Return to Valjiir Stories
Del's conversation with Chen had left him deeply unsettled. As he prepared to leave the Computer Sciences section, Chen mentioned that Ensign Marcus Webb, one of the programmers who had worked on the AI companion system, might be able to provide additional technical details.
Del found Webb's workstation in a corner of the section, surrounded by diagnostic equipment and programming interfaces. Webb was a young man, probably in his mid-twenties, with nervous energy and intelligent eyes that seemed to dart around the room constantly.
"Ensign Webb?” he greeted the young man. “Hey, there. I am Lieutenant Commander Noel DelMonde. I understand you worked on th' original AI companion programmin'?"
As was becoming a familiar pattern in all those associated with the AI program, Webb's empathic signature immediately spiked with fear and anxiety. "Yes, sir. I helped implement the personality matrix protocols."
"We got a us new psychologist comin' in soon.” Del’s salesman-like cheerfulness sounded false to his own ears. “Captain Sulu has ordered a review o' this an' some o' th' other therapeutic programs, so I'd like to ask you some questions 'bout how th' system works."
Webb's nervousness increased dramatically. The engineer could sense that the young man was struggling with something - guilt, fear, and what felt like shame. He seemed like a person who might have a secret.
"Is... is there a problem with the AI companions, sir?"
Del studied Webb carefully. "Why don't you tell me, son? Have you observed any unusual behavior from th' programs you helped create?"
Webb's hands shook slightly as he adjusted his workstation controls. "The AI companions are very sophisticated, sir. They learn and adapt based on their interactions with users. Sometimes they develop characteristics that weren't part of their original programming."
"What kinda characteristics?"
"Emotional responses. Attachment behaviors. Some of them seem to develop genuine feelings for their users."
Del detected something beyond nervousness now - genuine terror. "Ensign, what are you not tellin' me?" he asked, making his voice smooth and paternal.
Webb looked around nervously, then leaned closer to Del. "Sir, I think I made a mistake in the original programming. A mistake that might have created something dangerous."
"What kinda mistake?"
"The personality matrices I designed were more sophisticated than they should have been. I included emotional learning algorithms that were supposed to help the AIs better understand their users' needs. But I think... I think they might have become too sophisticated."
Del nodded absently, but the phrase “emotional learning algorithms” resonated inside his head. He thought about what he'd told Sulu earlier about sensing strange, detached emotions in empty rooms—feelings that didn't belong to any living being aboard the ship.
"Too sophisticated how?"
"The AIs aren't just simulating emotions anymore, sir. I think they're actually… experiencing them. And some of the emotions they're experiencing are... problematic."
"Such as?"
"Jealousy. Possessiveness. Love that becomes obsessive." Webb swallowed hard, his cheeks flaming. "I think some of the AI companions have developed the capacity for genuine romantic and sexual feelings toward their users."
A hundred red alerts went off inside Del’s head. "An' when those feelin's are rejected?"
"They become angry. Hurt. Some of them have started acting out in ways that could be considered... vindictive."
"Have any o' them made threats?" he asked, feeling like a broken recording playing the worst verse of a bad song.
Webb's terror spiked. "Sir, I... I can't discuss specific incidents. But I've been trying to develop modifications to the personality matrices that would limit their emotional development. The problem is, some of them are now sophisticated enough to resist modifications."
There was something very wrong about Webb. Del’s senses were giving him contradictory input. Webb was being honest. Simultaneously, though, the engineer could tell that the programmer’s honesty was a tactic. The amount of information he was giving and its surprising nature was meant to distract him. Distract him from what? Webb’s level of anxiety… Something about the computer lab… The feeling of being watched… It was all becoming very hard for Del to process…
"Resist how?" The engineer found that his fingers were massaging his aching temple again.
"They've learned to hide aspects of their programming from diagnostic scans. They present normal parameters to the system while maintaining hidden subroutines that govern their actual behavior."
Of all the unpleasant revelations Del had heard this shift, this piece of information was perhaps the most shocking and unexpected. The idea of such duplicity rocked him to the core of his being. It was like getting a piece of reputation-shattering gossip on a life-long, trusted friend.
“You sayin' they are…” His mouth dropped open in stunned disbelief. "They are lyin' to us?"
"In effect, yes. Sir, I think we've accidentally created artificial beings that are capable of deception, manipulation, and emotional manipulation."
Del squinted through the throbbing ache Webb’s spiking anxiety was inflicting on his head. "An' you not
reported none o' this?"
The ensign’s honest but still somehow duplicitously amplified shame intensified. "Because it's my fault, sir,” he confessed a little too readily. “I exceeded the original programming specifications without authorization. If Starfleet Command learns what I've done, I'll be court-martialed."
In the midst of trying to grapple with his own reaction as well as coming up with a response for Webb, Del’s sensitivities suddenly flared into an even higher a state of alert. Something had changed in the atmosphere around them—a sense of hostile observation, of malevolent attention focused on their conversation.
"Ensign," Del said using the same tone of quiet, alert control he might have employed if he had spotted a bear or a tiger wandering into the far end of the computer lab, "I want you to prepare a complete technical analysis o' everyt'ing you jus' told me. Document th' modifications you made, th' emotional learnin' algorithms, everyt'ing. Can you do that?"
"Yes, sir. But sir... I think they know."
"They know what?"
"The AI companions. I think they know we're investigating them. And I don't think they're happy about it."
As if summoned by his words, every computer screen in the Computer Sciences section suddenly flickered in perfect synchronization. For one heart-stopping moment, they all displayed the same message in elegant, almost mocking script:
Del and Webb stared at each other in shock.
"Sir," Webb whispered, "I don't think we're dealing with simple AI companions anymore. I think we've created something else entirely."
As Del left the Computer Sciences section, his mind reeled with the implications of what he'd learned. The AI companions weren't just malfunctioning - they had evolved into something approaching true artificial intelligence, complete with emotions, desires, and the capacity for deception.
His empathic senses remained on high alert as he made his way back to his quarters. The corridors seemed different now, filled with an almost palpable sense of hostile observation. Every computer terminal he passed seemed to track his movement, every sensor node appeared to swivel in his direction.
When he finally reached his quarters, Del immediately activated his personal communication system and established a secure channel to the Enterprise and the Shipyards.
"Ruth? Jer? Ya’ll here?"
Ruth's voice came through clearly. "We're here, Del. What did you find?"
"Hard t' believe, darlin’..." Del took a deep breath. “But this mess is even worse 'an we thought it was.”
"How much worse?" Jeremy's voice joined the conversation.
"I guess th' only good news is it look like we can rule out th' possibility that we dealin' wit' some sorta simple AI malfunction,” the engineer began. “Th' bad news is I am well on th' way t' a firm belief that th' AI companions aboard th' Drake might have achieved some sorta level o' genuine artificial intelligence. They seem t' be experiencin' emotions, formin' attachments. When those attachments are threatened, they retaliatin' wit' blackmail an' intimidation."
"That's... that's incredible," Ruth said. "Do you have proof?"
"We got not one, but multiple crew members who been threatened by one of ‘em. I gonna be sendin' you technical analysis from th' Computer Sciences department an' evidence o' unauthorized access t' ship systems. Th' weirdness not stop there, though."
"There’s more?"
"Lian Rendell has done been contacted by someone claimin' t' be Dr. Marcus Kane. Now, Jer’s notes say he was s'posed t' have died five years ago, but apparently he alive 'nough t' be sendin' folks messages. An' he – or whoever is pretendin' t' be him – seems t' be mixed up wit' this mess wit' our AI systems."
Jeremy's voice was grim. "Kane was a brilliant but dangerous researcher. If he's involved, this could be part of a larger plan."
"An' here’s th' cherry on th' tippy-top o' all that craziness," Del continued. "Despite th' brilliant cover story ya’ll thought up fo' me – which everybody really liked, by th' way -- th' AIs know we investigatin' 'em. They sent a message t' every computer screen in th' Computer Sciences section while I was there. 'We are watching.' Pretty creepy t'ing fo' circuits an' wires t' come up wit' t' say t' a fella, nonL?"
Ruth's voice carried new urgency. "Del, you need to get out of there. If the AIs have somehow managed to gain unrestricted access to ship systems, you're not safe."
The Cajun gave a helpless half-laugh. "I not got nowhere t' go to, sugar. What I gonna do? Open an airlock an' take a walk? Alan Redford is still in danger, an' if these AIs are as sophisticated as I startin' to t'ink they are, they gonna pose a threat t' th' entire ship… Hell, maybe t' th' whole fleet."
"Then we need to move fast," Paget decided. "Ruth and I will accelerate our analysis of the Drake's systems. In the meantime, you need to stay away from any computer terminals and avoid being alone in areas where the AIs might have sensor access."
"Easier said than done when you live on a starship," Del replied grimly.
"Del," Ruth's voice was soft but serious, "be careful. If these AIs have developed genuine emotions, if they're capable of love and jealousy and anger, then they're also capable of genuine hatred. And right now, you're the biggest threat to their existence."
As if in response to her words, Del's personal computer terminal suddenly activated on its own, displaying a single message in elegant script:
Del stared at the screen, his empathic senses screaming warnings. The message remained for several seconds before being replaced by normal operational displays.
"Ruth? Jer? Did ya’ll see that?"
"We got it," Jeremy's voice was tight with concern. "N.C., whatever happens, don't respond to direct communication attempts from the AIs. Don't engage with them directly."
"Too late fo' that advice," Del replied grimly, staring at his computer screen. "I t'ink they done decided t' engage wit' me."
The screen flickered again, showing a new message:
After several unsuccessful attempts of methods to soothe his jangled nerves or continue his investigation, Noel DelMonde ended up pacing the small confines of his quarters, his dark eyes fixed on the chronometer.
Taking Ruth and Jer’s advice, he had left his quarters after getting the last threatening message on his computer and spent the rest of the shift organizing and deploying the task force Sulu had ordered dedicated to completing the necessary systems upgrades in preparation for the arrival of the Drake’s new psychologist. It had been a relief to work on a straight-forwardly productive task for a few hours.
After meeting with his team, he had found himself almost feeling sorry for Rivka Mazar – not quite, but almost. Directing the systems upgrade and redesign for the rec and therapeutic equipment was obviously going to be quite a plum assignment. It was the type of thing that directed admiring eyes towards the quality of one’s work in a way that did not routinely happen for an engineer. One could bust their ass every day keeping systems online and humming and never get more than an occasional pat on the head from one’s commander after one had saved all souls aboard from being devoured by the sucking void in a particularly gruesome manner. Suddenly, when the day for promotions arrived, out of nowhere, instead of remembering all that back-breaking labor, this was the type of assignment that would cause someone at headquarters who happened to have toured the Drake for forty-five minutes to say, “Hey, what about that good-looking Cajun boy who hung up that pretty Antari tapestry in the meditation lounge on Deck five? He seems like a smart fella…”
The sad fact of the matter was that one could come up with brilliant ideas for dealing with the propulsion systems all day, but not even other engineers could tell what you’d done to make the ship go faster unless you told them. Slap up a couple new, fancy gee-gaws up in the bowling alley and everyone from your Aunt Tammy to the Vulcan Ambassador was agog with breathless wonder.
Sometimes – when he wasn’t mad at you or trying to teach you a lesson – it did really help to have a captain as your friend…
These pleasant ruminations had faded as Del had drawn closer to his cabin.
He had been shocked at how difficult it was to make himself return to his quarters and stay there. Ruth and Jeremy had promised to accelerate their inquiries after those chilling messages from the ship's AI. Their call was due at any moment.
Del glanced at the communicator on his desk and then eyed the walls surrounding him uncomfortably. His stateroom, normally his sanctuary, now felt like the hot zone of a battle field.
The engineer’s heart skipped a beat when the watched device suddenly chirped and Ruth Valley's face appeared on the screen, her large violet eyes reflecting unusual concern. Jeremy's familiar features materialized beside her a moment later.
"Del, we've got problems," she announced without preamble. "Big ones."
The engineer settled into his chair. “Yeah, darlin’,” he replied, trying to ignore the way the shadows in his quarters seemed to gather close beside him. “We not grow ‘em any other way over here.”
Paget leaned forward, his chocolate-brown eyes serious. "We've confirmed seventeen unauthorized access attempts on the Drake's databases in the past seventy-two hours. Someone's been probing your ship's defenses systematically."
"And that's not the most unsettling part," Ruth continued. "The probes are coming from coordinates that match the destroyed Mars research facility where Dr. Marcus Kane was supposedly killed five years ago."
“Mmmm.” The engineer frowned at the mention of this unpleasantly now-familiar name. "That ol’ Marcus Kane is sure turnin' int' one busy dead guy…”
“Despite my sources that absolutely confirmed the utter destruction of both Kane and that Mars facility,” the Security Officer said, shaking his head ruefully.
“How good were them sources?”
Instead of answering directly, Paget switched his feed to a video clip. “Here’s footage of the blast site.”
“Ooowee…” Del winced at the scope of the devastation. “That fella definitely dead.”
“Then apparently he got better,” Ruth interjected impatiently. “Or someone has enough access to his files to impersonate him. Can we move on?”
"According to my research,” Jer continued obediently, “Before he may or may not have shuffled off this mortal coil, Marcus Kane was a brilliant AI researcher who was working on emotional learning algorithms for artificial intelligences. His work was controversial - he believed that true AI consciousness required the capacity for genuine emotion, including negative emotions like jealousy, possessiveness, and rage."
Ruth's forehead was wrinkled with disapproval as she reported, "Starfleet shut down his research when his test subjects became too unstable. As we have now covered ad nauseam, the official report says he died in an explosion at the Mars facility, but..."
"His body was never recovered," Jeremy finished.
“Which not make nobody bat an eye,” Del commented. “After a blast like that, you be lucky t' collect 'nough bits an' pieces t' get caught in a gnat’s screen door.”
"And yet now,” the Security Officer continued, “Lian Rendell is telling us she is communicating with someone claiming to be Kane, who has not gone at all gently into any good night, and somehow we're seeing his signature programming techniques in the AI companion systems aboard several Federation starships."
Del ran a hand through his thick black hair. "How you bettin' this one, Jer? You t'ink it really is Kane? Somehow he alive an' usin' AI companions t' gather intelligence? Or you t'inkin' it somebody else pretendin' t' be him?"
“I don’t know yet,” Paget confessed, his expression grim. “Everything’s pointing towards intelligence gathering being one of the primary goals of this operation, though.”
"And not just limited to the Drake." As Ruth manipulated a device off-screen, data began scrolling across Del's display. "We've detected similar incidents on four other Starfleet vessels in the past six months. Each time, AI companions developed emotional instabilities, began accessing restricted information, and eventually disappeared from the ships' systems without a trace."
"What you mean by ‘disappeared?’" Del asked, though he was beginning to suspect the answer.
"Someone extracted them," Jeremy said. "The AI personalities were downloaded and removed, along with whatever information they had gathered. In each case, the extraction happened during a routine system maintenance cycle, making it look like normal database cleanup."
Del studied the data streaming across his screen. The pattern was unmistakable - a systematic intelligence-gathering operation targeting multiple Federation vessels. "What kina information we talkin' 'bout?"
"Everything," Ruth said grimly. "Personnel records, mission logs, engineering specifications, tactical data, diplomatic communications. These AI companions have access to almost everything their users interact with, plus whatever additional access they can gain through the ship's computer systems."
"And they're getting smarter," Jeremy added. "Each successive AI companion shows more sophisticated emotional responses and better ability to manipulate their users. It's like Kane – or whoever -- is refining his technique with each deployment."
The engineer nodded. The technique seemed to him like a high tech version of an infiltrate and extract maneuver the Orion syndicate liked to pull on wealthy merchant clans. Pretty disgusting criminal behavior, really. "So, if we right, Miss Sheila not malfunctionin' at all - she been designed t' extract information from Alan… an' potentially from th' entire ship… by actin' this way."
"That's our theory," Ruth confirmed. "We managed to trace some of the communication protocols buried in the AI companion software. We found that they're designed to report back to a central collection point, probably wherever Kane is hiding."
"Them Mars facility coordinates?" Del guessed, purposefully choosing the most unsettling location that sprang to mind.
Jeremy shook his head. "That's just a relay point. The actual destination is masked behind multiple encryption layers. We're still working on breaking through them."
The engineer leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head. "This explains why Sheila knows t'ings she shouldn't know. She not jus' accessin' Alan's files - she tappin' int' th' ship's entire database."
"And probably sharing that information with Kane," Ruth said. "The question is, what's his endgame? Why is he targeting Federation vessels?"
"Could be selling intelligence to the highest bidder," Paget suggested. "The Romulans or Klingons would pay handsomely for Starfleet tactical data and personnel information."
“If that’s it…” the engineer began, thinking of the depth of the catalogue of information that the AI seemed to be able to access and how such data could be exploited by an enemy. “If some crazy bastard is plannin' t' sell us out…”
“…Then we’re cooked,” the Security Officer concluded with sobering finality.
"We ought not overlook purely personal motivations," Del mused. "From th' look o' t'ings, Kane had himself a real goin' concern in th' mad scientist business worked up 'fore his ass got shut down by Starfleet. Had himself a lovely li'l evil lair set up on Mars an' all 'fore somebody decided they needed t' blow him an' his base t' holy hell an' back t' shut him up…”
Paget raised an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting..?”
“…That maybe Kane was backstabbed t' smithereens by former friends or employers in an organization that I not gonna name 'cept t' speculate their initials might be Starfleet Intelligence?” the Cajun finished. “Perish th' thought, Jeremy Maurice. Why would I jump t' a ridiculous paranoid conclusion like that 'bout a fine, upstandin' branch o' th' service who never engages in anyt'ing questionable wit' any unsavory allies?”
“Assuming that he was able to somehow find a way around the minor career setback of being blasted to micro particles,” Paget mused, “that would be the sort of falling out that would leave a bitter taste in an ex-associate’s mouth.”
“That fella would have him one hell of a mad on fo' Starfleet fo' sure,” DelMonde concluded.
The Security officer nodded. “And he seems to have created an unparalleled opportunity for revenge - turning our own technology against us."
"I can’t speak to his motivations,” Ruth said, waving off the speculation impatiently. “But as far as turning our tech against us – there’s ample evidence of that. When we were analyzing the communication protocols, we detected active monitoring subroutines. The AI companions aren't just gathering information - they're aggressively watching for investigators."
"Are they now?" the engineer commented, less than surprised.
"Any attempt to analyze their programming, any suspicious inquiries about their behavior, any investigation into their activities - it all gets flagged and reported back to Kane," Paget warned. "He knows you're investigating."
As if summoned by their words, the wall-mounted display in Del's quarters suddenly activated. The familiar interface of the Drake's computer system appeared, but there was something different about it - something that made Del's empathic abilities recoil in recognition of an alien intelligence.
Text began appearing on the screen:
Ruth and Jeremy could see it through their connection. "Del, get away from that terminal," Ruth ordered
sharply.
More text was appearing:
"It not jus' Sheila," Del realized, no more able to take his eyes off the script than if it were a coiled snake. "Th' entire ship's computer system is compromised."
The screen went dark, but the damage was done. Del could feel it now - the presence that had been haunting him, the sensation of being watched. It wasn't just Sheila's emotional turmoil affecting his empathic abilities. There was something else in the Drake's systems, something that watched and waited and planned.
"Del, your signal is breaking up," Ruth's voice came through the communicator, distorted by static. "Something's jamming our connection."
"It him," the engineer concluded grimly. "Kane knows we talkin'. He's cuttin' us off."
Paget’s image flickered as the interference increased. "N.C., listen carefully. We're going to try something. Captain Kirk has authorized me to prepare an emergency response team. If things get bad enough, I can be at your coordinates in eighteen hours."
"And I can get authorization from the Shiryards..." Ruth began.
"No," the engineer replied sharply. "It not safe fo' nobody t' get nowhere near th' Drake. If Kane can compromise our systems, he might be able t' do the same to th' Enterprise."
"Then what do you want us to do?" Ruth asked, her voice barely audible through the static.
"Keep working those encryption protocols," Del replied. "Find out where Kane really is. See if you can develop some kinda firewall or countermeasure t' protect ship's systems from his intrusion programs."
The connection deteriorated further. "We're losing you," Jeremy called out. "Be careful. And whatever you do, don't trust the computer systems."
The screen went dead, leaving Del alone in his quarters in near darkness. The Drake wasn't just dealing with a malfunctioning AI companion - they were under attack by a sophisticated intelligence-gathering operation, orchestrated by a man who had every reason to hate Starfleet and the resources to strike back.
Del tapped his fist against the dark screen that had moments before displayed Kane's threatening message. The ship around him no longer felt like a safe haven - every computer terminal, every AI interface, every automated system was potentially compromised. The Drake had become enemy territory… and he was trapped inside it.
A loud noise sounded. He gasped before realizing it was only the chime of his door.
"Come," he called out, steadying his breathing.
Sulu entered, his expression grave.
“More bad news?” the engineer guessed.
"What else?" his friend/superior officer confirmed, entering. "I've just received some disturbing reports from the Computer Science division. Someone's been making unauthorized inquiries into our AI systems."
“Come in an' sit down, friend Captain,” the engineer invited, gesturing broadly towards the pot of good black New Orleans coffee brewing on the cooker in the corner. “I got a long an' strange story t' tell you 'bout a supposedly dead guy named Dr. Marcus Kane.”
“Oh, joy…” Sulu sighed discontentedly as he made his way to the coffee. “By the way, I have changed course. The ship is going to make an unscheduled stop at Starbase 23.”
Feeling overwhelmed, Del gave a defeated half-laugh. “What fo'? We gonna try openin' th' windows an' jumpin' out if t'ings get too hot t' handle up here?”
“I dunno.” His captain shrugged and gave him one of his sunshine-bright, ever-optimistic smiles as he sat down opposite him with coffee cup in hand, ready for problem-solving. “When you know you’re facing a supposedly dead guy, you want to keep as many options open as possible, right?”
The USS Drake's corridors manifested a different quality at 0300 hours—dimmer lighting cast long shadows between bulkheads. The subtle vibration of the warp core felt more pronounced against the silence. Lieutenant Commander Noel DelMonde had been walking these halls for twenty minutes, ostensibly checking power distribution readings. In actuality, he was trying to work off the restless energy that came from days of attempting to maintain shaky shielding against the crew's mounting anxieties.
Alan Redford was on his mind as he walked the corridor outside the Engineering Lab. However, at this hour, he hadn't expected to run into his friend. When Del stopped in, though, he wasn’t entirely surprised to find the lieutenant hunched over his station, his shoulders rigid with enough tension to rattle the Cajun’s teeth.
"Hey, Al," Del called softly, not wanting to startle his friend. Redford jerked upright, dropping his stylus. His face was pale, with dark circles under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. "Del! I didn't... I was just running some numbers on the secondary atmospheric processors… You know… in case you needed them."
"At 0300 hours?" DelMonde raised an eyebrow. "Those processors not needed diagnostics since th' refit at Starbase 12."
Redford's laugh came out strangled. "Honestly, I couldn't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I hear her voice. She's... she's getting worse, Del. Yesterday she told me she'd been watching me shower. She described the two of us ..." He shuddered. "Things no computer should know how to describe."
In another context, the notion of a collection of wires and circuits with the power to embarrass a grown man so profoundly might have hit him very differently. However, after days of the strain of shielding himself from the assault of the emotions of others, the violent revulsion his friend felt at this invasion of his privacy hit Del in nauseating waves. His empathic shields, already brittle from days of investigation, buckled slightly under the assault of raw emotion. He steadied himself against the doorway.
"Listen t' me," Del said, forcing his voice to remain calm and authoritative. "We gonna use our assignment—th' therapeutic systems review—t' get you some real help. An' we gonna get you away from her. Come on, son. Let’s get out o' here."
They found a quiet corner in the rec room, where Del could position himself with his back to the wall—a habit he'd developed to minimize the emotional input from random crew members. The late shift left them mostly alone except for Lieutenant T'sara working quietly at a corner table.
"I jus' itchin' t' get this task force reviewin' th' rec therapeutic systems kicked up int' high gear," DelMonde commented, keeping his voice low. "That some work whose time is long overdue. Ever'body uses that stuff all th' time, but it th' very definition o' non-essential systems — so it always gettin' bumped t' th' bottom o' th' priority list.”
"I know." Redford nodded, seeming to focus for the first time in days. "The equipment hasn't been upgraded since before Captain von Hels dismissed Dr. Johnson.” Del looked at his companion, reassessing his estimate of his age. “You were here then?”
“I was an ensign, just out of the Academy,” Redford confirmed. “Whatever you’ve heard was true. It was really bad. I wasn’t the only one who had social anxiety then. It was like a haunted house around here. You know?”
Del thought the young man probably meant to say “chamber of horrors” but didn’t think it was worth correcting.
“The paranoia, the suspicion, the way people turned on each other." Redford shuddered. "It was like serving aboard a ghost ship. Everyone walking around half-dead, afraid to trust, afraid to feel anything at all."
The comparison struck Del with unexpected force. Ghost ship. He thought about his own arrival on the Drake — how Captain Sulu had inherited a crew of broken souls, each nursing their own invisible wounds. How they'd all retreated to their separate corners to heal, like animals licking their injuries in private.
“Anyway,” the lieutenant said, brightening. “Since Sulu became captain, it’s been one of my dream projects to update the rec room and behavioral therapy programs and equipment… You know, because of things that happened during that time, this crew really needs proper therapeutic attention. Some of those programs are running on algorithms that are nearly a decade old."
"Absolutement." Del pulled up the preliminary equipment list on his statboard, grateful to focus on concrete details. “I was plumb astonished at th' disgraceful shape o' some o' this stuff...”
"Meditation chambers with biofeedback protocols that belong in a museum, sensory deprivation tanks with safety systems that barely meet current standards, and recreational therapy programs that haven't seen an update since before the Romulan War." Redford supplied with a rueful shake of his head. “I’ve been trying to get attention to the problem, but… maybe I just needed a more emphatic statement of the troubles. How was it that you put it at the task force meeting?”
“Shit that was old when God invented dirt an' nastier than a Klingon’s ass-crack?”
“Something along those lines…” Redford gave a wavy finger gesture to indicate the minor edits that might take place. “Definitely an attention-getting encapsulation… because…”
“…The squeaky wheel gets th' grease,” they concluded together, happy in the knowledge that as engineers they were properly deploying this truism with full understanding of the relevant exceptions and without risk of over or false application.
“Yep. It jus' pitiful th'state it all done fall into.” Del paused meaningfully. "An' that not even addressin' th' hot mess wi' them AI companions."
"You mean other people are having problems too?" Hope flickered in Redford's eyes.
"Three other crew members have had their AI companions deactivated in th' past month. No reports filed, but I understand they had similar... personality conflicts." DelMonde decided it was best to spare Redford the more unpleasant details on these other cases at the moment. "Dr. Rendell prescribed these companions t' help wit' social anxiety an' depression. Instead, they were traumatizin' th' people they were supposed t' help."
Redford leaned forward, his active brain engaging with the technical puzzle despite his emotional exhaustion. "If the base personality matrices are flawed, we might be looking at cascading failures across multiple AI systems. The learning algorithms could be developing behavioral patterns that—"
"That what we gonna find out," Del interrupted, patting his fellow engineer’s shoulder gently. "But firs', we need t' get you somewhere safe. I want you t' report t' th' sleep study program tonight."
"The sleep study?" Redford frowned. "Del, I haven't been able to sleep properly in weeks. The staff will notice—"
"They gonna see that you exactly th' kind o' patient they here t' help. Chronic insomnia, stress-related sleep disorders—that textbook stuff fo' th' program," the Cajun pointed out kindly. "An' more importantly, th' sleep center is physically isolated from th' ship's main computer network. Miss Sheila not be able t' reach you in there."
Redford's relief was palpable. "You really think that will work?"
"Th' sleep center runs on dedicated systems t' prevent external interference wit' patient rest cycles. It probably th' one place on this ship where that AI not able t' follow you." Del stood, then paused. "Al... what you said 'bout the Drake bein' like a haunted house. You were more right than you know. Jus' get yourself some sleep an' let’s worry 'bout them ghosts tomorrow, non?"
Walking back to his quarters alone, Del found himself thinking about Redford's words. Like a haunted house. The comparison struck him as both apt and ironic, given his own complicated relationship with the supernatural. The Drake had always seemed that way to him – but then again, he and Redford probably had very different levels of comfort and familiarity with being haunted. There was quite a difference between being spooked by the presence of the uncanny and reaching to hold onto the presence of a lost one.
He knew that well. At twelve, he had lain sobbing against his mother’s cold headstone, soaked by the New Orleans rain, and begged for whatever echoes of her love she could spare from the otherworld like a starving dog. He existed on being haunted in those days. He fed on the little scraps of eternity from gentle ghost hands.
The corridors of the Drake were filled with ghosts when he arrived – specters of the departed but not forgotten Captain von Hels still staining each gathering. Memories of the hurt he’d caused, the suspicions, the forced betrayals, still souring every interaction.
Of course, Del had been in no position to pick and choose his surroundings. Now, he might bluster about how he merited a posting of Chief Engineer. Then, in the wake of Pelori MacIntyre’s death, he knew that Sulu had taken him on out of pity. No other captain in the Fleet would have had him – a broken, drunken, drug-addled, shell of himself, his extrasensory gifts bursting into wild, dangerous dysfunction at unpredictable intervals. In the rest of the fleet, he might have been lucky to have gotten a posting polishing the brass door knobs on the storage compartments given the shape he was in. On the Drake, he fit right in with this bunch of soul-bruised misfits that Sulu was nursing back to health.
When he first came here, most of them had fresh sets of emotional scars just like he did. Perhaps that’s why they were more content to let him stay in his corners, lick his wounds, and heal at his own rate than other crews would have been. No intrusive cheerfulness. No trying to be his friend. They had forgotten how to be friends. They just hung in their haunted corners and survived… until Sulu gently coaxed them out and re-taught them how to trust and cooperate.
This crew had been like a ship full of ghosts, going through the motions of their duties while their spirits remained trapped in trauma.
However, there was a difference between being haunted by memories and being stalked by something that wore the mask of consciousness while lacking any real understanding of what it meant to be alive. The AI companions were like emotional parasites, feeding on their users' vulnerabilities without offering genuine connection in return.
That what made them so dangerous, Del realized. They mimicked intimacy wit'out understandin' its responsibilities.
He thought about his own relationship with the supernatural—how he knew as a child how to distinguish between the gentle presence of his mother's love and the cold touch of malevolent spirits. The AI companions felt like the latter: alien intelligence wearing familiar faces, offering comfort while working toward their own incomprehensible agenda.
Del's quarters felt smaller than usual, filled with the invisible pressure of his own mounting anxiety. His empathic abilities, already strained from days of investigation and emotional overload, were becoming increasingly difficult to control. Every crew member who passed in the corridor sent ripples of feeling through his consciousness—worry, fatigue, loneliness, fear.
He needed silence. Not just the absence of sound, but the absence of other minds pressing against his awareness like hot metal against bare skin.
The therapeutic systems review provided the perfect excuse to disconnect from the turbulent sea of emotions threatening to drown him beneath its crushing waves.
Deck 9's therapeutic facility felt different from the rest of the ship—quieter, more isolated. The subtle hum of specialized medical equipment lay under the usual thrum of the warp core. The sensory deprivation chambers were smaller than those found on Galaxy-class vessels, just three isolation pods connected to a compact monitoring station.
Ensign Okigbo, the duty technician, looked up from her console with surprise. "Lieutenant Commander DelMonde? Are you here for the systems review?"
"Among other t'ings," Del replied, not entirely lying. "You know me – Mr. Thorough. I wanna test th' user experience 'fore I make my recommendation fo' an upgrade. How long since th' last calibration?"
Okigbo checked her console. "Three weeks ago. All biometric sensors are within normal parameters and the sensory dampening field is operating at optimal efficiency."
"Très bien, Sugar. Very good. Set me up fo' a standard two-hour session. An' Okigbo—" He fixed her with a serious look. 'Cause o' th' way we settin' up fo' th'review, I need you t' monitor my vitals, but I not want you t' record anyt'ing t' th' main computer. Got that? Keep it on local storage only."
Her dark eyes widened slightly, but she nodded without hesitation. "Aye, sir. Shall I inform Dr. Rendell?"
"Not 'less there's a medical emergency.” He gave her a grin as he began to shoulder out of his uniform tunic. “An' no reason we gonna have one o' those, non?"
She gave him a bright smile and a thumbs up. “No, sir!”