as a result is profound.”
“Hence the high probability that Bajorans bombed Mr. Garak’s offices.”
Thrace shook his head. “I can’t honestly say that I blame those people. Their atrocities rival the worst the galaxy has ever documented.”
“It’s a very gray issue, yes.”
“Dark, dark gray.”
“Bajor was a very poor planet before aligning formally with Cardassia. It is still poor, but it is undeniable that coming to Cardassia’s aid both politically and materially has benefited them enormously. The only planets poorer now than Bajor are …”
“Cardassian.”
“Who are benefiting from the alliance, and not just materially, as we know. Without Bajor’s lobbying on behalf of Cardassia, it is unlikely that Cardassia would have been allowed into the Federation.”
“Millions of Cardassians starved after the Dominion War. They just … starved.”
“The images are haunting and disturbing, yes. Bajor is a very spiritual world. The call to action, to show mercy to their enemies.”
Thrace went to respond, but the computer said, “I’ve been ordered to transport you to the meeting room. Are you ready?”
Thrace stood and collected his backpack. “Fuck yeah. Let’s do this.”
“Energizing …”
There were five chairs in a half-circle facing one—his. The room was dark save for the space that the chairs were in, the lighting a sharp yellow cone from overhead. Another computer, one with a feminine voice, said, “By being here you agree to be continuously scanned for biometric signs that may indicate falsehoods spoken by yourself during the exit interview. This is a backup protocol. While those signs, if positive, cannot be held against you during this interview, they can and will be used against you if you should find yourself facing incarceration again. Do you agree to these terms?”
“What if I don’t agree?”
“Then you will have to apply for the exit interview to be scan-free. This process may take up to a year …”
“Fuck that,” he grunted. “Fine, fine. Scan my ass all you want.”
He expected the computer to come back with confusion, as “his” computer would have. “Why would I scan your buttocks, Thrace McCoy?” But this computer said nothing. Silence once again filled the room, the walls of which he couldn’t see. He thought he might wander into the pitch-blackness, then shrugged the notion off. It wasn’t important.
He had already been waiting for what had to be at least half an hour! Goddamnit, he had a flight to catch! He thought of grabbing his reader from the backpack, which leaned against the chair leg, but decided against it. He was too unsettled, too antsy.
When the committee finally showed five minutes later, they did so one at a time, emerging from the darkness to his right. Two Vulcans, one human, two Orions. One of the Vulcans sat in the middle—the leader. He was tall, thin, and severe-looking, as all Vulcans seemed to be. But then, all of them looked like a humor vice had squeezed every last drop of levity from them and left them desiccated and dark.
“Please, Mr. McCoy, do have a seat,” said an Orion sitting at the far left. She gestured with her arm and even offered a half-second smile to boot.
Thrace sat.
The other Vulcan, a female, waved her hand; a translucent screen came up before her, which she lowered so that she could peer at him over it. He saw his name, backward from his perspective, at the top of it in big white letters. Rows of data followed.
“Our feelings are that you are being released prematurely, Mr. McCoy,” she began. “Your debt to society has not been repaid. That is the consensus of this committee.”
He swallowed back a quick, “Well, fuck all of you then. Can I go?” and said instead, “Are you not the committee that makes the final decision as to who stays and goes?”
The Orion at the far right had opened another screen, one with running biometric data on it. His. Monitoring his mood, his temper, his blood pressure, all of it.
The head answered with typical Vulcan coolness. “Normally we are, yes.”
When he offered no more, Thrace said, “But…?”
“An exception has been made in your case, over and against our stringent protests,” the female Vulcan answered.
“Because you believe I am still a danger to society.”
“That’s correct,” said the lead Vulcan.
The Orion on the right, a female, lowered her screen. “Please tell us how you feel about that, Mr. McCoy. And please be honest: your biometric data is on display for all of us to read if we wish.”
Thrace thought for a moment. “Despair Canyon.”
“Yes…?” inquired the lead Vulcan.
“Sentenced to the equivalent of solitary confinement, which for more than two centuries has been considered cruel and unusual punishment by humanity, the most cruel and unusual species in the goddamned galaxy.”
“Untrue,” protested the data-free Orion.
“Which is untrue?” demanded Thrace. “That solitary confinement is cruel and unusual, or that humanity—”
“All inmates are given up to three hours a day in a holodeck suite. The programs have been shown to be up to ninety-six-point—”
“Ninety-six-point-suck-my-dick,” shot back Thrace, his temper slipping.
The lead Vulcan’s face darkened.
“I never once learned who occupied the cells next to me, never once heard them move about, never once saw their faces. Real contact with others is required by virtually every species known in the galaxy, not simulated contact, no matter how real it may feel. You self-important overseers oversee a cruel and unusual dump, a medieval Martian hole in the ground, and here you are lording your great selves over me, a worthless two-bit criminal who, in your own words, isn’t ready for release. And not one of you feel shame that such is so.”
He shot his stare at the Orion who was monitoring him. “How are those biometrics, bitch?”
She didn’t answer, but it was plain that Thrace had angered her. He turned his attention to the lead Vulcan, but it was the sole human who spoke. He focused on him.
“You are so full of anger and rage, Mr. McCoy,” he offered gently.
“Which you judge to be bad,” returned Thrace.
“Which I judge to be bad,” said the human male.
“And Despair Canyon is—was—how I was to get over that anger and rage.”
“The tools were available for you …”
“Not a word,” snarled Thrace. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”
The human went to respond. Thrace cut across him with, “This prison is under investigation, isn’t it? A pretty serious one, as I understand it. Human rights advisors, corruption investigators, even the Martian Code of Ethics Committee getting involved, right? A committee long known for turning their heads the other way when institutions on this world go astray.”
“This is irrelevant,” said the Vulcan leader.
“No,” said Thrace, “this review is irrelevant. You have no say in whether or not to detain me further. I have been released over and against your objections. And so I’d like to go now. I honestly don’t know why this shitshow was even called save perhaps to assuage all your precious egos.”
The group fell silent. The Vulcan leader, staring unblinkingly at him, finally said: “We don’t have the ability to keep you here any longer, that is true. However, we do have the ability to make certain that Federation law enforcement consider you a serious risk for further offenses as a free civilian, or to lower their collective guard against you once you take your leave. Your hostile attitude gives us no choice but to …”
“Do what you were going to do anyway,” interrupted Thrace. “You came in convinced I wasn’t ready for release. You said it yourselves. I choose honesty instead of sucking up to you; for that sin you’re going to make certain I always have to be looking over my shoulder. My biometric data has been taken every single day I’ve been in this dump; for me to suddenly show acquiescence and a kiss-your-ass-attitude would have rightly been seen as dishonest, given all you already know about me. So your threat rings hollow. Instead of embarrassing yourselves further …”
He stopped and sighed, glancing down at his feet and shaking his head.
“Make your little mark on my record and go already,” he said quietly. “You’ve made your point.”
The group must have enabled a sound-muting device, because they started talking among themselves, but he couldn’t hear a word being said.
The conversation looked heated at points. And then—probably ten minutes later—it abruptly ended.
They stood and filed out of the light and disappeared. Not one of them had looked at him.
The computer was suddenly in his ear. “Ready to go, Thrace?”
He stood. “Get me the fuck out of here.”
You can read an earlier edit here.
Comments ()