Geordi shook his head, rubbing his temple. “You’re not getting this at all, are you, Data?” He stepped to one side as the lance dislodged itself from the blade and clattered to the ground next to him.
“Humanity seems to be fascinated by those who deviate most from the norm—particularly such eccentric madmen as Don Quixote. Beyond his possibilities as a case study, I do not comprehend his appeal.”
“But it was a glorious madness, don’t you see!” said Geordi. He walked across the ground, shaking his leg slightly to work out a slight limp. “Quixote and I, we have a lot in common.” He walked backward now toward the horses so that he could face Data, and tapped the VISOR that ringed his face. “We both see things differently than other people do.”
“But your VISOR still shows you aspects of reality,” said Data reasonably. “You still perceive things as they are.”
“Yes!” said Geordi excitedly. “And Quixote perceived things as they might have been. In the final analysis, who’s to say which is the more accurate?”
“I can,” said Data. “Yours is the more accurate. I wish to indulge you as much as possible, Geordi, as do we all. This holodeck scenario, after all, is your birthday wish. Still, it all seems rather pointless.”
Geordi drew himself astride the horse. Data followed suit. “Was it pointless for humans to dream of going to space? Or eliminating war? Or discovering a cure for cancer?”
“Of course not. Because it led to results.”
“Exactly!” said Geordi excitedly. He urged the horse to move forward, which the beast did reluctantly. “But when the dreamers started dreaming, they had no idea where those dreams would lead them—to the madhouse, or to the stars. And Quixote was the entire spirit of human imagination in one package. His perceptions led him to—”
“Compound fractures, if he continued battling windmills,” said Data.
“Data,” said Geordi in exasperation, gripping his lance tightly, “the point is that every fight is worth fighting. Even the hopeless ones. That instead of taking things at face value, you should be looking below the surface. You should see what could be, instead of what is. Anyone can fight a battle that’s easy to win. It’s fighting the battles that are impossible to win that causes humanity to take those great leaps forward.”
“If fighting hopeless battles is good for humans, then why do humans sometimes retreat?”
“Well…” said Geordi uncomfortably, “there is a fine line between bravery and suicide, between the good fight and the lost fight.”
“But no fight is lost until it is over, and if a human retreats before it is over, he will never know which type of fight he was fighting.”
Geordi sighed. “Forget it, Data.”
“Quite a few people have said that to me, about a great many things,” Data said. “I have been assuming that that is a statement of preference that the topic be terminated, rather than an instruction to delete the conversation from my memory.”
“That’s a safe assumption,” Geordi agreed.
“I must admit that I find that to be a rather defeatist attitude on the part of most humans.” Data pulled on the reins in an effort to urge his mount forward. “If humans, as you say, strive so mightily against the most formidable of challenges, it is a pity that the simple act of explaining human goals would prove to be so insurmountable.”
“Ah!” said Geordi desperately. “A castle!”
Data swung his head around in the direction that Geordi was looking. “Would you be referring to that somewhat ramshackle inn approximately ten kilometers away?”
“You see a humble inn, faithful Sancho? But I see an extravagant palace that might afford us lodgings!”
Data frowned, trying desperately to share in the divine madness of his friend. “I would suppose,” said Data slowly, “that if one were to build up the exterior considerably—substitute stone walls instead of a tattered wooden barricade—and were, in addition, to supplement the structure with towers, turrets, and a moat…taking into account all of that, I could see where the inn could be transformed into a castle.”
Geordi smiled approvingly. “Now you’re getting it,” he said.
“Am I?” Data considered that. “I am not saying that I perceive it as a castle, in the manner that you saw—or claim to have seen—the windmill as a giant. I am merely analyzing the possibilities that the inn could be reworked into a castle-like structure.”
“The dreamers are the ones who conceive of what could happen,” said Geordi, “and the scientists are the ones who make it happen. The best of humanity are those who combine both traits.”
He urged the broken-down horse forward, with Data close behind on the hapless ass known as Dapple.
When Geordi had worked out the holodeck scenario concerning the adventures of Don Quixote, born Alonso Quixana, he had added in a random factor. They were not living out the sequential life of Quixote so much as existing in his world for a time, with the various elements jumbled together. It made for more stimulating entertainment that way.
Moments later they had ridden their mounts into the central courtyard of the inn. They caught odd glances from those weary travelers who were relaxing nearby with mugs of ale. There was some guffawing and chortling, and even a good deal of pointing. Data absorbed it all but was incapable of taking offense, even if these had been real humans rather than holodeck simulacrums. As for Geordi, well—Don Quixote would not have taken offense, and therefore, Geordi would not either.
He swung a leg down off the horse, and his boot caught momentarily in the stirrup, almost throwing him to the ground. He recovered just in time and managed, with not much grace, to save himself from a painful and embarrassing spill. Nevertheless, several of the men noticed his near mishap, and got a few more chortles at his expense. Data gracefully dismounted from his smaller jackass.
Geordi turned and took a step back, surprised by the woman who was approaching them. “Guinan?” he said in confusion.
The hostess of the Enterprise Ten-Forward lounge, clad in flowing blue robes and, as always, a large, flat-brimmed hat, spread her hands wide and said graciously, “If my eyes are not deceiving me, we have a knight here in my humble establishment.”
“Your—?”
He turned toward Data in confusion, and then a slow smile spread across his face. Data confirmed with a nod and said, “Other crew members learned of your scenario and requested the opportunity to participate and surprise you.”
Geordi nodded briskly and unconsciously straightened his shirt and rearranged his armor in imitation of the little motion the captain did whenever he rose or sat—the motion which, in good-natured kidding around the ship, had been nicknamed “The Picard Maneuver.” “A knight errant,” he said briskly, “is surprised by nothing because he expects everything. Is that not right, Sancho?”
“That is right, sir,” said Data affably.
“We seek lodging,” Geordi told her imperiously.
“And do you have money with which to pay for your stay?” Guinan had a proper air of skepticism about her.
“Money!” said Geordi in outrage. “Good woman, I’ll have you know that the lodging of a knight is an obligation and a debt that all people are expected to support. You should be flattered that I have chosen your abode, and relieved that the sword of Don Quixote de la Mancha will be present for a night to defend this castle!”
Guinan took all this in and then nodded her head slightly. “It would be the height of foolishness to argue with so brave and determined a knight. Or his squire,” she added as an afterthought, with a slight nod towards Data.
“You are most kind,” said Data.
But Geordi wasn’t listening anymore. Instead, his VISOR-enhanced gaze was levelled at a woman who was bent over a well, drawing water up in a bucket. Any other man on the ship would have had to wait until she turned around to see who it was, but Geordi’s VISOR immediately fed him body readings, thermal readouts, and uniquely identifiable bio traces that promptly informed hi
m of the identity of yet another unexpected participant in his holodeck fantasy. He wondered for a moment if everyone on the ship was going to turn up. How many people had caught wind of his little informal birthday party, anyway?
The woman turned, balancing the bucket on one sturdy shoulder. She was medium build, the black ringlets of her hair falling about her shoulders, her tattered and poor clothes hanging on her body, threadbare in places. She looked at him with curiosity.
“Señor Quixana!” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
He took a step toward her with as much reverence and amazement as he could muster. “She stands before me! Oh blessed lady, to come to me now when I am on my quest! It is she, Sancho!” He grasped Data firmly by the arm and pulled the android down next to him. “It is the lady Dulcinea!”
Data tilted his head slightly. “It is the lady Counselor Troi.”
“Hush!” said Deanna Troi with an impatient stomp of her slippered foot.
“Lady Dulcinea,” said Geordi dramatically, “long have I worshipped you from afar. Now I embark on my great quests, all dedicated to the ideal beauty of womanhood that you represent. In order that I accomplish great deeds, I must have the ideal woman upon which to bestow their honor!”
“But Señor Quixana, don’t you recognize me?” said Troi. “I am merely the daughter of your next-door neighbor. You have known me for many years. Why do you now call me by this strange name?”
“I call you only by that name which you have always possessed, but none have dared utter,” said Geordi. “But I, knight errant, on God’s own quest, must—”
“Report to the conference room.”
The utterly unexpected voice was, to put it mildly, a jolt. Geordi’s head snapped around, as did the others.
Captain Picard was standing there, in full uniform, arms folded across his chest.
Geordi felt that awkwardness one always felt when someone walked into the middle of an elaborate holodeck scenario and knocked the props out from under one’s suspension of disbelief. Not that Geordi had been having any sort of easy time losing himself in the travails and imaginings of la Mancha, thanks to Data’s incessantly rational view of the world of Don Quixote. Not to mention the well-meaning, but jolting, appearances of fellow crew members from the Enterprise. And now the captain himself had shown up, presumably to shut the whole thing down over some emergency or other.
In a way, considering the way things were going, Geordi was almost relieved.
Counselor Troi stepped forward. “You seem distressed, Captain.”
Picard turned towards her and his mouth dropped slightly. He had not recognized her at first and, indeed, had wondered over the overt familiarity that a holodeck being was having with him. “Distressed…Counselor,” he said cautiously, as if still uncertain of whom he was addressing, “is an understatement.” He turned back to Geordi. “I am truly sorry to interrupt this scenario, Mr. La Forge. I am aware you’ve put a great deal of energy into it. But a matter of some urgency has presented itself.”
“Yes, sir,” said Geordi. With a sigh and a last, quick glance around, he called out, “Computer. End program.”
The castle/hovel vanished silently around them, to be replaced by the black, glowing grid walls of the holodeck. “In five minutes, up in the briefing room,” said Picard. His officers went out quickly in order to change to garb that would be more presentable. Somehow, armor or peasant rags didn’t seem suitable to whatever situation might present itself in Starfleet life.
Guinan walked over to Picard and regarded him with bemused curiosity. “You could have summoned Geordi, or Data, or Troi, via communicators,” she said. “Why didn’t you?”
He permitted a small smile. “Captain’s prerogative,” he admitted. “An indulgence, if you will. I’m something of a Cervantes enthusiast myself. I was intrigued to see what Mr. La Forge was going to develop.” He looked at her askance for a moment. “Guinan, are you quite all right? You seem a tad…distracted today.”
Her eyes darkened for the briefest of moments, and then she smiled, although when she spoke, it was with her eyes half-lidded. “I just haven’t been resting well lately. It will pass.”
“Well…if you have continued problems, I want you to go to sickbay and have Dr. Crusher look you over. Understood?”
She nodded slightly. He’d never had to give her any sort of order in the past, and this was probably the closest he would ever come to issuing one. So she treated it with appropriate weight. “Understood, sir.”
He started to turn away and then Guinan added, “Deanna was quite lovely, wasn’t she?”
“Appropriately so,” said Picard. “After all, she is Dulcinea, the ideal woman, the woman that Don Quixote strives for, and for whom he endures hardship after hardship. Yet he derives emotional strength merely from the knowledge of her existence.”
“He performs deeds to prove himself worthy of her, yet feels he never can be worthy of her,” said Guinan. She fell into slow step next to Picard. “Did you ever have a woman like that, Captain? A dream girl? An unattainable woman?”
He paused and pursed his lips. “Once, many years ago. A dream girl. The very idea of her reality vanishes into the misty haze of youthful memory.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Guinan in bemusement.
He turned to her in all seriousness, his brow creasing. “It means that I would prefer if you did not ask again, Guinan.” He turned away from her and strode out of the holodeck.
She inclined her head slightly in the direction he had departed. “Message received,” she said to no one.
Picard walked briskly down the corridor, paying no attention to where he was going. He gave quick nods of acknowledgment to all those who greeted him, but he didn’t pay the least bit of attention to whom he was greeting. Thanks to Guinan, his thoughts were—albeit briefly—a million light-years and half a lifetime away. By the time he got to the turbolift, however, he had neatly tucked his mind into its proper, ordered fashion, and there it would remain, if he had anything to say about it.
Which, as things turned out, he didn’t.
Chapter Four
The captain of the U.S.S. Chekov regarded the vista of space before him and pondered about how much less hospitable a place it had seemed to become. The endless freezing vacuum was dangerous enough without massive cubes that could spring out of warp space without warning, filled with soulless mechanical beings that crushed everything in their path.
He winced when he thought about the friends that he’d lost in the hopeless fight at Wolf 359. Forty ships. Gods, forty ships. And where had he been? Too far away. Too damned far away.
And who saved the day?
“Picard,” he muttered, shaking his head.
From his right-hand side, his first officer looked up from the fuel consumption report that she was initialing. “Jean-Luc Picard?” she asked.
He afforded her a glance before allowing a rueful smile to touch his lips. “Yes, Jean-Luc Picard.”
“The finest captain in the fleet,” she said firmly, and then, in quiet awareness of the importance of politics, she began to add, “Present company excepted, of course.”
But her captain waved her off. He uncrossed his legs and stood, taking several short steps across the bridge. His bridge, the bridge of an Excelsior-class ship. It was a good bridge, a solid bridge—
Not an awesomely spacious bridge, however. The bridge of a Galaxy-class ship, now that was spacious. He’d never had the opportunity to step onto one, but he’d heard you could practically play field hockey in one of those. But there were only a handful of those magnificent ships in the fleet—one of which had been destroyed at Wolf 359—and, of course, the finest of those rare ships, the most renowned, the most sought after was commanded by none other than—
“Jean-Luc Picard,” said the captain softly. “You don’t have to be deferential, Number One. I know how highly regarded he is by everyone in the fleet—not the least of whom is you
rself. I can’t blame you at all. You were there when he pulled off ‘The Picard Miracle.’ ”
“Is that what they’re calling it now?” she said in amusement. “Well, I suppose it was, in a way. It was something to see. I thought we were dead for sure.”
The rest of the bridge crew, ostensibly going about their business, were nevertheless slow in their duties, so that they could pay attention to what the first officer was saying. There were so many stories of destruction and loss surrounding the attack of the Borg, that starship crews—what few there were left—savored any telling of the one tale that ended with the Federation triumphant.
“It must have been a tense moment,” said the captain drily. He scratched idly at his graying side-burns and glanced around the bridge in quiet amusement at his whole bridge crew, trying to look as if they weren’t paying any attention. He caught the eye of his helmsman, who grinned sheepishly at being noticed.
With the air of someone who had repeated a story to the point where she had every single beat and dramatic moment down pat, she said, “I’ll never forget the look in Commander Riker’s eye when he said he was about to give the order for us to ram the Borg ship. I’m not sure what he hoped to accomplish—damage it, maybe for a few minutes. Buy the Earth that much more time....
“And there was this teenage boy at the helm, youngest ensign I’d ever seen. I thought he’d crack when Riker ordered that a collision course be laid in. Give the boy credit. He sucked it up, said, ‘Yes, sir,’ and laid in the course command.”
By now no one was making a pretense of doing anything other than listening to her. “What were you thinking, Commander Shelby? Right then, when it looked all over,” asked the navigator. His name was Hobson, and he was so fresh out of the Academy, he practically looked like he had a sheen to him.