Gulliver's Fugitives Part 3

The bridge viewscreen filled with the face of a human male in his mid-thirties, blond-haired, sternly handsome, with features that could have been carved from oak. He wore a military-type uniform with neat rows of insignia on his chest. Some of the insignia had tiny glowing lights worked into their designs.

"Starship," he said, "we have observed you and we know you come from Earth. You have entered the sovereign s.p.a.ce of Rampart. We will have no quarrel with you if you leave the area immediately." He looked off-screen, as though consulting with someone, then back. "If you don't, we will be forced to attack."

Everyone on the bridge stared at the face, as each individual pondered how-and why-an apparent entire civilization of humans had developed here, unknown to the United Federation of Planets.

Troi noticed a vein pulsing in Picard's temple. She could sense his distaste. He always loathed the kind of bombast he'd just heard; but, as usual, he held his feelings in check. His voice was calm.

"Worf, open to their frequency. Audio only."

"Open, sir."

"This is Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise, from the United Federation of Planets," said Picard. "We are here on an investigative matter. We mean you no harm. What is your name?"

"I am Major Ferris," said the man on the screen. "We want nothing to do with Earth or your Federation; that is why our ancestors left Earth and came here two hundred years ago."

Picard turned back to Worf, and said, in a low voice, "Give them visual of us."

Then he turned back toward the viewscreen.

He gave Major Ferris a long moment to look him over and absorb the placid, non-military ambience of the Enterprise bridge.

"The Federation does not wish to interfere in the affairs of your world," Picard said benignly. "Our Prime Directive prohibits our meddling with any society we encounter. We are here merely to investigate the disappearance of the U.S.S. Huxley, lost on or near your planet ten Solar years ago.

Ferris once again looked to his side, as if seeking and receiving counsel. Then he turned back, square-jawed. "Your investigation would be a waste. No ship from Earth, besides our own colony vessel, has ever been here. Our records are complete and accurate. There are no lies on this world. Your story of the Huxley is what we call a Code HC, a deliberately concocted fiction. Permission for investigation denied."

Picard's neck stiffened. "My duty requires me to look into this matter, Major Ferris. And I intend to see it through." Picard hand-signaled Worf to close the channel.

"What do our sensors tell us about the technology of this civilization?" he asked Data.

"Comparable to twenty-first-century Earth around the time of the Post-Atomic Horror. They have primitive technology: radiation guns, nuclear warheads-a lot of weapons, but no long-range warp drive, no-"

"Captain!" It was Worf. "s.p.a.cecraft are scrambling from the planet's surface. They are moving to surround us."

"Put our shields up, on full, and track them. Please go on, Mr. Data."

"Yes, sir. Scans detect a high density of video and audio sensors-probably surveillance gear, sir, permeating the population centers. The standard of living on the planet appears mediocre. A familiar syndrome. Their resources are used for munitions and covert operations."

"Looks like they've made a Post-Atomic Horror of their own," said Picard.

He looked at Deanna Troi.

"What do you feel about Ferris?"

The counselor replied without hesitation. "He's telling the truth as he sees it. I am sure he has never heard of the Huxley. I felt it when you asked him."

"Captain, guided projectile heading our way," said Worf.

"Evasive, Wesley."

"Yes, sir."

"Detonation," said Worf.

The viewscreen went white.

The crew braced for impact but there was none.

"Missed us by ten kilometers," said Worf, surveying his tactical panel. "Crude guidance and propulsion. Sensors show the ships don't have anything more refined. If so, we can outrun anything they throw at us."

"Yes, well, I'm not interested in playing that game with them," said the captain as he paced the command area. "Did the recorder marker from the Huxley show damage consistent with the type of weapon we just evaded?"

"Very consistent. Thermonuclear, sir. Their ships have taken up positions around us."

"Go to Yellow Alert, Lieutenant." Picard stood over Troi. "Maybe Ferris really knows nothing about the Huxley, but Ferris strikes me as far from omnipotent. The evidence suggests that we must check this planet for survivors, and one way or another I am going to do just that. Any of you have something to add?"

Young Ensign Crusher did. "Ferris looks like an actor playing a part. Like something out of an ancient war movie, or ancient Earth politics ... but I guess that's not very germane."

"Au contraire, Mr. Crusher. Possibly very germane. Counselor Troi, any further impressions?"

"Ferris seems to be getting advice from some other authority. I think Wesley is right-Ferris is being presented to us for image purposes. We should try our questions on someone else."

"I agree," said Picard. "Worf, reopen the channel."

Ferris' face reappeared on the viewscreen. He looked like an army recruitment poster from the old days, when there were armies on Earth.

"Major Ferris, do you speak for your entire planet?"

"I speak for the Cephalic Security organization."

"And you do so alone?"

Troi could tell that Ferris was angry at the challenge, but only for the briefest instant, before his by-the-book persona snapped back into place.

The unseen companion to his side distracted him, and after a moment he rose and left the screen's field of view.

Another man took his place. He was older by twenty years, and completely bald. He appeared to be the victim of some crude surgery or irreversible malady. His face was scarred and frozen in an eerie, nerveless mask.

"I am Crichton, Director of Cephalic Security," he said. "Ferris is under my command."

"But you aren't the highest authority on this planet?" asked Picard.

Crichton's scarred face showed no change.

"The Council of Truth is the highest authority here, but I'm empowered to represent the planet in all matters of security. Now I suggest, Captain Picard, that it would be easier for all of us, especially you, if you take your ship and leave."

"Crichton." Picard's voice tightened up another notch. "Your weapons are no match for my ship. And even if you did drive us away or destroy us, other ships from our fleet would follow and find your planet. One way or another, the Federation will have its answer. Once our investigation is complete, we will leave in peace. Do you, Crichton, know anything about the disappearance of the U.S.S. Huxley and the fate of its crew?"

"Absolutely nothing."

He returned Picard's stare. The two men seemed to be testing wills with their eyes. Then Crichton looked down and pressed a b.u.t.ton on his desk.

"You are going to limit both our options," said Picard, "if you continue to fire on us."

"I'm not firing. As you pointed out, it would neither destroy you nor deter your Federation. So I will allow your investigation. But I will tolerate no interference with the affairs of this planet. There is a disease, an epidemic going on here, and a violent insurgency as well. The criminals who disfigured my face are part of that insurgency. If you or your people help them, I will cla.s.sify you as criminals as well."

"We have a directive which-"

"Yes, I heard. I would like to get this over with as soon as possible. Your search can begin now; all you have to do is allow us to inspect your ship first and a.s.sure ourselves that you are not bringing any infectious or forbidden materials to the surface of Rampart."

"I won't let you bring large numbers of people on my ship, especially not military personnel," said the captain.

"What would you say to just Major Ferris and myself, with our plague-detecting devices?"

"One moment." Picard had Worf cut the channel. He turned to Troi. "Your judgment?"

"He is truly concerned about the threat of contraband or contagion," said the counselor. "If he is satisfied on that count, I sense that he intends to let our investigation proceed. I can't read if he knows anything about the Huxley."

"We have no infectious diseases on this ship he need worry about," said Picard. "When he sees that, he may feel less threatened." He nodded to Worf. The channel was reopened.

"Crichton, I will agree to your inspection of the Enterprise, as long as it excludes any areas of the ship I deem sensitive, and conforms to all other security procedures."

Troi stared with puzzlement at the helmets Crichton and Ferris wore for their inspection of the ship.

They were of a smooth, molded material and had, on their visors, two video rasters, like little television pictures, one covering each eye. Usually the rasters were semi-transparent and white, but on occasion they jumped and flickered with moire patterns, as if shielding the eyes behind them from something in the outside world. Each helmet also had a mouth-mike and headphones.

Troi guessed that the box floating on antigravs next to Crichton and Ferris housed a computer that controlled the helmets and linked them in communication. With its lens and antennae, it was also the device the two men used for detecting contraband or disease-or so they said.

Now, as Troi walked down the Enterprise corridor with the visiting party, she was aware of a low droning buzz, like a metal insect, behind her head. She turned and saw the metal box, which the men from Rampart called a one-eye, floating along close behind her. Its lens-eye stared forward, occasionally zooming in or out a bit. Above the lens the collection of antennae moved about, hunting, pointing at her, then beetling at Picard, who walked beside her as they followed Ferris and Crichton. Two Enterprise security men completed the group.

Troi knew that the one-eye device and ten others like it had been checked through the Enterprise transporter and deemed safe before they had been brought aboard. Still, the thing looked ominous. And she didn't think that Ferris and Crichton would go anywhere without weapons.

The search had gone on for two hours. Ferris had been curt and efficient, though Troi felt a primitive animal bellicosity lurking in him.

Crichton was harder to read; his mask-like face gave no clue to his inner state, and his mind itself seemed, to Troi, as if it were covered by something thick and opaque. His speech was peculiar-the words often seemed to jam together in his mouth like evacuees crowding an exit. And he had a compulsion to wash his hands every few minutes.

Troi was reminded of various brain pathologies she'd encountered in clinical training, but she had trouble cla.s.sifying Crichton. She didn't think his problem was organic-physical damage to the brain itself. But something was definitely wrong; some uncontrollable mainspring was pushing him and testing his self-control.

He had just stopped the tour near the holodeck to wash his hands for the fourth time when Picard lost his patience.

"We've been at this long enough," the captain said. "Is your sensing device detecting any communicable diseases, or not?"

Ferris and Crichton were silent.

"You've already seen that our personnel transporter is programmed to filter out any organism," Riker said pointedly.

Crichton answered with sudden bitterness. "My forefathers left Earth to escape a contagion. It has taken all the resources and manpower of Rampart to keep our planet free of that Allpox. I'm not about to rely on your equipment to do my job for me."

The group pa.s.sed one of the holodeck doors. A crewwoman emerged laughing. She nodded at the captain and started down the corridor. Troi saw the antennae on the one-eye twitch in the direction of the crewwoman.

The two men from Rampart stopped to listen to some information coming over their headsets.

Ferris turned suddenly toward Picard.

"What was behind that door?"

"A room where we experience complete sensory illusions for training or entertainment," said the captain. "I myself have entered the imaginary worlds of Sherlock Holmes, Dixon Hill ..."

As Picard went on, Crichton and Ferris suddenly tuned him out and listened instead to their headsets.

Troi sensed a tide of loathing building in the minds of Ferris and Crichton. She wondered what it was about the holodeck that the men from Rampart would find so odious.

Just then, the group was distracted by a crowd of adolescent students and their teacher, approaching along the corridor. In one child's hand was a small holostatue, a three-dimensional color image of a Navaho sand painting. The teacher nodded to the captain but kept right on with her lesson as she pa.s.sed.

"In Navaho mythology, the Rainbow Guardian represents the harmony of earth and cosmos, body and mind. He is a reward for those who follow hozho, the Path of Beauty, the way of unselfishness. In the holodeck I'm going to show you more Navaho sand paintings, some Tibetan Thang-ka scrolls, a j.a.panese rock garden ..."

Troi sensed the two Rampartians' revulsion abruptly click into another track, a track leading to action. They both stood quite still as the students pa.s.sed. Troi was about to try to get the captain aside and warn him, but now Picard spoke directly to the two men.

"Since you haven't found any diseases or contraband here, may we-"

"We have found it in abundance," said Crichton.

"Found what?"

"The disease of myth, fiction, imagination, blasphemy, religious heresy, the many forms of the Allpox," said Crichton.

Picard stood silently, absorbing these words as he watched the teacher and her students enter the holodeck. Then he turned back to Crichton.

"That is hardly what I would call a disease. We on this ship and in my Federation certainly seem to have gotten on in spite of our ... infection. But if that's what you're afraid of, I a.s.sure you we'll bring none of it to the surface of your planet. We are interested only in finding the crew of the Huxley."

"Your story of the Huxley is a fiction," Crichton replied tersely, a quivering lip the only movement in his frozen face. "You can't help but spread the obscenity and filth of imagination wherever you go. It is in your schools, your speech, your actions, and your minds. Your children are brought up in a madhouse, taught by lunatics and devils."

"Oh, I see, I see," said Picard. "It's a good thing for you that your people left Earth centuries ago," he continued. "Your kind has phased itself out, thankfully, on that planet. And what they once banned, we have right here on the ship. Every piece of work by Vonnegut, Joyce, James Baldwin, the beat poets, the Hollywood Ten, the Chinese student-poets, everything."

Crichton backed away from Picard. The captain was heating up.

"Let me make it simple for you, Crichton, and end this absurd search here and now. In our computer we have a complete copy of every notable piece of literature, art, and music ever produced by humankind, from the first paleolithic cave paintings right up to the present. Everything, no matter who banned it, in whatever country, for whatever reason. Not one word or image is missing. Got it?"

Troi's attention was drawn to Ferris. The major was looking over at the one-eye while Crichton and Picard had their words. Filling the one-eye with his intent, Troi was sure.

Now Ferris waited for an order, which came immediately from Crichton.

"It's time to return, Major Ferris," he said. "Procedure Rhombus."

"Yes sir. Procedure Rhombus."

A clicking sound and then a mounting whine emanated from the one-eye as it glided around the two men from Rampart and took up a position in front of them. f.l.a.n.g.es below the one-eye's camera lens rotated and formed a hollow tube.

In the frontal lobes of security officer Timoshenko's brain, a recognition dawned: the tube was a wave-guide, probably a weapon. His R-complex and limbic system became involved in the emergency. The alarm flashed out to a dozen different brain-loci of thought and action, bypa.s.sing any work on the problem of why, in favor of here and now.