RELICS by MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

Author:MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: POCKET BOOKS
Published: 1992-08-29T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

IN A CORRIDOR, Scott was standing just outside the doors of a holodeck. He was still carrying the bottle of green liquor and the glass from Ten-Forward, and he was more than a little drunk. He activated the bulkhead computer terminal.

“Please enter program,” said the computer’s smooth, synthetic voice.

“The android at the bar told me ye could show me my old ship. So lemme see the old girl.”

“Insufficient data. Please quantify parameters.”

“The Enterprise. Show me the bridge of the Enterprise, ye chattering piece of—”

“There have been five Federation ships with that name,” the computer informed him. “Please specify by registry number.”

Scott cursed beneath his breath. “NCC-One-Seven-Oh-One. No bloody A, B, C or D!”

“Program complete,” the computer announced softly. “Enter when ready.”

Scott took a step toward the strange interlocking doors of the holodeck—and then stopped. What was holding him back?

The possibility that the fantasy wouldn’t live up to the reality? Some vague, superstitious fear of waking the dead—for the Enterprise-no-suffix was certainly that. He knew; he’d seen her die with his own eyes.

“Ah, blast,” he said to no one in particular. “Faint heart never won fair lady.” And with that, he stepped forward again.

The doors parted. And a moment later, as if by magic, Scotty found himself on the bridge of his old ship. Kirk’s old ship. All the monitors were blinking and flashing and the sound of the old scanners filled the air.

For a second or two, as he moved to a spot beside the captain’s chair, Scott felt as if he’d come home. Going over to his old station, just to one side of the turbolift, he turned and took a look around.

And was unexpectedly depressed. There was nobody here. Nobody at all. It didn’t seem right to be alone on a place that was once such a hive of activity.

Without his old friends manning the consoles and stations, without Spock and McCoy exchanging barbs and the captain laughing up his sleeve at them, the Enterprise was like a ghost ship. The Flying Dutchman, Scott thought.

No. The Flying Scotsman, he amended. Doomed to wander the universe in perpetuity, no longer wanted, no longer needed.

Like Scott himself. He heaved a sigh.

Damn. He hadn’t come here to hold a wake for himself. He’d come to remind himself of a time when he was wanted and needed.

Scott poured himself a stiff drink, trying to shake his feelings of melancholy. Lifting his glass, he saluted the people who weren’t there.

“Here’s to ye, lads,” he intoned, as if at a wake. He drank down the libation.

And then he realized … this holodeck could recreate a lot more than places and things, if he’d understood correctly. It could recreate people as well.

“Computer,” he said, “I need some company here. Some familiar faces.”

“Please specify,” came the response.

He chuckled and straightened in his seat. “Captain James T. Kirk. First Officer Spock. Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy.”

It felt good just to say their names. It seemed to give them a reality even before the holodeck worked its magic.

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