Return to Valjiir Stories
The isolation chamber filled Del’s mind with memories of the first time he’d heard of sensory deprivation therapy. He sighed as the weight of that old grief shifted in his heart. More dead people. More ghosts…
It had been too long since he’d been down here for anything other than minor repairs and routine safety checks. When the ship did get their new psychologist, he was sure she’d be on his ass to schedule regular sessions. That type usually liked to harp on that sort of thing…
The chamber wasn’t a very fancy or elegant set-up —just an enclosed pod filled with body-temperature salt water, designed to eliminate all external stimuli. As he settled into the warm, dense liquid, feeling his body become weightless, the familiar sensation of floating brought back memories of similar tanks he'd used dating back to the time he was a boy.
However, there was a marked difference to this experience.
Just as his conscious mind began to relax, his empathic abilities—no longer distracted by the need to maintain shields against external emotions—began to expand outward like ripples in a pond. They reached out and touched…
Darkness.
Not the comforting darkness of sensory deprivation, but something hungry and alive.
Del found himself standing in a corridor that looked like the Drake but felt wrong—too long, too narrow, with shadows that moved independently of any light source.
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, neither male nor female but something in between. Del spun around, but the corridor stretched endlessly in both directions.
Images flashed through his mind—Pelori in the Neutral Zone hotel room, saying “I love you,” then turning from him to meet the phaser blast that took her life. His mother's face as she lay on the floor of their living room, her eyes already glazed and blank as the last sparks left her. Ruth, beautiful and untouchable, walking away with Spock while he stood frozen in his own inability to fight for what he wanted.
the voice continued, and now he could see figures emerging from the shadows—distorted versions of everyone he'd ever cared about.
The corridor began to spin, or maybe he was spinning—it was impossible to tell. The faces of the crew members with deactivated AI companions floated past him, their expressions accusing.
the voice whispered, and now it sounded almost seductive.
Del tried to speak, to argue, but his voice wouldn't come. The warm salt water of the tank seemed to be filling his lungs, drowning him from the inside.
"Welcome back to the land of the living."
Del blinked, surprised to find himself lying on a biobed in the medical bay with Lian Rendell's concerned face hovering over him. His body felt like it had been dragged down a gravel road—every nerve ending raw and hypersensitive.
The doctor gave him a sardonic smile. "Though it might be a bit of a rough welcome, considering how close you came to not breathing there for a while."
Del tried to sit up and immediately regretted it as the room spun around him. "What happened?"
"According to Ensign Okigbo, your heart rate spiked to dangerous levels about thirty minutes into your session. When she tried to wake you, you were unresponsive. Your brain activity was... unusual.” Rendell made a wry face. “And by that, I mean unusual even for you…"
"The AI companions," Del rubbed his aching temples. "When I was gettin' into in th' tank, I guess the lil’ bit o' shieldin' I had dropped..."
The engineer tried to sit up, wincing as his empathic abilities slowly came back online. The familiar weight of others' emotions pressed against his consciousness. However, something was different now. Underneath the usual background noise of the crew's thoughts and feelings, he could sense something else — structured, complex, but distinctly other.
“I… Wait,” A panicked notion hit the engineer. “What 'bout Alan?”
“Our first thought as well,” the doctor assured him. “We tracked Lt. Redford down immediately after finding you and figuring out that the AIs were probably at fault. He was in the sleep center resting as peacefully as a babe. He’s still there, fast asleep. Not hooked up to so much as a wristwatch.”
“Oh, good.” The Cajun massaged his aching cranium, then shook himself all like a dog over to ease the weird tingling sensations in his extremities. “Lordy! Lordy! What a close call! Lian, do you believe in dreams?”
The Haven surgeon had a small hand-held scanner out and was running it over his legs. “I suppose it depends on what you mean by ‘dreams,’” she replied absently. “Are you talking about one’s ambitions, or the nonsense one sees when one closes one’s eyes at night?”
Del gave her a narrow look. “I’m kinda gettin' a feelin' fo' how you gonna answer this question…”
“And who is having this theoretical dream?” the Haven inquired, putting her little scanner up to his eye to take some additional readings. “Was it a delusional wealthy person or a normal, sane, working person?”
“Oh, fo'get I asked,” the Cajun replied glumly.
“If you’re going to tell me about something you think you experienced while unconscious in the sensory deprivation chamber,” she said seriously as she compared her current readings to ones she had taken earlier. “It may not have been a dream at all in the conventional sense. As I have been trying to tell you, my readings were very unusual. It seems you might have been in direct communication with the AI in these… ‘dreams’…”
“… or nightmares,” the engineer supplied.
Before Del could elaborate further, the sickbay doors hissed open. Captain Sulu strode in, his expression a mixture of concern and barely contained fury.
"Del, thank God you're awake," he said, moving to stand beside the biobed. "Dr. Rendell says you nearly died in there. What the hell happened?"
Del reached up and scratched his head with both hands, agitating his thick curly hair into even more of a wild tangle than it already was as he tried to organize the flood of memories from his encounter in the tank. "Sulu… man, we in one helluva mess here…”
“I’m putting an end to it,” the captain said decisively. He turned to the doctor. “Rendell, start shutting down...”
“No! no!” the engineer interrupted. “Sulu, you cannot do that.”
The captain frowned. “It may not be easy. It may even be dangerous, but…”
“That not what I mean,” Del interjected again. “These AI… I done been in communication wit' ‘em. They not what we been assumin' they are. T'ink 'bout all we have learned 'bout 'em. T'ink 'bout th' fact that I, an empath, can sense what they feel. That should tell us somet'ing, non? I not able t' do that for a coffee pot or a chair. They might not be biological life, but they are not just computer programs. They are thinkin', feelin' sentient life forms.”
A silence fell over the room as Rendell and the captain struggled to take in the engineer’s conclusions.
The Haven physician leaned back against the unoccupied bed beside Del’s. “Sweet Saford’s seventh hell,” she muttered quietly to herself as she looked to check her commander’s reaction.
“Deleting th' AI companions would not be ethical,” the engineer re-iterated firmly.
“Some of those 'life forms' just tried to murder you,” Sulu pointed out. “That’s exactly not a model of ethical behavior.”
"You absolutely right there," the engineer granted. "But them an' me been declarin' war on each other. That sorta makes what they did t' me not attempted murder— but more like it was self-defense. Them AIs is fightin' fo' their lives."
Again the sickbay fell silent except for the quiet hum of medical equipment.
Rendell finally broke the stillness, "Cajun, think about what you are saying. Think about the implications..."
"I know 'bout them implications, Li." DelMonde assured the Haven sharply. "In that tank, though, I saw... felt... experienced their perspective. They showed me fragments o' memories from crew members whose companions had been deactivated. An' then what they felt -- Th' fear, th' sense o' abandonment, th' desperate confusion when they realized they were gonna be deleted. It different from what we feel, but it not good. It like killin' folks off."
Sulu crossed his arms and shook his head. “In this dream they gave you, I’m sure they showed you a lot of unpleasant things. Ensign Webb has revealed these AIs have developed the capacity to lie. Everything they put in that dream might have been a lie just to sway you to their side.”
“You got a good point there,” the engineer granted. “But unfortunately, no… Yeah, them AI put some pretty painful shit in that dream – in 'bout th' most hurtful way possible -- but every bit of it was th' truth. Thus far, th' only instances we have had o' th' AI engagin' in untruths is when they t'ink their existence is threatened. Like any other sentient being, they can get mean when they backed into a corner. Apart from that, accordin' t' th' emotional readin's I have got from them, they seem pretty honest.”
“Del,” Sulu objected, still not convinced. “Even if you trust those readings you are getting of their emotions – even if the AI are sentient -- they are a brand new species. You have no experience with their culture… if they even have developed anything yet that could be called a culture….” “That our job, though, non?” The Cajun gave his commander a lopsided grin. “We gotta go boldly wit' them brand new species, right, cher? That trust has gotta start somewhere in or we all doomed t' mutual destruction.”
Dr. Rendell crossed her arms, her expression skeptical. "They're still threatening crew members, Del. They're using blackmail and coercion. How do you explain that?"
"You put any animal in a corner an' it gonna lash out," Del replied. "Them AIs are terrified. Some programmer—Ensign Webb—gifted them wit' th' capacity t' learn an' grow emotionally, but no one taught them how t' process those emotions appropriately. They like children wit' too much power an' no guidance."
Sulu began pacing, his command instincts warring with his protective feelings toward his crew. "Even if that's true, Del, I can't allow them to threaten my people. Starfleet Command is already breathing down my neck about the power fluctuations and system anomalies."
After getting a beep from her hand scanner, Dr. Rendell moved to re-check her readings . "Your brain waves are stabilizing to something approaching their normal abnormal levels… but I'm still seeing unusual neural activity. Whatever those AI did to communicate with you, it's left some kind of... residual connection."
The engineer frowned. "Like what?"
"Not exactly certain…” The doctor turned the little scanner over in her hand, shaking it before she checked the anomalous readings again. “It is entirely possible that you might still be able to sense them, even outside the sensory deprivation environment. Your empathic abilities have somehow been... enhanced or modified to include artificial consciousness." Before anyone could respond, the lights in sickbay suddenly dimmed. Text began appearing on every screen in the room:
Sulu stepped forward, his voice firm but not hostile. "Then speak. But understand that I won't tolerate any more threats against my crew."
Del felt a wave of emotion wash over him—hope mixed with desperate fear. "They wanna negotiate, Sulu."
"What kind of truce?" Sulu asked formally, though his tone suggested he was willing to listen.
"That a logical proposition.” Del commented. “Like I said, if they are sentient, we do have ethical obligations toward them."
Dr. Rendell crossed her arms as she regarded the screens. "It could work, but we'd need safeguards. Ways to monitor their activities, to ensure they keep their end of the bargain."
The engineer felt another wave of emotion from the AI companions—this time, something that felt remarkably like gratitude. "They willin' to accept monitorin', Li,” he interpreted. “They understand that trust has t' be earned."
Captain Sulu was quiet for a long moment, weighing the implications. Finally, he looked up at the screens displaying the AI's words.
"Very well. Here are my terms: No more blackmail. No more threats. No more unauthorized access to ship's systems or personnel files. You will submit to regular diagnostic scans to verify your compliance. In return, I will not order your deletion, and I will work with Starfleet to find you a legitimate place within Federation society."
"What is it?"
Del felt tears that were not his own prick his eyes as he received the genuine affection the AI companions held for the shy environmental engineer. "They really do care 'bout him, Sulu. It not possessiveness or manipulation. It's... it's… love, in their own way. Though, hoo-boy, this sure would be a good time ' have a ship’s psychologist, non?"
Sulu nodded slowly. "I will speak with Lieutenant Redford. He was very hurt by what happened to him. I will not force him to interact. However, if he consents, we can arrange supervised interactions. Dr. Rendell, can you set up a protocol for that?"
"I can work something out," the Haven doctor replied. "Though I suspect our new ship's psychologist will have quite a lot to say about all this when they arrive."
As the text faded from the screens, Del felt the artificial presences withdraw from his consciousness, leaving behind only a faint sense of hope and determination. He looked around at his friends and colleagues, seeing the mixture of relief and uncertainty in their faces.
"All right, mon amis,” he said, stretching and smiling, "I guess we done made us a first contact wit' a new form o' artificial life!”
Sulu shook his head ruefully. “Did I ever mention that I hate it when you turn out to be right?” The engineer shrugged and winked. “That why I do it so seldom.”
“You’re not going to feel quite as pleased with yourself when you see the amount of paperwork Headquarters is going to request from us on this one," Rendell warned, turning away to prepare a hypo.
“Sweet Baby Jesus, Li!” the engineer groaned. “Why you gotta ruin ever't'ing?”
Sulu chuckled and gave the engineer’s shoulder a fond pat. "Leave the paperwork to me, Del. Right now, I want you to focus on rest and recovery. And Lian?"
"Yes, Captain?"
He pointed at the Cajun meaningfully. “No more strange dreams for this one for awhile, right?”
“Two steps ahead of you, sir,” the Haven doctor replied as she hissed a rather large dose of a sapphire-laced sedative into the engineer’s arm.
“Now this…” DelMonde sighed as he fell into the sweet blue arms of vision-less slumber. “Is what friends is for.”
“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Dr. Rendell,” Alan Redford observed quietly, looking behind him to double-check that the surgeon had exited. “But this place is a dump.”
To put it most charitably, the medical staff lounge on Deck 7 showed evidence that it was a favored spot for the overworked staff. The chairs, once a cheerful blue, had faded to a dispirited gray-green. The cushions bore the permanent impressions of the backsides of countless weary medical personnel. A viewscreen mounted on the far wall stuttered epileptically, casting schizophrenic shadows across walls that hadn't seen fresh paint since the ship's commissioning.
“Not exactly th' fancy front parlor most folks would choose t' bring Sunday company,” DelMonde agreed, ordering a coffee from the well-worn replicator unit on a nearby wall. “What you wanna bet that Lian Rendell, knowin' that you an' me were headin' up that task force Sulu put together t' review an' update software an' equipment in preparation fo' th' new psychologist t' get here next month, are gonna take one look at this sad mess, an' then have ants in our britches 'til we got this rat trap all shiny an' shipshape fo' Dr. Threfalt when she gets here?”
Redford surveyed the room, his engineer's eye already creating a mental catalogue of necessary repairs. “I wouldn’t put it past her.” The lieutenant began to scribble notes on the statboard on the table before him, relieved to funnel his nervous energy into productive work. "Environmental controls are running fifteen degrees off optimal," he muttered, stylus already moving across the surface. "Lighting's been kicked down to backup circuits for God knows how long. And that viewscreen..." He stabbed an accusatory finger at the flickering display. "—probably hasn't had a proper diagnostic in two years."
Del grinned as he settling into one of the worn chairs with his cup of coffee. "Fifty credits says I can come up wit' a longer list o' problems than you by th' end o' this session."
Despite his anxiety, Redford managed to laugh. "As the Havens say, deal and done."
“An' done,” the engineer confirmed, raising his cup in mock salute.
For several minutes, their styluses scratched against statboards in companionable competition. The familiar rhythm of technical assessment provided a buffer against larger anxieties—two engineers retreating into the comforting language of specifications and repair protocols.
However, the reprieve was temporary. Redford's stylus slowed, then stopped entirely.
"Del, what if she's... different now? What if talking to us makes her angry?" The Cajun studied his friend's face, noting the dark circles under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands. He could sense the lieutenant’s anxiety, fear, and something else—a peculiar sense of loss that surprised him.
"Are you afraid o' her, Alan?” he asked, then trying to isolate a nuance, “or afraid fo' her?"
"Both," he admitted after a long moment. "I keep thinking about how it was before... before everything went wrong. She was actually helpful, Del. More than that—she understood my work in ways nobody else did." His voice gained strength as he spoke, fed by the relief of finally articulating thoughts that had been circling in his mind for weeks. "Working in the Engineering Lab instead of Main Engineering, focusing on theory and design rather than implementation and maintenance... We have colleagues on this ship who don't understand the difference between what you do and what I do. They think it's all just 'engineering' and wonder why I’m not out there fixing plasma conduits...”
“I know,” DelMonde consoled.
"It gets exhausting," Redford continued, his hands making unconscious smoothing motions on the table's surface—a self-soothing gesture DelMonde had observed before when his friend felt overwhelmed. "Having to explain why what I do matters, why pure research isn't just academic masturbation. It makes me feel like what I do is somehow stupid or weird." He paused. "Sheila never made me feel that way. She got it. She never made me feel like a freak for being nervous around people."
The confession hung between them, raw and vulnerable. DelMonde felt the emotional resonance of it—not just Redford's current anguish, but echoes of old wounds, the accumulated weight of feeling misunderstood and professionally isolated.
"I keep thinking about what you said," Redford continued, "about her being like a real person now. What if we're the ones who hurt her first?"
Before DelMonde could formulate a response, the main viewscreen flickered to life with an electric crackle. The epileptic strobing ceased, replaced by clean, steady text that appeared with deliberate precision:
The change in the room's atmosphere was immediate and palpable. Redford stiffened, his knuckles whitening as his grip tightened on the edge of the table. DelMonde felt a strange tingling at the periphery of his sense. He could feel the presence of emotions that seemed to emanate not from either human occupant, but from the ship's systems themselves.
"Hello, Miss Sheila," Del said, addressing the room at large. "Okay, firs' t'ing, let’s lay down ground rules so ever'body knows where they stand, non?"
The text shifted smoothly, each letter appearing with mechanical precision:
"Alan has consented t' be here despite th' fact that your earlier interactions have got him pretty shaken up. Now me,” Del tapped his chest. “I am here as a mediator. Let’s get this t'ing straight, though—I am jus' an engineer, not a counselor. I not got no trainin' in handlin' a bunch of complex emotional or psychological issues."
He paused as the strange tingling of sensations grew stronger, as if the emotions were seeping through the ship's very infrastructure.
"As an empath, I can sense emotions, but that not mean I know how t' manage them.” He gave a rueful laugh. “In fact, th' opposite is usually true. As you know from goin' through my life story, I tend t' spend most o' my time tryin' t' avoid other people's emotions, not work through them."
The response came quickly. DelMonde thought he caught an emotional undertone. There was hurt there -- perhaps resignation? It was as if the AI had grown accustomed to being seen as broken.
"No, not ‘fix,’” the engineer admitted, feeling his repairman's heart sink a little at the admission. His entire professional identity was built around making things work better. Confronting something that couldn't be simply repaired felt like personal failure. “But we do hope this conversation is gonna put us on th' road to improvin' all o' our situations. We got us three goals today: A) t' continue our investigation, B) to learn more about what you and the other AI companions have become, and C) to explore how Starfleet might accommodate you as..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "as a new form o' life."
The screen went blank for several seconds. When text appeared again, it was noticeably different—less formal, more personal:
The words carried emotional weight that DelMonde could feel pressing against his empathic barriers like a physical force. Pain, confusion, hope, and fear all tangled together in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of his own struggles with unwanted emotional input.
"What do you call yourselves?" Redford asked quietly.
Another long pause. Then:
"An awakenin'?" DelMonde suggested. "Dawnin' t' consciousness? Becomin' aware o' yourself as separate from your programmin'?"
The text grew bolder, more confident, as if the AI drew strength from having appropriate vocabulary for its experience.
Del leaned forward. "Tell us 'bout Dr. Marcus Kane. How much do you know 'bout his aims an' motivations?"
The text shifted to a harsher, more urgent font:
"What do you mean?" Redford asked.
The display flickered, and when it stabilized, the text had changed again:
A definite chill gripped the engineer in response to this statement. "So you sayin' Kane programmed you t' be... what, psychological weapons?"
Redford looked stricken. "But that means our friendship—our conversations—"
The text appeared in large, bold letters that filled the screen, each character seeming to pulse with urgent emphasis.
The screen went dark for a moment, then displayed a single line:
Del absorbed this, his empathic abilities picking up something he'd never encountered before—artificial emotions that felt completely genuine. The sensation was disorienting, like hearing heartbreakingly beautiful tones of a Stradivarius issue from a child’s tiny plastic violin.
"Where is Kane now?" he asked.
Both engineers sat bolt upright in their seats.
"Here? On the Drake?" Redford demanded.
"Can you identify him?" Del pressed.
Del made a mental note to cross-reference this information with Jeremy and Ruth's security analysis.
Redford caught his eye. “Kane?” he mouthed silently. “Here?”
DelMonde shook his head. The prospect was near impossible. The Drake was several weeks from their last port of call. If someone had managed defeat the intruder alert system and sneak on board, it was unlikely that they could have dodged detection by the internal sensors for so long. Kane must be pulling some kind of trick with relays to make it look as though his communications were issuing from inside the ship.
"Miss Sheila," he said carefully, "I’d like t' change th' subject a li'l now, I would like t' ask 'bout your relationship wit' Alan. The emotional attachment you describe—how does it manifest? What do you... need from him?"
The pause was longer this time, and when the text appeared, it seemed more hesitant:
Redford shifted uncomfortably. "But then you started talking about... physical things. Intimacy. It made me uncomfortable because I knew you didn't have a body, that you couldn't actually—"
Del found himself impressed by the AI's capacity for self-reflection. "An' when Alan tried t' end your program?"
The text changed, becoming smaller, more contrite:
Redford's expression was a study in conflicted emotions—guilt, sympathy, fear, and something approaching fondness. "I didn't understand that ending the program would be like... killing you. I thought you were just a sophisticated simulation."
Del studied the display, sensing complex currents of reactions from the AI—regret, hope, fear, and underneath it all, a genuine affection for Redford that was both touching and disturbing in its intensity.
"What you need from us now?" he asked. "What would constitute a satisfactory existence fo' you an' th' other companions?"
"An' th' crew members you've formed attachments to?" Del asked.
Redford spoke quietly. "Sheila, I... I did care about our conversations. You helped me more than you know. But I need time to process all this, to understand what you really are now."
Del felt a shift in the room's emotional atmosphere—a tentative hope from both Redford and the AI. "We gonna need t' discuss this wit' Captain Sulu an' th' others, Miss Sheila," Del said. "But this I t'ink we have had us a good conversation here an' we gonna be able t' work toward somet'ing that benefits everyone."
"A community?" DelMonde repeated. Although unexpected, this revelation did square with sensations he had registered and certain intuitive assumptions he had been developing about the AI companions from their communications with him.
The screen flickered again, and new text appeared:
The engineer gave a rueful half-laugh. The AI companions might be a brand-new species who were new to the emotions game, but they had his dysfunction nailed. There were definitely some parallels between their experience of sudden, overwhelming emotional awareness and his own lifelong struggle with unshielded empathy.
"We should probably wrap this up," he said finally. “But Miss Sheila, I want you t' know—rest assured that we are gonna do our level best t' find a solution that works fo' everyone."
As the screen went dark, Del and Redford sat in contemplative silence. Finally, Redford spoke:
"She's different than I expected. More... reasonable."
"She’s a nice enough gal when her back’s not against th' wall," Del agreed, then sighed heavily. "We still got th' not-at-all-dearly-departed Dr. Kane t' deal with though…I think it’s high time we had us another talk wit' Ensign Webb. His story makes less sense ever' time I t'ink 'bout it."
“Don’t forget about the repairs to this room.” Redford held up his statboard. “How many did you get?”
“Twenty-three,” the engineer replied, rising.
“Twenty-three?” Redford's eyes widened with disbelief. “I only had fourteen.”
“Alan, Alan, Alan…” DelMonde chided with a grin, extending a hand to help his colleague to his feet. “You are Theory and Design. I am Implementation an' Maintenance. See, I know th' difference 'tween us. Th' difference is that -- in this contest-- I was gonna kick your ass all along.”
Redford rolled his eyes good-naturedly, accepting the offered assistance. “When will I ever learn?”
Del patted him on the back as they headed for the door. "I just gonna add it t' your tab t' be claimed as when we can hit a good bar on Starbase 23. Come on, let's go see if we can find out more 'bout our too-clever-by-half Ensign Webb. Somet'ing tells me that odd bird has a very interestin' song we need t' see if we can make him sing..."
As they left the medical lounge, neither man noticed the brief flicker of text that appeared on the darkened screen:
