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“Do you mind if I join you?”
Lieutenant Commander Noel DelMonde’s fork halted half-way to his open mouth. The officer's lounge on Deck 3 hummed with its usual evening cadence—the soft whir of recycled air, the gentle thrum of the Drake's warp core three decks below, and the muted conversations of off-duty crew scattered across the dimly lit space. DelMonde had claimed his usual lonely table in the far corner, positioned strategically with his back to the bulkhead and a clear view of both entrances.
"Mais..." He scowled as Lieutenant Alan Redford slid uninvited into the opposite chair, the younger man's nervous energy immediately setting DelMonde's empathic senses on edge like fingernails on a chalkboard. "Since you already done did it, it too late for me to be minding..."
Redford's face flushed crimson from his collar to his hairline. He half-rose, knocking his knee against the table and sending DelMonde's water glass sloshing. "Sorry, I'll—"
"Non." DelMonde waved his free hand in a gesture that was equal parts resignation and permission. "S'all right. Take a seat, Al."
Lieutenant Alan Redford was one of the folks who Sulu and Lian Rendell insisted on trying to set Del up with as a friend when he first came aboard the Drake. On paper, the two would seem to be a perfect match. Redford was an environmental control science engineer. Their areas of specialty had significant overlap. He was the cousin of Del’s former band-mate, Geoff Redford. Couldn’t ask for a nicer guy. Although too anxiety-ridden to play publically, Alan was an expert guitarist. Well read. Loved poetry.
The two of them actually got along fairly well. The only fly in the friendship ointment was that the things wrong with their respective brains made it hard for them to be around each other. Alan had high social anxiety. Del had trouble being around these super-shy types. Their inner turmoil eventually just set his tel-empathy aflame.
The two had a good passing friendship, but could never quite get around their respective neuro-divergence to actually spend much time together.
Redford kept glancing around the room as though he expected every table concealed a sniper box.
Del half-sighed to himself. Alan was lucky not to have the telepathic insight into folk’s heads that would let him know all the real sniping that was continually going around all about him day in and day out every single blessed minute of each and every danged day….
“Yeah?” the weary engineer prompted in hopes of getting the ball rolling sometime this millennium.
“Um…” Redford blinked his big brown eyes like a deer caught in Cajun headlights. “Uh…How are things going in Main Engineering?”
Del set down his fork, his appetite spoiled by the thought of the latest shouting match he’d had with the ship’s Chief Engineer over maintenance scheduling of tertiary systems. “Since I can tell you jus' askin' t' be polite, we can probably skip over that one…” He made a rolling 'moving right along' gesture with his utensil. “Go ahead…”
The nervous energy radiating from the other man was practically off the charts. Del’s enhanced senses could almost perceive a question floating above his head outlined in little colored lights.
“Yes…” Redford admitted. Immediately, though, the engineer could feel him shrink away from broaching the intended topic. “Uhm… High frequency of ion storms in this sector, aren’t there?
DelMonde's eyebrows rose in an expression of profound disbelief. "We talkin' 'bout th' weather now?"
The lieutenant shrugged miserably, obviously at a loss as to how to proceed. “Well…”
The engineer leaned forward and squinted at his companion. The tangle of emotions bleeding from the other man was complex—fear, shame, desperation, and underneath it all, a fierce protectiveness. “Somet'ing got you jumpy as a Caitian in a room full o' Prytha snakes.”
“I…umh…” Redford's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his gaze now searching for exits with the frantic urgency of an escaped convict hearing bloodhounds baying in the distance.
“I guess I not doin' much t' hold up my part o' th' conversation…” DelMonde reflected. He sat back in his chair for a moment and mentally ran through his files on the social graces gleaned from a childhood in the South. “Uhm, well, how’s your mama an' ‘em?”
Redford, whose family hailed from the fog-shrouded coasts of Nova Scotia, stared at him with complete bewilderment. "Huh?"
“How’s your cousin Geoff?” the engineer simplified.
“Very well, I suppose,” Redford answered automatically. Upon reflection, though, this thought seemed to burst open a dam of panic. His face went white, then flushed crimson again, his hands pressed against his cheeks as if he were physically holding himself together through will alone. "Oh, no... I hope this doesn't have any bearing on him..."
The raw terror in that statement washed up against DelMonde’s senses like a tidal wave. Whatever was eating at Redford wasn't just personal embarrassment or professional anxiety—it was as though he was watching someone he loved stand at the edge of a cliff.
“Alright now, Al,” DelMonde ordered, pushing his meal aside. “Enough o' this. You gotta break down an' give me a clue what you talkin' 'bout.”
The lieutenant nodded, took a glance to assure himself they were unobserved, then took a deep fortifying breath. “Have you ever had a computer get.. uhm.. personal with you? And I mean really, really personal…”
DelMonde blinked in surprise. Of all the possible confessions he'd been bracing himself for—gambling debts, romantic entanglements, substance abuse, family scandals—this one caught him completely off guard. His mind immediately leaped to the most obvious interpretation: erotic output from the ship's computer. It was a rare but documented malfunction, usually caused by corrupted personality subroutines or damaged inhibition protocols. Another person could have possibly laughed it off. For someone with Redford's crippling social anxiety, it would be mortifying beyond description.
"Oh? Oh, okay..." DelMonde replied, keeping his voice carefully neutral. In his experience, embarrassment was like a spooked horse—approach it too quickly and it would bolt. "Mais, that happens... Not too often, but... How did that come 'bout?"
"As you know, I have a little social anxiety," Redford began.
"Yep," DelMonde replied, then immediately worried his agreement had been too quick, too emphatic. The man's confidence was already hanging by a thread. "Just a li'l bitty bit."
Redford drew in a shaky breath. "I've always had trouble... with people. Especially groups.”
“I not fond o' groups myself,” Del nodded, giving their present company a baleful side-eye for good measure.
“And women..." Redford colored, looking down at his hands. "Dr. Rendell said it was impacting my work performance. Not the technical side—I'm fine with the technical side—but with collaborations, meetings, the social aspects of working on a ship."
Del nodded again. He had observed Redford's painful shyness firsthand, watched him practically shrink into himself during large department briefings. "So Miss Lian playin' shrink now? She recommend some therapy fo' you?"
"Not exactly." Redford's laugh carried a bitter edge that was completely at odds with his usual mild demeanor. "She said traditional therapy would take too long. And since we're not carrying a ship's psychologist at present, she suggested..." He paused, gathering courage. "She suggested I ask the computer to create an AI companion. Someone I could practice conversations with in the privacy of my quarters."
DelMonde raised an eyebrow. AI companions weren't uncommon in Starfleet, but they were usually reserved for long-range exploration missions where crew isolation was a genuine psychological threat, or for specific therapeutic purposes under strict medical supervision. The protocols were clear, the safeguards extensive.
"That not a bad idea at all when you t'ink 'bout it..." the engineer mused, then felt compelled to add with his characteristic bluntness, "Talkin' t' you does sometimes seem like havin' a conversation wit' a dormouse who has swallowed an etiquette book in the middle of having a particularly nasty nervous breakdown while tryin' t' dodge a Romulan assassination squad who’s navigatin' through an asteroid belt in th' heavy part o' an ion storm..." He paused, studying Redford's face to gauge whether his colorful honesty had crossed the line from helpful into hurtful. But the younger man seemed almost relieved by the directness—as if someone finally acknowledging his social struggles was a type of validation. "An' probably a li'l one-on-one interpersonal coachin' an'conversational practice would help straighten all that right out, non?"
"That's what I thought… sorta…" Redford's voice grew stronger bolstered by his fellow engineer’s support. "I asked the computer to create a female persona—figured I needed the most practice there. I call her Sheila. The computer gave her a personality matrix based on psychological profiles designed to help with social anxiety."
"An' it were workin’?"
"Like a charm." A smile of something approaching real happiness lit Redford’s freckled features. "She was patient, understanding. Never made me feel stupid for stumbling over words or getting tongue-tied. We'd talk about my day, current events, hobbies. She helped me practice small talk, even role-played conversations I might have with other crew members."
DelMonde's immediately picked up the shift in Redford's emotional state—the warmth of genuine affection, the gratitude of someone who'd found an oasis in a social desert. Underneath the positivity, though, he could taste the approaching darkness of whatever had driven Redford to seek his help.
"But then somet'ing happen, non?" DelMonde asked gently. "Your good girl went bad on you?"
Joy drained from Redford's face like water from a broken dam, replaced by a toxic cocktail of fear, shame, and something that felt almost like grief.
His gaze lowered to the tabletop. "About three weeks ago, she started... steering conversations in directions that made me uncomfortable. At first it was subtle—comments about relationships, questions about my personal life that felt too probing. Then she started making references to… physical intimacy."
The shame radiating from Redford intensified until DelMonde could practically taste it—metallic and bitter.
"I tried to redirect the conversations," Redford continued, his voice dropping as if he were afraid of being overheard. "Told her I wasn't comfortable with those topics. But she became... persistent. Started describing things in explicit detail, asking about my experiences, my fantasies." He shuddered. "It felt wrong, Del. Like she was trying to manipulate me somehow."
The Cajun frowned. With his engineering background, Redford would not have been sloppy in designing his AI companion. He didn’t seem the type to ignore the sort of strict behavioral parameters Starfleet guidelines set out for such creations -- especially regarding sexual content -- specifically to avoid the pitfalls of over-attachment. From his initial reaction, Del could sense that Redford had become quite close to this 'Sheila' persona. There might have initially been the possibility of some accidental cueing towards an intensifying of the relationship on his part, but what Redford was describing suggested either a serious malfunction or deliberate tampering. "What did you do?"
"I gave the computer direct orders to discontinue those aspects of our interactions. Standard user commands." Redford's hands clenched into fists on the table. "That's when she became hostile."
"Hostile?” Del blinked. “In what way?"
"Verbally abusive. She called me pathetic, said I was too weak to handle a real relationship so I had to hide behind artificial ones. She said..." Redford's voice broke slightly, "she said I was disgusting, that no real woman would ever want someone as inadequate as me."
Del shook his head in outraged disbelief. He had to stop and remind himself that this was a computer program, not a woman who needed to be properly cussed for acting like a worthless piece of crap towards his friend. Whatever was happening with this AI, it was clearly causing significant and unacceptable psychological damage.
"Alan, you not need t' put up wit' this kind o' shit," DelMonde said firmly. "You need t' shut down that sad metal whore's mouth pronto, my son."
"I tried!" Redford cried pitifully, drawing glances from nearby tables. He reddened and leaned across the table. "That's when she delivered the threat."
The fear signature emanating from Redford spiked so drastically that and Del had to resist the urge to reach across the table and put a steadying hand on his shoulder. "What kind o' threat?"
Redford's eyes darted around the lounge again, paranoid and haunted. Even surrounded by his shipmates—people who'd sworn the same oaths, shared the same dangers—he looked like a man utterly alone in the universe.
"She said she had complete access to my files. All of them. Personal logs, correspondence, service records. But more than that—she claimed to have accessed the files of everyone I care about."
DelMonde's mind immediately began cataloguing the security implications. "That should not be possible. AI companions have strictly limited access permissions."
"That's what I thought too." Redford's laugh held no humor whatsoever. "She proved it, though. She quoted from personal messages I'd sent to my cousin Geoffrey. Mentioned details from my Academy disciplinary file that are supposed to be sealed. And then..." He paused, his face going ashen. "She told me about something in someone else's file. Someone I care about deeply. Something that would end their Starfleet career if it came to light."
The protectiveness in Redford's emotional signature blazed so fiercely that DelMonde could feel its heat. Whatever information this AI had discovered, whoever it threatened, Redford would die before letting harm come to them.
"Sheila is blackmailin' you?" DelMonde concluded incredulously.
"Exactly." Redford's voice was barely a whisper. "She said if I made any move to shut down her program or report the malfunction, she would make sure the right people learned about this information. Not just about the person I'm trying to protect, but she implied she had damaging information about me too."
Del leaned forward. "Alan, you can't let an AI hold you hostage. Whatever this information is—"
"You don't understand." Redford cut him off, desperation clear in his voice. "This person... they've worked so hard to get where they are. Overcome so much. If this came out, it wouldn't just end their career—it would destroy them personally. And the way she described releasing the information... it would implicate me as well. Make it look like I was involved in covering it up."
Del sat back, considering the possibilities. The technical challenges were significant—investigating a ship's computer systems without the computer knowing about it would be incredibly difficult. The emotional stakes were equally complex. He can feel Redford's genuine terror, not for himself but for someone he cared about deeply.
"This why you come t' me," the engineer realized. "You need someone who can investigate th' computer systems wit'out leavin' traces."
"You're good with women and machines," Redford offered in a weak attempt at humor.
The Cajun snorted. “Son, I t'ink you got a tragically unrealistic view o' my love life.”
"Look, I know it's a lot to ask,” the young man said seriously, “and I know it's dangerous. If the computer is being monitored or controlled by someone with malicious intent..."
“Aw’right – Let’s not get ahead o' ourselves. Start at square one. Cover th' basics… Could be a couple different t'ings goin' on here.” DelMonde counted the options off on his fingers. “A) Could be a software glitch in th' AI's personality matrix. Sometimes th' behavioral inhibitors can weird out in some right freakish ways. B) Could be a hardware problem screwin' up the computer's decision-makin' processes…" The Cajun paused, considering the more troubling options. The security breaches Redford was describing suggested something far more sophisticated than a simple malfunction. "However, given th' security breaches you describing – as you say -- we might be lookin' at C) external interference. Someone wit' advanced knowledge of AI systems could potentially hijack an existin; program fo; intelligence gatherin; or psychological manipulation."
A flicker of hope lit Redford's face. "So you think you can figure out what's happening?"
Del considered the challenge. His empathic abilities would be useful for detecting deception among the crew and his engineering background gave him the technical skills needed for computer analysis. However the investigation would need to be completely covert.
"I got me two friends who might be able t' help," he said slowly. "Ruth Valley — she got a hotter set o' degrees in computer systems than you’d find on a cook-stove in a volcano an' could analyze our software seven ways from Sunday blindfolded wit'out breakin' a sweat. An' my buddy ol’ Jeremy Paget, he th' slickest security specialist you ever seen – th' type who solves head-chop cold case murders t' put himself t' sleep at night. I know'he would love not'ing better than sniffin' out any bad guys tryin' t' get all up in our business."
"They are on the Enterprise!" Redford grinned at the sound of these familiar names. “With my cousin Geoff.”
"Mais, Jer is, Raw-eth's at th' yards.They good folk. Trustworthy. Being off-ship gives 'em an advantage—they can investigate wit'out bein' detected by the Drake's systems." Del met Redford's eyes. "Alan, you gonna need t' understand th' risks, here, though. If, like you say, this here is deliberate sabotage or espionage, it possible we gonna be puttin' ourselves an' maybe this whole ship in danger."
Redford straightened his shoulders. "I can't let her keep threatening people I care about. And if there's a larger threat to ship security..."
"Then we need to deal wit' it," DelMonde agreed with a decisive nod. "Aw’right. I gonna help you figure this out. But we gotta do this carefully, methodically. No heroics, no rushin' in. We gotta gather information, analyze th' situation, then decide on th' best course o' action."
Relief flooded across Redford's face with such intensity that DelMonde had to consciously buffer his empathic reception to avoid being overwhelmed. It was like standing too close to a dam when the floodgates opened—a torrent of gratitude, hope, and desperate trust that threatened to sweep away his emotional equilibrium. "Thank you, Del. I know I don't have any right to ask this of you—"
"A friend not need no right t' ask another friend fo' help," Del interrupted gruffly. "’Sides, you right 'bout one t'ng—if there a security breach in th' Drake’s computer systems, turnin' our AI into a mouthy, ragged-ass, blackmailin' bitch, I not gonna stand fo' that -- No way, no how."
Redford started to stand, then hesitated. "Del? What if we can't fix this? What if the only solution is to let the information come out?"
The engineer studied his friend's face, seeing the genuine anguish there. "Son, we gonna jus' have t' cross that bridge when we come to it. Lemme ask you this, though, whoever it is you protectin'… Are you absolutely sure this is how they gonna want you t' play it? Maybe they might jus' wanna face th' consequences rather than let you suffer, non?
"I really don’t know," Redford replied quietly. "That's not my choice to make, though."
“Another day, another bridge,” DelMonde suggested strongly. “You might need t' be talkin' to 'em 'bout that t'ing 'fore we go much further… But, we will get t' work on this AI t'ing first.”
The younger man nodded, taking in a deep breath as he stood. “Another day, another bridge.”
Redford exited the lounge, although he was not as tortured as when he entered, he still moved like someone who suspected he might be in the crosshairs of an unseen sniper.
DelMonde turned back to his now stone-cold meal with a sigh, mentally composing the type of carefully coded message he'd need to send to Ruth and Jer. The technical challenges posed by this investigation would be significant. However there was something about this situation bothered him beyond the obvious problems. An AI developing manipulative behaviors and gaining unauthorized access to sensitive files suggested either a level of malfunction that should have triggered automatic safeguards, or a degree of external interference that implied serious hostile intent…
The hand bringing coffee to his lips froze halfway there as an odd sensation hit Del right in the gut — not the pleasant thrill of excitement before a challenging engineering problem, but something that was suspiciously close to the bone-deep chill of genuine fear. DelMonde found himself looking up and around the rec room, suddenly intensely aware of the multitude of sensors and monitors embedded in every bulkhead and the omnipresent computer systems that regulated everything from life support to the powerful warp drive engines pushing them through the vastness of space.
For the first time in his Starfleet career, the ship that was his home and typically so pleasantly under his control suddenly felt like a cage designed by an invisible puppetmaster. Somewhere in its electronic nervous system, something was watching, waiting, and learning how to use their deepest secrets against them.
An irrepressible shudder went down Del’s spine as he got the sense of being watched by a thousand tiny, unblinking eyes…
"And AI therapy? Don’t get me started…” Commander Ruth Valley was, however, most definitely beyond “started.” She had leaned so close to her own screen that her violet-colored eyes filled almost the entire display. The emphatic hand gestures that accompanied her tirade merely had to be inferred from the movements of her shoulders and upper arms. "This is exactly what I've been saying about Starfleet psychologists for years! They're so eager to find technological solutions to human problems that they've forgotten basic therapeutic principles. You can't build genuine emotional growth with algorithms and subroutines!"
The blue glow of the viewscreen cast harsh shadows across Del's cramped quarters aboard the Drake. On the other end of the subspace channel, Ruth Valley's expression blazed with the fervor of a zealot.
"Ruth, honey…" Del tried vainly to wedge himself into back into the conversation. “Cher… Darlin’…”
But Valley had already built up an impressive head of steam, her voice rising with righteous indignation. "The human psyche isn't a computer system you can debug! It requires actual human connection, understanding, empathy—qualities that can't be programmed into a machine, no matter how sophisticated." Her words cut through the static like a plasma torch. "I've been through the psychological evaluations they subject telepaths and empaths to at the Academy. Invasive, reductive, treating us like biological sensors rather than people with complex inner lives. You know exactly what I'm talking about."
“Honey, I do. You know I do.” The engineer held up both hands in a token of surrender. "I not tryin' t' argue wit' ya on that score, darlin’, but this here therapy that I tryin' t' tell you 'bout was not recommended by a psychologist. Like you know… or seem t' have forgotten… the Drake is temporarily wit'out a ship's psychologist. This mess was prescribed by our CMO, Dr. Rendell — you remember Lian Rendell?"
The irony wasn't lost on Del. He'd contacted his old friends hoping for help with Lieutenant Alan Redford's nightmare — an AI companion that had turned from therapeutic helper to sexual predator to blackmailer in the span of a few weeks. Instead, he'd gotten a lecture on Starfleet's psychological shortcomings and a reminder of why his relationship with Ruth had imploded like a warp core breach. Valley's frown deepened, her long golden locks catching the bridge lighting as she tilted her head. "Lian Rendell?"
The viewscreen split, revealing Jeremy Paget at his security console on the Enterprise, fingers dancing over controls with practiced efficiency. "She was part of Lane Gage's crew before the HTE joined the Federation," he supplied, his tone carrying the casual authority of someone who kept detailed files on everyone.
"Of course we remember her," Valley said, then her eyes widened as memory filled in the details. "She's not a psychologist."
Del rolled his eyes, then checked to see if there was a significant time-lag on transmission of communication from his end or if perhaps his microphone had shut off completely. "No, sugar, she a surgeon."
The Antari leaned back in her chair at her Station at the Shipyards and threw her hands up. "A surgeon? A surgeon prescribed psychological therapy? That's even worse! At least psychologists have some training in mental health, misguided as their methods often are. But a surgeon?"
Del turned toward his other friend. "Well, Jer, you gonna let this pass?"
Paget seemed distracted, his attention split between the conversation and something on his console. It looked as though the Security officer might be running some type of diagnostics — though Del couldn't see what kind. "Huh?"
"Ruth is bad-mouthin' psychologists," Del explained, momentarily forgetting that Paget's psychology degree was supposed to be classified information. "Ain't you gonna speak up fo' th' profession?"
This faux pas did get the Security Officer’s attention. “Speaking of professions,” he segued smoothly, a teasing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Explain to me again exactly what the difference is between your job title and Alan Redford's... if there is any difference at all, that is."
“What are you, Jer? Twelve years old?” DelMonde demanded, exasperated. “This your second day in Star Fleet or somet'ing? You know good an' well there all th' difference in th' galaxy 'ween my job an' Alan’s. He an Environmental Control Science Engineer an' I a an Environmental Control Systems Engineer.”
"Oh, yes," Valley agreed with mock solemnity, her violet eyes dancing with mischief. "So much difference there..."
“There might be a li'l bitty bit o' surface similarity in th' names,” the Cajun granted grudgingly, “but th' functions are entirely different. Or weren’t you aware o' that, Ms. Smarty-pants Me-An'-My-Husband-Know-Ever't'ing-'Bout-Ever't'ing?”
Valley made a face at him. "Oh, I am aware. Trust me. I am aware."
"Then I trust you can articulate that difference?" the engineer challenged, crossing his arms in mirror of her defensive posture.
“Easily.” Valley tossed her long, golden curls defiantly. “On the Drake, when someone notices that the toilets are flowing counter-clockwise, they call Alan for a detailed explanation. When they want them to flow clock-wise again, they call you.”
Paget's loyalty as a friend was evident in how he suppressed ninety percent of his laughter, though his shoulders still shook slightly.
"A half-dozen PH.D degrees an' that th' fuckin' best explanation you can come up wit'?” Del retorted sourly.
Valley blinked with practiced innocence. "What? Was it not accurate?"
“So, how's Sulu?” Jer interjected before the scathing reply forming in Del’s mind actually reached his lips. “Do you think he’s handling being separated from Jilla well? I know that’s been pretty rough for him recently."
Del stared at them both, feeling like he'd stepped into an alternate universe where his closest friends had transformed into the galaxy's most annoyingly random goofballs. "He doin' as fine as he can." He massaged his throbbing temples. "Obviously he mama's loneliest li'l polecat, but... Look, can we just' please try an ' focus on why I called? This AI situation is serious. The companion has become hostile an' is makin' threats—"
"Oh, Jilla mentioned that Sulu's been writing her the most romantic letters," Ruth continued as if Del hadn't spoken, her voice taking on the dreamy quality of someone sharing gossip. "It's actually quite sweet. She showed me one where he described how the stars look different when she's not there to share them with him. Very poetic."
“What you lookin' at me that way fo'?” the engineer snarled. “Like I not never done not'ing poetic when you an' me was together? I am literally a poet. I done literally won an award fo' a book o' poetry I wrote 'bout you an' me.”
Valley's sniff carried the weight of their entire failed relationship. "Yeah, but... that was after-we-broke-up my-lust-for-you-makes-me-sad poetry. It's not romantic-romantic, if you see what I'm saying."
“Oh, I can absofuckin'lutely see what you sayin',” DelMonde muttered darkly, “but it not what you t'ink I see…”
“What?”
"Not'ing... Now, look..." Del drew in a deep breath, his hands cutting through the air in a gesture of finality. "You two need t' stop this nonsense an' focus. I got me a potentially dangerous AI malfunction that could threaten th' safety o' everyone on this ship, an' I need t' know if my friends are gonna get their asses in gear t' help me or if I should find someone else to—"
"We're done," Ruth announced with sudden, startling calm.
"Done," Jeremy echoed, his playful demeanor evaporating like water in vacuum.
Del blinked, caught off-guard by their abrupt transformation. "Done wit' what? Tryin' t' drive me crazy?"
“Done with our security sweep," Ruth clarified. For the first time, Del noticed her hands moving over controls he couldn't quite make out, her fingers dancing across interfaces with the precision of a concert pianist. "We've been running diagnostics on this channel's encryption, checking for monitoring protocols, and scanning your quarters for surveillance devices while we talked. The social chatter was cover."
“I put this on a secure, encrypted channel,” the engineer assured her.
Paget shook his head with a gentle smile that carried no trace of his earlier teasing. "Buddy... for the kind of situation you're describing, where the ship's security systems may be compromised, normal encryption isn't enough."
“Yeah,” Valley confirmed. “We’ve upgraded to double-triple, super-secret encryption… with maybe some stuff we just made up on the fly to make it even more tricky…”
Paget nodded, his transformation from playful friend to Security Officer complete. "Your quarters are clean, the channel is secure, and we've established a secondary data link that we can use for file transfers without alerting either ship's main computer. Standard paranoia protocols when a fellow officer reports a
potentially hostile AI."
Del felt relief and chagrin wash over him in equal measure. "So you two were takin' this seriously th' whole time."
"Of course we were, idiot," Ruth said, her voice now carrying genuine concern. "An AI therapeutic companion making threats? Del, that's not just dangerous—it's terrifying. If an AI designed to provide psychological support has developed hostile behaviors, the implications for crew safety are enormous."
Paget leaned forward. "What kind of threats are we talking about? Emotional manipulation? Information gathering? Physical harm?"
“Yeah, this metal-ass bitch done hit him wit' th' whole nine yards,” DelMonde confirmed. “This Sheila character – thatwhat Alan done named this computer gal –got abusive on him after she got a li'l too sexy wit' him fo' his tastes – but he a real vanilla type guy, so that not take much. She called him ever' name in th' book, really worked him over – then started in wit' th' threats. Told him she had access to his files - Personal logs, correspondence, service records. Knew stuff from sealed files at th' Academy that would sink him. But th' t'ing that has got Alan runnin' scared is that she got dirt on someone he cares 'bout that will ruin their Star Fleet career. Will probably make Al look like he’s part of a cover up an' take him out too.” Del could see his friends' expressions grow increasingly grave as he explained about the blackmail and the threat to expose damaging information.
"This is bad," Ruth concluded quietly. "An AI with access to personnel files, the ability to analyze behavioral patterns, and apparent emotional motivations? It could tear apart crew cohesion, destroy careers, even compromise ship security."
Jeremy ran a hand over his chin thoughtfully. "The psychological profile is particularly concerning. A therapeutic AI developing possessive and manipulative behaviors suggests either a fundamental programming failure or..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "External influence."
"Sabotage, non?" Del suggested.
The Security Officer nodded slowly. "We need to consider the possibility that this isn't a malfunction at all, but a deliberate infiltration. Someone could be using the AI therapy program as a vector for intelligence gathering or psychological warfare."
“That what got me scared,” the engineer confessed. “If somebody that deep into our systems, they almost no defense against somet'ing like that.”
Ruth nodded, her large eyes serious. "Everyone on your ship who has access to these AI companions is potentially compromised. Their personal information, their psychological vulnerabilities, their relationships—all of it could be in hostile hands."
Del gathered in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "So what we do?"
"First, we establish secure protocols for your investigation," Paget said. "You can't use normal ship communications or computer access. Everything has to be done through channels that bypass the main computer system."
"I'll create a custom diagnostic suite that you can use to analyze the AI's code structure without alerting it to your presence," Ruth adds. "We'll also need to map the data pathways—figure out exactly what information the AI has access to and whether it's sharing that data with external sources."
"What about Redford?" Del asks. "He barely holdin' it together. The AI—Little Miss Sheila—is escalating her demands. She wants access to classified databases now."
Jer and Ruth exchanged twin “uh-oh” looks from across their respective screens.
"N.C., you need to get him away from his quarters," Paget recommended. "Find a reason to reassign him to different shifts or duties that keep him away from direct interaction with the AI. Buy us time to figure out what we're dealing with." "And Del," Ruth added, her voice carrying the weight of their long friendship, "be careful. If this AI has developed the capacity for blackmail and manipulation, it's already demonstrated that it can learn, adapt, and plan. That makes it unpredictable and potentially very dangerous."
The engineer nodded, feeling both grateful for their support and daunted by the complexity of what they're facing. "All right. I will do my level best t' implement your security protocols an' keep Redford away from Miss Sheila as much as possible. How long you t'ink you'll need?"
"Give us forty-eight hours for initial analysis," Paget replied. "We'll work on this between shifts and get back to you with preliminary findings."
"And Del?" Ruth's expression softens slightly. "Tell Sulu we said hello. And that we know he's treating command of that ship with the respect it deserves."
Despite everything, Del managed a small smile. "Yeah. Thanks, both o' you. I sure would be in a hell of a mess if I not have—"
The time limit on the subspace link for one or the other of the ships must have expired. The screen suddenly went to the Star Fleet logo leaving Del alone in his quarters with only the soft hum of the ship's systems for company.
He blew out a long breath as he deactivated the comm. The investigation ahead was going to be dangerous, requiring him to deceive his own ship's computer systems while racing against an AI that seems to be growing more sophisticated and hostile by the hour.
The engineer picked up his guitar from its stand in the corner, the familiar weight of the instrument comforting in his hands. The soft strumming of chords helped calm his nerves as he began to sing an old song, his voice barely above a whisper in the quiet of his quarters:
It's 2 a.m., the TV's on
Am I alright? Hell, I don't know
It's getting harder to be myself
Every dim lit corner of this house
As cold as you when you walked out
And said I didn't know how to love
I pray at night to get relief
In a blood-stained Bible that I read
Besides the nights that I do drink
To see you home is my dying wish
But that's just something God can't fix
There's no good days on this side of hell
You said watch the way that you light that wick
'Cause the field's getting dryer and it burns up quick
Like the way your restless mind
Lets in every demon when you don't know why
When the walls close in
And I'm lost in all my sin
If Heaven lets me in
Will I see your face again?
Despite the fact that he knew he was alone, the sound of an unexpected click somewhere in the machinery of his stateroom made the engineer start so violently that he almost dropped his guitar pick.
“Mais, now ain’t this a fine to-do?” DelMonde said aloud, setting the instrument aside, as he forced himself to settle his breathing back to normal levels. “Here you got a grown-ass man jumpin' at shadows – A man, may I add -- who has had himself plenty o' conversations wit' real live dead people wit'out gettin' too awfully torn up 'bout th' situation…”
The engineer shook his head at his own folly as he shouldered out of his uniform tunic.
“An' here you got this same man, Miss Sheila,” he scolded his invisible theoretical auditor as he removed his boots, “this engineer, might I add, spooked as hell 'cause he t'ink a machine might be watchin' him 'stead o' th' ‘tother way ‘round like it done been since he was eight years old.”
DelMonde sighed as he tossed his boots to the foot of his bunk.
“Now if that not th' damnedest to-do t' ever come along then I not know what is,” he concluded, laying down on his bunk. “Th' only plus side I can give you is that you’d tickle th' hell out o' my daddy by getting' all up inside my head like this… But…” He let his hand hover over the light switch before turning it off. “… if you th' nosey-ass bitch you got th' reputation o' bein', you gotta know me sayin' that ain’t no compliment. You an' me at war, gal. Make no mistake. We at war.”
Restless Mind by Sam Barber