HL: Golden Opportunities I

 Episode Name:  HL: Golden Opportunities I

   Written By:  Turtledove and K'net-Mauri

         Cast:  Golden, The Iconian and The Inquisitor.

  Produced By:  Starfleet

  Directed By:  Fortunae

     Aired On:  Sat Mar 13 07:49:05 2004

     Stardate:  53942.8

Time: Thu Mar 11 20:58:48 2004

Stardate: 53939.3

Last time, on Star Trek: Anomaly...

...On the upper north side of the Pyramid, Dylan, after setting off his explosives does not stop to appreciate his handiwork, instead quick stepping to the edge of his level of the pyramid. Spying the Romulan Army Soldiers closing on his position from that side, though apparently unaware of his presence, he ducks behind an appalling statue, shifts his weapon to wide beam and then steps back out, charging right down the middle of the path way and squeezing his trigger repeatedly...

...The battle of the breech continues to rage -- and the source of the earth shock begins to come into clarity from the deep gloom -- a lumbering multi-limbed robotic monstrosity -- a limb is raises and twinkles with blue and violet light then a titanic energy beam blisters forth and two defending Romulan tanks are swept into a spinning roll in the air even as they disintergrate leaving not even dust in the wake of their passing... everywhere the buzzing of uncountable insects torments the ears despite not one sign of an actual bug anywhere...

...On the walkway partway up the pyramid, Golden says, "-- and then we need to hold long enough to get the Romulan gate close and Occa gate open and get the hell out of here." He narrows his eyes then as a Romulan with a long green "coat" comes around the corner from the North face and levels an ungainly and alien looking device at them. He tries to shove his friends out of harm's way shouting, "GET DOWN!"...

...The Romulan Military Scientist screams, "I SEE YOU! I SEE YOU ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!"

From the device comes a pulsing wave, difficult for the eye to track for they slide off like a fried egg from a new Teflon pan. The pulse blisters the stone of the walk way and the side of the pyramid -- as it hits the Romulan Soldiers in it's path their skin seems to peel away like dried paper and dust is left in the wake as it slams physically into the three rapid response officers, the impact gleaming bluely as they are washed over and then, in the wake of their removal from the sight of their comrades, dusts flitters down through dead air...

...A pinpoint of blue light explodes into a cascade of nerve burning agony...
...searing at the cellular level consciousness is consumed by oblivion's teeth...
...sense of time is lost, sense of self clung to with tattered will...

...and then the wake becomes a pinpoint again...

...Three humanoid figures collapse heavily to the glossy perfection that is the upper walk way of the Q'ath Lo'PardaQ, The Temple of Unification. Their alloy polymer cased weapons clatter oddly off the stone, drawing the attention of a robed attendant that takes gliding steps to investigate, head cocked curiously from it's height some 2.3 meters above the walkway itself. The being is roughly humanoid, standing erect bipedally, but its arms number three sets of two symetrically placed, ended in long grey scale covered fingers...

...Golden tries to leverage up into a crawling posture, the voices of his comrades helping him refocus on the here and now, then there is a pain on his head, his hands lethargically moving up to grab same instinctively, and then he is lifted off the floor by one of the lower sets of hands, neck now straining, feet kicking to try to gain purchase at least with his toes, eyes rolling to take in Tera's similar problem...

...Golden grits his teeth the calls out, "We don't mean you any harm -- We come in Peace -- I am Lieutenant Dylan Golden of the Unit--" The traditional greeting is cut off by a flat palm strike from the companion arm to the one that hold him that snaps his head hard against the tensile strength of his hair and the Intendent's grip, filling Dylan's mouth with the taste of his own blood...

... Golden spits blood, "So much for the diplomatic approach, drop this bastard." The cool delivery is greatly undermined by Dylan's sudden shaking and flailing of limbs...

...Turtledove dodges her fearless and wieldy leader, then watches, ruefully, as she realizes that he is now, instead, headed over the side of the pyramid! In an extreme change of venue, she dives after him! Her eyes lit-up as her grip solidly locks around Golden's arm, then flaring hotter as she's pulled over by his weight. In a last-ditch effort to prevent falling, Golden himself backswings from Turtledove's grab in an attempt to grab the edge, but the ledge is too far, even for the long-limbed martian... and down they go... sliding and tumbling along the side of the pyramid...

... Out of sight of Takamura and his new problem, Tera and Dylan bounce and roll and slide and scrape down the side of the smooth ebon pyramid, as they collide with the plaza below Tera cracks her head one time too many and is lost to consciousness. She may be the lucky of the two for as Dylan begins to try rise unsteadly to his feet he is stabbed in the side by a lance and his body is lifted from the ground by the force of the electrical discharge pumped into his body. Limbs extended and jittering, hair standing on end, the only signal of his fate that is revealed to Takamura at the top of the pyramid is the howling scream of agony that is carried on the wind like a promise of more to come...

And now, on Star Trek: Anomaly...

197,725 B.C.E.

Dylan Golden snaps awake, awash with cold white light. So much light that his eyes wince naturally in the face of it, until, eventually, he is able to filter out the vague impression of walls and the vague feeling of being surrounded by water. There is no sign of the source of all of this light, and yet, he feels no urge to seek the answer either. And, aware of this odd lack of curiosity, he still finds no motive to move from right where he is. A vague buzzing sound haunts the edge of his subconscious awareness. Somewhere, there is the crackle of what may be a fire, but he sees none, and smells no smoke.

Time passes. The sound of faint steps upon water, not quite splashes, reaches him. Then, from the nimbus of omnidirectional luminescence, a figure emerges -- an Iconian with a ghastly pale fleshed skull; a skull covered with ritual scarification and inexplicable jagged shards of precious metals dangling from it, some still oozing an ochre strand of fluid on occassion as it moves closer.

It regards him, perhaps studiously.

197,725 B.C.E.

Dylan Golden snaps awake. There is a slow cycle of dark-light. From somewhere, a persistant piercing beam flashes, intermittently, like light from a mirror. The two cycles mingle, dark-flash, light-flash... The pattern is random enough to avoid adequate prediction, but eventually, he is able to filter out the vague impression of walls and the vague feeling of being surrounded by water. There is no sign of the source of the fluctuation, and he feels no urge to seek the answer either. Still, aware of this odd lack of curiosity, he still finds no motive to move from right where he is. A vague buzzing sound haunts the edge of his subconscious awareness. Somewhere, there is the sound of what could be voices, very faint, perhaps familiar.

Time passes. The sound of steps upon water, not quite splashes, reaches him. Then, from the nimbus of omnidirectional luminescence, a figure emerges -- an Iconian with a ghastly pale fleshed skull; a skull covered with ritual scarification and inexplicable jagged shards of precious metals dangling from it, some still oozing an ochre strand of fluid on occassion as it moves closer.

It regards him, perhaps studiously.

Golden takes a deep breath after the immediate start. In and out, establishing his own meter for time.

Golden studies the face as it studies him.

. o O Golden thinks "What is that buzzing -- that thing they put in my ear? To what purpose? Bioweapon? Perhaps it effects the free will center -- that would explain the lack of desire to move -- not that I care to -- not that that is normal -- but really what does it matter? Hmm.. approaching..."

. o O Golden thinks "Ritual scarification? Still oozing. Penitence perhaps? Reminder of humility? Perhaps he is "unclean" so he was sent to deal with an outworlder."

The creature examines Golden further, turning its pale scarred head this way and that to look at him with one set and then another of its spider's array of eight eyes. Its jaws open, the long mandibles stretching slowly, and slowly they close again, only to move slightly as it speaks, "You will find that the Chok'los" translator worm "has settled into your primate neural stem, by now allowing you the honor of comprehending my words and speaking with a civilized tongue. You will inform this one of your full name. If you refuse there will be punishment." The unspoken words translating 'Chok'los' exert a strange pressure on the mind, not truely uncomfortable, but unmistakable.

. o O Golden thinks "Ah. Interrogation then. Offering a choice, give it what it wants, a simple thing. A name. People want to give their name. A small concession. Path to larger concession. Or the punishment. Let's see what punishment is."

Golden says nothing.

The Inquisitor steps forward, slow on its long limbs, too close to be comfortable. It says again, "You will inform this one of your full name. If you refuse there will be punishment."

. o O Golden thinks "It's unsure if I understood the choice. People must usually give the name. It's in my space, probably a predator based culture where affordment of personal space is significant. Noted."

Golden says nothing.

One of the creature's long white arms comes forward, slow and stiff on its thin joints. It touches Golden's face with its strange hand, the tips of its digets close to his lips, the hard 'palm' on his chin.

. o O Golden thinks "Six arms. Strong from how the other one tossed me about. Quick. Going to tear my lip? Don't hear any others. Perhaps hidden by the lights. Don't make the first move. Balanced response. Killing it may be inadvisable at this stage. Look for devices. Keys? Smells unpleasant."

Golden says nothing.

The Inquisitor says, "The first move is made." Question asked. "The answer is the balance." Its fingertips move across the silk of Golden's lower lip, a caress. Its gentleness is an affront. A slow trickle of ichor leaks from its scarred face.

. o O Golden thinks "Revulsion exposure. Touching the face, close to the eyes, reactive response. Mixing gentle contact with revulsion. Mixing sensations. Telepathic perhaps. Interesting. 10110001100010001000111001110001110001011001100"

Golden says nothing.

<CONTEST> Golden contests his Behavior Modification (Resistance) skill vs a difficulty of Routine and Succeeds!

The Inquisitor continues to caress Golden's face, its fingertips invading his lips briefly. It turns its head, then lowers it in a gesture that might be weariness, or might be simply an attempt to look at him with its small, topmost eyes. Its hand draws away.

. o O Golden thinks "1100101001010101001010101001010100101001010101010101001010101010101001010101010"

Golden says nothing.

The pale alien creature turns away. Its movement coincides with the hum in Golden's head rising to a roar, all consuming, terrible, hopelessly loud. The intermittant flashing of the light seems to grow faster, or perhaps it is mere illusion. No matter, for the sound blocks vision, blocks light, and leaves Dylan in a blackness that may be unconsciousness and may be something more.

Was it sleep? Is it over? Is it in waking, now, that Golden finds himself in blind red torment. Is it sleep? Is it a place? Nowhere? The Iconians know about pain, and about fear. They can find where those are centered in a mind, wake them to riotous volume.

GAME: Golden spends a courage point.

<CONTEST> Golden (claiming advantage) contests his Fitness (Vitality) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Succeeds!

Flesh crackles. Nerves scream. Eyes roast. Ears Burst. Organs crush. Limbs snap. The Mind is assaulted by sensation layered on sensation wrapped with torment and seasoned with suffering. Lungs tear at the inhalation. Screams pour shapeless past scalded tongue... and yet... Dylan knows the why of the pain ... he chooses to accept this ... take the pain and it is his... he owns it... his pain... not their pain... his lips form howls... his mind smiles...

The redness receeds. The nameless fear and uncentered pain go with it. Is it over? Did it happen? How long did it take? When Golden comes to a state resembling coherence again, he finds himself in the same room, the same place, the same lack of desire to move, now compounded by his recent experience. The lighting rotates from darkness to brightness in slow, uneven cycles. And again the Iconian with its ritually scarred and pierced face arrives, coming into sight in the edge-time between light-cycles. Again it approaches. Again it studies him.

. o O Golden thinks "Focus. FOCUS!"

Golden studies the pale figure. He says nothing.

The Inquisitor's mandibles move again, its strange grating soft voice emerging, "You will inform this one of your full name."

Golden chooses to say nothing.

Golden chooses not to comply.

The creature's strange jaws rub together. It looks at Dylan with its two largest and central eyes. "Why resist now?" There is plenty of time.

Golden chooses how to use his time.

. o O Golden thinks "Offer me your name. I can wait."

The Inquisitor's mandibles again rub together. "To what gain?"

<CONTEST> Golden contests his Behavior Modification (Resistance) skill vs a difficulty of Routine and Succeeds!

Golden smiles, a distant pleasant smile.

. o O Golden thinks "010101001010101010101110010101010010101010"

The Iconian turns again, swiftly this time. Again the hum rises, abrupt, insect-like, constant, unbearable, mind-deafening.

<CONTEST> Golden contests his Fitness (Vitality) skill vs a difficulty of Difficult and Succeeds!

And the pain comes again... fury and perdition.. searing, rending, slashing, mauling, flaying pain. An aria of screams until the voice cracks... the body writhes... but the mind embraces and denies them until...

Golden wakes again. Or did he sleep? Was it shorter that time, or longer? The lights are flashing faster now, in that same space that is not quite a room. And the Inquisitor is already there when Dylan's eyes come into focus. It's right beside him, reaching with slow gentleness to touch his face again.

. o O Golden thinks "... do I miss the pain? ... is the pain real? ... is this real... real enough -- Focus!"

Golden juts his chin and returns the silent assessment.

The Inquisitor says, "Is pain real?" What is more real? It touches his jutted chin, that caress again, hard white fingers near his lips, the unpleasant, rancid and insect smell. "Do you like what you chose?"

. o O Iconian Inquisitor thinks "Offer me your name. I can wait."

Iconian Inquisitor remains unmoving except for a twitch of the nostrils, involuntary.

Golden remains unmoving except for a twitch of the nostrils, involuntary.

. o O Golden thinks "Offer me your name. I can wait."

The Inquisitor's fingertip draws along Golden's jaw. It says, "You want my name. Will it give you power over me? Will it give you another choice to make, one less futile?"

Golden chooses to wait.

The Inquisitor draws its hand away. "What does your choice earn you? Do you mean to cooperate if I answer the question you will not ask? We will answer more important questions. You will inform this one of your full name."

<CONTEST> Golden contests his Behavior Modification (Resistance) skill vs a difficulty of Routine and Succeeds!

. o O Golden thinks "10100110100100101010101011011010"

Golden smiles tolerantly, but says nothing.

GAME: Golden spends a courage point.

<CONTEST> Golden (claiming advantage) contests his Fitness (Vitality) skill vs a difficulty of Impossible and Fails!

The Iconian expells its breath, hissing through pores in its body that are hidden by the strange robe it wears. Again it turns away. Again, the roaring of the mental hum rises.

The earlier pain was not the concerto, but merely the opening movement. Flesh pierced and peeled, organs bluntly shorn from within the flesh, bones snapped to flinders and ground into roaring nerves... Dylan tries to accept the pain... tries to own it... tries to smile... but there are limits... and the monkey brain takes over ... and he howls in his mind as well as with his voice...

And it's over again. Maybe it only took a second. Maybe it took forever. The Iconian is there again, revealed as the light cycle moves to brightness. It stands a few feet away, gazing at Golden's shuddered form.

Golden pants, even though he may not need too. Shakes, even though he may not need to.

The Inquisitor watches. It's scarred face shows no sign of impatience.

. o O Golden thinks "AAGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRHHHHHGGGGGGGGG -- oooff oooofff oooofff B-bastard ooooff"

Golden breathes with this thoughts in time with the breaths drawn into his lungs. His eyes burn as he focuses on the one who would have his name.

The Inquisitor waits, its six arms folded against its long torso, its array of eyes fixed on Golden. It's motionless, implacable.

Golden expectorates as best he can and is unable to force a smile. You have to ask

The creature responds slowly, as if it has no hurry to leave its own thoughts and consideration of Golden. It says, "What is your full name?"

Golden says, "Golden, Dylan A. Lieutenant. Serial Number 419-1440-10184"

"Ghhouldhen, Dhel'han Ahh," responds the Inquisitor. "Your name is Lieutenant? Your name is Serial number 419-1440-10184?"

Golden says, "Golden, Dylan A. Lieutenant. Serial Number 419-1440-10184"

"Redundant." Resistant. says the Inquisitor. "What is your function, Ghhoudhen, Dhel'han Ay, Lieutenant, Serial Number 419-1440-10184?"

. o O Golden thinks "Article I: I am an citizen of the Federation, serving in the Star Fleet which guards my planet and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense.

Article II: I will never surrender of my own free will. If in command I will never surrender the members of my command while they still have the means to resist.

Article III: If I am captured, I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape and aid others to escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy.

Article IV: If I become a prisoner of war, I will keep faith with my fellow prisoners. I will give no information nor take part in any action which might be harmful to my comrades. If I am senior, I will take command. If not, I will obey the lawful orders of those appointed over me and will back them up in every way.

Article V: When questioned, should I become a prisoner, I am required to give name, rank, service, number, and date of birth. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to the Federation and its allies or harmful to their cause.

Article VI: I will never forget that I am an Citizen of the Federation, responsible for my actions, and dedicated to the principles which made my planet free. I will trust in myself and in the United Federation of Planets"

Golden says, "Golden, Dylan A. Lieutenant. Serial Number 419-1440-10184"

<PROVE> Golden has the flaw of Code Of Honor at -4.

The Inquisitor looks at Dylan, long and thoughtfully. It moves closer. "You obey this code" Program "universally? You have no means to resist" only delay "Are you a prisoner of war?" A war? Concept of war?

. o O Golden thinks "Interspecies Personal Relations Handbook, Chapter 20. "While in the midst of first contact or diplomatic relations with a newly encountered species, personnel are required to conduct themselves in a professional manner. Conduct outside these bounderies should be reported to a superior officer immediately."

. o O Golden thinks "General Order Ten: Starfleet personnel shall take no hostile action unless responding to a hostile action."

Golden says, "Golden, Dylan A. Lieutenant. Serial Number 419-1440-10184"

"Is it your function to remember" diefy "and follow this code?" program? asks the Iconian.

Golden says, "Golden, Dylan A. Lieutenant. Serial Number 419-1440-10184"

. o O Golden thinks "Dispersal of optical organs implies radial vision and high priority on visual data gathering. Likelihood of less accute organs. Ability to vocalize language as evidenced in first encounter signifies development of telepathic abilities later in species evolution. Willingness to use spoken language first and implementation of translation biotech suggests natural reliance on vocal communication as opposed to telempathic measures, unlikely atrophication in auditory sensory organs. Placement of manipulatory limbs and prediliction to touch suggests augmented tactile sensors in those locations. Primary targets -- eyes, flesh of palms, thorax."

The Inquisitor turns away again, smartly, its movement sharing the instant with the telepathic hum's sharp rising. Again blinding, again blackness, again red.

GAME: Golden spends a courage point.

<CONTEST> Golden contests his Fitness (Vitality) skill vs a difficulty of Impossible and Succeeds!

In the scarlet haze of pain, the monkey brain finds that what did not kill it the first time is perhaps endurable after all... muscles weary from tautness and torture... shrieks of anguish soar and fade to soar again ...but the monkey brain relinquishes and reverse atavism brings the return of ownership... pain is pain ... accept this... find the quiet place where the flesh no longer matters... and in his mind, Dylan Golden smiles with satisfied defiance. Until...

The Inquisitor is right beside Golden when his eyes come back into focus. Its scarred face with the strange metal peircings is inches away, its many eyes focused on him. An edge of light and darkness slides across its face and returns to light again, leaving the creature in sharp focus, the bitter rank smell of the ochre liquid seeping from its facial 'decorations' is sharp in Dylan's nostrils.

. o O Golden thinks "Golden, Dylan A. Lieutenant. Serial Number 419-1440-10184"

Golden tries to force his lips to form a smile, showing his flat and sharp white teeth.

The Inquisitor doesn't smile. Or perhaps it does, the four spikes of the mandibles around its mouth stretch open a little, then closed. It touches his face again with its thin strange hand, near his temple. The buzzing in Dylan's head rises again. More torture? No, not the red this time, but another place, another time, memory as visceral as the present, if already known. And a much smaller Dylan Golden, no rank, no serial number.

October 14th, 2358

I duck under the swing of the Cardassian. He’s much bigger than I am but I’m not afraid. His motion carries him slightly to my left and I bring my heel up and into the side of his knee. There is a sharp crack. The sound is disturbing. It must hurt. I’m excited though; the sound means I’m winning.

197,725 B.C.E.

In Golden's head, the Inquisitor's voice, heavy as atmospheric pressure, Are you winning now? It is important to win.

<CONTEST> Golden contests his Behavior Modification (Resistance) skill vs Iconian Inquisitor's Behavior Modification (Brainwashing) skill and Fails!

Golden tries to move his hand, his body shudders with the effort but it goes nowhere. Heaving a breath at the effort he answers with a cocking of his chin. "I choose to win."

. o O Golden thinks "I define winning or losing, your opinion has no relevance. You will lose, because I chose to let you lose."

Golden is trying to convince himself this is so.

The Inquisitor says, "What prize do you win, Ghouldhan Dhel'han Ay, against me? You will win here, but not this way. We will converse."

Golden says, "You can clearly pronounce every other word of my language, your attempt to distort my sense of self by me accepting your mispronunciation of my name, rather than being effective, is transparent. It's Golden, Dylan A. Say it correctly, or bring back the pain otherwise you get nothing more out of me." clown"

The Inquisitor draws back from its overly close position, but it does not hurry. It leaves its hand touching Dylan's face, its long jointed arm slowly unfolding as its body retreats about a third of a meter. It says, "Dylan. Allassandro. Golden. Are you winning now? Have you won the joy of winning? Do you remember what followed the joy of winning?"

October 14th, 2358

I move my hand forward, butterflies in my stomach, and I’m rewarded with another crunching sound of impact and the Cardassian is lifted off the ground and flies close to two meters to collide hard with the duracrete wall behind him. I let out a woot and move to finish him as I crow, “Take that you Cardassian Dog!”

“Dylan Alessandro Golden!”

That’s my mother’s voice. She used my middle name. Now I’m afraid.

The battle freezes. I can feel her disapproval burning into the back of my neck. I don’t want to turn around and face her. Maybe she’ll just go away? I’m not that lucky.

She’s taller than I am too. Most people are. Her hands are on her hips. Her nostrils are flaring and one lock of her ebon hair is dangling down between her narrowed eyes. It is sort of funny. I want to laugh, but I know that will get me in trouble. I remember to be afraid.

“Dylan Alessandro Golden!” She used my middle name *again*. I am in serious trouble. “How many times have I told you that we do not use the holosuite for Battle Simulations!” It isn’t a question. Not really.

“It’s a historical recreation momma – it’s not a battle simu—“ She cuts me off with a sharp gesture of her hand.

“Did I or did I not see you beating up a person?”

“Aww mom, it’s not a person, it’s a –“

“Cardassians are people young man!” She scolds.

“I was going to say it’s a hologram, momma.” I explain. I’m desperate. She will take away my holosuite privileges.

“That isn’t the point and you *know* that. You called the hologram a Cardassian Dog. You were playing war and you were glorifying in the violence.”

“But momma, I was playing Starfleet – the Cardassians attacked this colony and I was defending th—“ She cuts me off again. Her foot is tapping now. I am in so much trouble.

“You weren’t playing *Starfleet* Dylan. You were playing *war*. Not the same thing. Starfleet isn’t out there to hurt the Cardassians – they are out there to help our people and encourage the Cardassians to respect our desire for peace by stopping them from their attacks using the minimal force necessary. They don’t go looking for a fight – and you loading up this program – and when I find out where you got it from there will be hell to pay for whoever gave it to you – you loading up this program is you *looking* for a fight.” She moves closer to me and grabs both of my arms as she sinks to my level and locks her gaze in mine. I want to cry but I must be brave. “Starfleet’s job is to go where people need help and stand between them and that which would harm them. They aren’t soldiers, they are guardians. Do you understand the difference? Violence is an option, it’s not the best option, and it’s not the only option. If you were in here practicing trying to negotiate a peaceful withdrawal, you wouldn’t be in so much trouble right now.”

“But momma – sometimes you have to fight, don’t you?”

She narrows her eyes again. I tense up. Her expression softens and she strokes my cheek as she explains, “Yes dear. Sometimes you have to fight. But you should *never* enjoy it. If your cause is just than serving justice is the reward, not inflicting harm on others. That Cardassian has a mother too – maybe if she explained this to him he wouldn’t be attacking the colony in the first place. Do you understand?”

I try to. I’m not really sure. But I nod that I do, maybe she’ll go lighter on the punishment if she thinks I learned my lesson.

197,725 B.C.E.

Golden is frankly startled by the full impact that memory returning and takes a sharp intake of breath. "You should really avoid bringing up my mother. I'll do the same and not mention your own, no doubt so very proud of your line of work."

. o O Golden feels nostalgia -- bittersweet -- some anger

"Did you win?" asks the Inquisitor. "You did not understand. You did not make a different choice. You had the joy of winning" crunch of bone "and it was more reward than your mother's wish to tell you truth. Are you happy with that choice?"

Golden says, "I was eight years old. I thought it was a game. I learned otherwise." grew up "The lesson my mother taught me proved more lasting than the joy of that moment." a warning "Apparently your mother didn't teach you that lesson."

The Inquisitor rubs its mandibles together. "You learned otherwise? You choose to win now. Do you think it is a game? Is there no value in winning? You try to understand what your mother is telling you, but you are really only angry that she will not let you win your game"not a game, but otherwise. Is this your function?"

Golden says, "Golden, Dylan A. Lieutenant. Serial Number 419-1440-10184"

<CONTEST> Golden contests his Behavior Modification (Resistance) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!

. o O Golden thinks "I chose to win. 1001101010101101010101010011010111010011010101101010"

"Do you want to win Dy'lan Ghholdhen?" asks the Insquisitor, seeming to disregard his name, rank and serial number.

. o O Golden thinks "I choose to win. 1001101010101101010101010011010111010011010101101010"

Golden spreads his lips to reveal his teeth again, he says nothing.

The Iconian draws back again, folding its arm slowly away from Golden's face. The buzzing that it's touch started only grows louder, though. This time it's slow, and the creature sits and watches as that psyhic sound rises, edging its way to the unbearable in excruciatingly slow increments.

Golden winces as the sound increase... and then remembers the pain...

<CONTEST> Golden (claiming advantage) contests his Fitness (Vitality) skill vs a difficulty of Impossible and Fails!

Is this winning? comes the pressure-voice, as the noise becomes blinding blackness, and again red agony.

And the smile shatters like his cells seem to be... the howl drowning out the buzzing... the monkey brain begins to doubt... doubt if this is winning... doubt who is in control of this situation ...needles of concussive wrenching tides of visceral agony wash at the shores of coherance... the self is buckling the human roars at the monkey until telling which is which is a moot point...

And the spider-faced alien is just the same, darkness and light passing over it as it stands there, sparkling in the haze of blurred vision out of watering eyes. "Try to win Dh'laan Ghouldhhn," it advises. "Find the prize, turn the key. What is your function? Is it to win? What do you win? For whom?"

Golden is unable to answer when the tide of pain retreats, instead he pants and shudders through aftershocks, a somewhat plaintive sound ground out through he teeth until finally he is able to focus on the mishapen face of the pale fleshed alien. When he can finally orientate enough to speak, follow the questions, he croaks out, "Winning is a relative state not a definitive one. Perception of gathered facts. Not a constant."

The Inquisitor's mandibles stretch open slightly, then close. It says, "Winning is a state" feeling "that exists from perception? Whose perception?"

Golden, becoming more collected now, labors to straighten his posture. "Individual, collective, consensual. I say I win, you say You win. I say you lose, you say I lose. We agree to terms of victory, we agree those terms say who should be the winner, who should be the loser. Others observing may have their own thoughts on who won, who lost. Victory or Defeat -- only as real as you make them, only as real for others as they consent to accept them. I already won my name from you properly pronounced, you are trying to win my acceptence of it's mispronunciation. I do not accept. I do *not* accept! I DO NOT ACCEPT!"

<CONTEST> Golden contests his Behavior Modification (Resistance) skill vs Iconian Inquisitor's Behavior Modification (Brainwashing) skill and Succeeds!

And as Dylan roars he finds his hand moving out and seizing the Iconian's cloak, jerking the pale alien closer so the froth from his fury spashing onto the pale flesh and mixes with the dripping ichor.

The Inquisitor is implacable. Seized by the cloak it doesn't move, it's as steady as a post when Golden pulls at its garments, and is dragged slightly forward without bending. One thin white arm rises, and it says, "You do not accept that you can lose what you have won," when winning is perception "You must win." It reaches for his face again, delicately, slowly. "You will accept nothing else."

Golden clamps his mouth shut, eyes narrowing.

The Inquisitor caresses Golden's head, following the line of the joint at the left side of the frontal bone, up into his hair. Its strange body whispers breath again, hidden under its robes, and the buzzing in Dylan's head grows and sublimates the sound before breaking into that sharp-clear-cool memory world, free of the creature's touch, its rank insect smell.

April 4th, 2363

“Uncle Ongus this is completely unfair!” I’m angry. Angry at him, angry at the stupid uniform I’m wearing, angry that I am expected to go to this stupid function when Rade and Coura are going to see Aldin Sky and the Zen Enlightenment live at the civic center. I see Ongus’ bushy eyebrows scale up his porcine face and I immediately regret my blunder. Never give a Tellarite an excuse to debate nebulous concepts like what is fair.

“Oh ho ho me jolly lad! What is unfair precisely, eh?”

I decide I’m committed. Maybe this time I’ll win. I put my game face on. “Just because the Troop has decided to take the elementary kids from the Calypso on a tour of the canals doesn’t mean that I should have to cancel my plans with Rade and Coura. The canals aren’t going anyplace, the concert is tonight only.”

“Let’s examine that position Dylan. Are you part of the Troop?”

I sneer and wave my hand over the uniform I’m wearing, “Apparently that is the case.”

“Is the Troop committed to taking those kids out to experience Mars?”

“Duh.” I use that just to annoy him, maybe he’ll get angry and leave me an opening. “They live on the Starship it is an opportunity to see one of the wonders of the core worlds first hand.” I’m of course quoting our scout leader.

“Do you agree that this is a worthy endeavor, in their place you would appreciate the gesture?”

“Probably. But I’m not in their place am I?”

“If you were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, so that’s a moot rejoinder. Is it worth or not?”

“Fine, yes, they’ll have a great time.” I seethe.

“So then, it is unfair that you must, as part of your troop, miss something that you would enjoy so that you might help others experience something that they will learn from and enjoy?”

“Basically yes. Why should I have to sacrifice what I want to do to make them happy? Is their happiness any more important than mine? I think not. Look, I like what we do in the scouts Uncle Ongus, but I don’t think I should have to put what they are doing ahead of everything I want to do. Sometimes you know, you want to do what is good for you and not worry about other people.”

“But you are part of the troop?”

“I believe we have established that. Hello, are you receiving me?”

“Were you forced to join the troop?”

I scoff. “Practically.”

“Practically? We drug you down to the scout center and forced you to sign your free time away did we?”

I sneer as I relent. “Okay, so maybe forced is the wrong term. Strongly Encouraged.”

He shifts his weight, which is quite a lot of shifting I note. It is annoying how he remained unflappable though. “But you had a choice. You have a choice now. You could quit, right?”

“Okay – yes! I had a choice. I could not do it and have you all disappointed and giving me those looks or I could do it and trade the lack of those looks for having to wear this dorky uniform and spend my free time helping other people. It’s a lesser of two annoyances.”

“First of all, me lad, that uniform is not Dorky. It’s a symbol for all to see that you are committed to being part of something larger than yourself. That you are willing to step up and take responsibility for yourself and others. That you are a citizen not just a resident. Don’t insult the symbol Dylan. As to the annoyances – we both know you enjoy being a scout. You are getting something out of it, while giving to others. Don’t you get to do things as a scout that others do not get to do? Tour Starships docked at Utopia Planetia, jamborees to Earth and Titan – what about that summer vacation excursion to Alpha Centauri and that girl you met… what was her name?”

I blush and flush at the same time. As usual he goes for the low blow. “Her name is Callista.” I point a finger at him, “Which you know very well since you were talking to her yesterday when I got home from the park.”

“Beside the point. The point is, yes, taking responsibility to be part of the community means sometimes you have to put others before yourself. But, by putting yourself out there you are exposed to more opportunities and you get back in spades. Even if the payback is a pretty girl on a far away planet.”

“Alpha Centauri is not that far away Uncle Ongus.” I try to change the subject.

“Far enough away you can dally with her there and still dally with the lasses right here in Bradbury. But that’s a type of responsibility we’ll talk about when you are a wee bit older. What we are talking about now is honoring your commitments. You volunteered to be an Explorer Scout. You earned the right to wear that uniform by doing so and by participating in scouting activities. You can quit right now. Heat up the comm system call Scout Master Blatsinov and tell him you’re out. Then you can take that off, go to your concert and enjoy. No one is stopping you.”

“I don’t want to *quit* the scouts Uncle Ongus. I just don’t want to go on this outing this one time.”

“That’s the thing when you make a commitment Dylan, you can’t just put it aside when it’s convenient and pick it back up. The Federation gives you choices – serve yourself alone or serve yourself by serving others. To be truly good at either form you have to stick to it. If you really want to be in Starfleet someday me lad, you may as well learn this lesson right now. That’s why you were strongly encouraged to be a scout. Anybody can occasionally reach out to help others. Starfleet requires more than that. You must *choose*. You must commit. You must see the responsibility for what it is and *own* it. It’s a completely different mode of living. Sometimes some responsibilities are too heavy for others, if you are able to take them on then it is your obligation to do so if you want to be a citizen. Everyone doing as much as they can, as a whole we all benefit.”

I have heard this before, maybe not exactly in this format. I feel an odd tightness in my chest, my stomach churns and I feel a creepy feeling up my spine. I’m starting to *get* it. “You position is then, it is not unfair because I have -- I’ve always had – I always will have the simple choice of accepting the responsibility or rejecting it. The same choice everyone else has. Whether they realize it or not.”

“You’re not just defined by what you say, Dylan. Not even just by what you do. You are defined by the responsibilities you choose to take on, everything else comes from that, success or failure. Ethically, intention is as important legality. When you take on a responsibility it becomes yours, what you do with it is yours. The choices you make and why you make them tell you the kind of man you are going to be. The kind of citizen. So, are you going to be the man who skipped showing some kids the wonders of Mars but saw a great concert, or the man who missed a great concert and showed some kids the wonders of Mars? Which choice is right for you?”

I shake my head, I’m angry still and frustrated but also amused and even grateful perhaps. “Get your coat Uncle Ongus, I’ll meet you in the speeder. Don’t want to keep those kids waiting because you choose to be late.”

197,725 B.C.E.

"You wanted to win an argument with your uncle," says the Iconian, still carressing Golden's head. "But you did not win. You did not do what you wanted. You had to sacrifice to make others happy. Because you are part of the group. Is that so? With everyone doing as much as they can, as a whole we benefit. You did not accept that you did not win, you changed your perception of winning. You learned to win for the benefit of others. Is this responsibility?"

Golden releases the cloak of the interrogator. He takes a few deep breaths looking down at himself as if assessing his own state. When he looks back up, some of the wildness has left his mein. His eyes are a bit brighter.

Golden says, "Changing your perception of winning or losing is not responsibility. I lost that argument in the sense that I had to concede my position was the faulty one in the face of Uncle Ongus' superior position -- but from the perspective of a life lesson learned, I won for having lost that engagement."

"Yes," says the creature, "You won because you changed your perception of winning." life lesson learned "To one where you win if others win."

Golden lifts his arm again, not grabbing this time, waving a finger to the negative. He looks at his hand for a moment as if surprised it obeyed him, but only for a beat before he rejoins, "You are confusing the point of the matter through the perspective of a twelve-year old. If going to the concert or not going was defined by terms of winning -- I always had to the choice on whether to win that or not because I always had the choice of going or not going. Uncle Ongus was not going to force me either way, I created the illusion of being forced. He pointed out the illusion, I chose. If you define the conversation in terms of who's point of view lost or won, he's point of view on my point of view defeated my position because I based it on false situational data. I had a choice. I made the choice. Learning that I always had the choice, that was the "victory" for both of us."

Insignificant, says the Inquisitor's silent pressure-voice. Its softly scraping audible voice says, "Uncle Ongus did not need to lose for you to win if you win where others win. You won. How did you win?"

Golden says, "There are many definitions of winning, I'm sure you are picking up on that. I won because I left that situation with a valuable prize I did not have before -- a beginning of the understanding of choice, and from that the roots of understanding responsibility and free will. There is always a choice. People often say otherwise, but there is always a choice. Ifni's duality demonstrates this. Even making no choice, is a choice. The choices you make are typically the basis for the consensus of perception of success or failure, we covered that earlier, but the individual determines the ultimate correctness or wrongness of the results of the choices them make for them. Society may or may not agree. Chosing to comply with the consensus of society -- that is also a choice. Like I'm chosing to talk to you rather than be tortured. That may change. And that will be my choice, not yours -- even if you put me back in the pain *right now* -- it was my choice to bait you into it."

The Inquisitor watches Golden with its many eyes and nods its seeping pale head in a manner that is not really communicative of assent, or of anything else. It says, "The prize you won was the understanding of responsibility and free will. What did you come to understand?"

Golden says, "I believe I've already expressed the lesson of that moment of my life, perhaps it is you who needs to understand. Short version responsibility does not abbrogate free will, nor does free will abbrogate responsibility; free will is choice, responsibility is something you can choose, one option of many. That responsibility is forced on you, that is the illusion. Do you have another topic or perhaps I can signal my readiness for you to try to torture me again by stating my name, rank and serial number and pushing you out of my head. Again."

"Do you choose responsibility?" asks the creature, pressing its strange hand gainst Golden's chest, gently encouraging him to lie back down again, initiating another buzzing in his head with the touch, its mental voice still audible over it, What does responsibility mean?

January 21st, 2368

“Are you okay son? You look a bit rattled.” My dad’s voice is warm, he’s concerned. Despite myself I appreciate that.

“Yeah – well – I just had a sit down with the Academy Candidacy Liaison. She came out from Utopia Planetia to talk to me.”

“Well! That is great news right. Everything on your application package stacking up, extra-curricular all in line, and of course that recommendation Ongus wrote for you was sheer poetry.”

“Not so great dad.” I have to confess. Dad’s cheerfulness is only making this whole thing worse. They’ve given me so much help preparing for the Academy. Always encouraging, always supporting – reminding me why I am trying to become a Starfleet officer when I get distracted. And now apparently, all for nothing.

“What do you mean, not so great?” He takes his eyes off the traffic flow and the anti-collision system chirps at him immediately forcing his eyes off of me and back on the road. Thank you autonav! Still, he expects and answer and I don’t really want to talk about this.

“What is the plan for dinner?” I try to change the subject and look ahead trying to find a place to get some take out and distract him further.

“Dylan,” his tone gets a bit sterner now. He knows what I am up to, he sees right through me. “What happened?”

I feel stupid. Small. I have this urge to bolt out at the intersection and just run. I am ashamed. I want to cry. What a wuss I am. Just part of the larger failure that is me.

“Dylan?” My father jars me out of my downward spiral into self pity. Damn it.

“Look dad – it’s a wash okay? She came to talk to me about my medical history and the reports she’s received about my excessive penchant for risk and what is worse, I apparently lead other young people into taking the same risks and the injuries that follow when something goes wrong. She said its not that I look to be unable to meet the needs of the academy – it’s that I exhibit signs of leadership of a style that Starfleet does *not* look for in its officers and that I might prove to be a detriment to myself and others.”

“So she told you that they were going to reject your application peremptorily?” He sounds surprised, dubious even. This makes me angrier.

“No dad, she came all the way out here to tell me I’m ultra keen and she can’t wait to have me getting people killed in uniform, myself included.”

“Watch yourself young man,” My father’s tone is stern and it makes me flinch. Great, cap off a perfect day by getting my father pissed at me too. Good plan Golden. Tactical Social Brilliance at work. Dad keeps talking, “What exactly did she tell you?”

I sigh. I really don’t want to go over this again. Why can’t he give me some space? “No dad, she didn’t say I was preemptively disqualified. She told me that my application package was looking very favorable, but if I did not adjust my lifestyle that I *would* be disqualified. Which is pretty much the same thing but it makes her look like less of a jerk, okay?”

“Not okay son. You are being ungrateful. That officer came all the way down to Bradbury to tell you – just one applicant of thousands – that you were jeopardizing your chances and you have time to correct this situation. She could have simply sent a comm.-message. She could have sent a letter. She took the time to come down and see you in person, get an eyes on feel for who you are and give you a chance. She didn’t have to do it Dylan. Maybe she wasn’t even supposed to. Maybe she saw something in you that inspired her to go that extra few thousand kilometers. Instead of being a petulant defeatist, maybe you should be grateful and focus on the real problem, which is apparently your attitude.”

Oh man, he is pissing me off. Why does it have to be *my* fault. The point is I’m not dead. Sure, canal racing can be dangerous, the free climbing, the orbital parachuting – but come on! My parents take people out to do this sort of thing for a *living*. I grew up around this; I know what I’m doing. Sure, sometimes there are some close calls, and sure, sometimes my friends can’t keep up the pace and they get hurt. But isn’t that *their* choice? What am I supposed to do, tell them they can’t play because they can’t hack it? I’m responsible for my choices; they are responsible for their choices.

“Dad. Riding the edge is what I do. It is not mutually exclusive to being a good citizen. In Starfleet someone has to be the one to volunteer to take those jobs that ride the razor – why can’t I be responsible and go where the action is? I’m not talking about fighting dad – I’m talking about the delicate rescue missions. I’m talking about the high pressure you must do everything right or everybody dies missions. Sometimes that means combat, sure, but it’s not about violence its about getting in where people *really* need your help and enjoying the rush along the way. You *can* get more out of helping others than just the sense of doing the right thing.”

“Yes son, you can. That doesn’t mean it’s the right way to do it though. You can’t go into this life you are trying to join looking for the next big kick. Big Kicks are for personal time, recreation time. When your mother and I take a group out, we aren’t thinking about our kicks, we’re thinking about the client. Keeping them safe, making sure they get to do what they came to do, making sure everybody comes home safe. Nobody is saying you can’t be in Starfleet and play for the rush, Dylan. But you can’t go to *work* looking for the rush. Those people you are talking about in vague terms are looking for *help*. You need to be focused on them. You need to be focused on the people you are leading. You are accepting responsibility for their lives by intruding yourself into the situation. If you are looking for a kick as a rider on the social contract, you aren’t giving them your one-hundred percent effort – and that means you are cheating them. Cheating yourself of realizing your full potential within the terms of the service you are volunteering to take on.”

“Dad, I understand what you are saying – but come on. There are going to be times when my one-hundred percent best effort is not required. If I can pick up some juice and bring some kick to a milk run, what’s the harm in that?”

My father frowns, and passes a quick look my way. I can feel his disapproval battering against my cocky bravado, but I’m not afraid. “First of all son, you are *never* going to know what those times are, because as soon as you decided you know what is going to happen absolutely, the Universe unveils the next surprise. Secondly, if you want to be an adrenaline junkie pushing the envelope – do that. Not my best choice for you, but do it. Be the best at it. If you want to be in Starfleet son, yes, your ability to ride the edge and keep it under the glove is a valuable ability and will find some use, but you need to remember always that you are wearing that uniform because you are committed to doing for those who cannot do for themselves – helping those who can do for themselves do better – and protecting those who can do better so they can do. Everybody contributes, each in their own way. Even daredevil’s have a purpose. Just not in Starfleet.”

“So you are telling me you agree with her?” I’m incredulous; I didn’t expect full agreement but not this.

“I should. I am the one that called her and asked her to come talk to you.”

I feel like I am going to explode. I look over at my father and a cavalcade of vile words fight for access to my lips, so I just mouth nothing. When I can speak I demand, “You did what! Why the hell would you try to screw me over dad! Damn! You’re supposed to be on my side! I can’t believe you would – God damn it!” I bash the dashboard of the car with my fist. It hurts, but not as much as my father’s betrayal.

“Son, I am on your side. I believe you can be an officer. I believe you could become one of the finest officers to put on that uniform. I also am your father, I have an obligation to help you become a man more than I do to help you become a guardian of the Federation. I am also a citizen, and that means if I didn’t do what I felt was best for Starfleet if I let you slip under the sensor sweep with your ability to charm and project what you know they are looking for, then the lives you risked including your own would be on my head. You need to know what you are getting in to, and they need to know what they are getting into if they accept you into their ranks. You have *got* to come correct or not come at all. Do you understand?”

“I understand that you told them I was reckless and an adrenaline junkie and more to the worry I convince people to come along for the ride toward self destruction with me. Thank you so much.” I am of course absolutely not grateful. If he wasn’t my father I’d actually consider knocking the calm earnest look right off his face. Hell, I consider it anyway.

“Did she tell you what Starfleet was looking for and what you would have to do to show them that you were Starfleet material or did she tell you not to apply?”

“She told me what I need to work on.”

“So you still have the opportunity.”

“Yes. Yes! I still have the opportunity. I just have to change my ways. I just have to be something else.”

“No, son. You just have to think about your motives and make your lifestyle harmonize with your desires. Take responsibility and commit to the course you have chosen, or chose a more appropriate heading. That’s called growing up. We all have to do it.”

“Easy for you to say, you never even tried to join Starfleet!” I snap at him, I want to hurt him like he hurt me.

“That’s because I knew that I didn’t have what it took. I was honest with myself. I respect Starfleet far too much to try to join it when I knew my interests would be split between its mission and the other things I want to excel at. Some people can do both, but I knew I wasn’t up to the task.”

“And you think I can?” I’m angry, but confused.

“Son, I think I have never in my life met a person who was more cut out to be in Starfleet who wasn’t already in it. I would say, you were born to do it. But destiny doesn’t override the need to commit -- whether you are talking about a career as an Opera singer, a physicist, or even a souvenir salesman. Decide what you are meant to be, and then give it everything you have. Be the best at what you do or don’t do it. Everyone deserves our best effort, if you can’t give that find something you can give it to and do that. To do otherwise is not only cheating your community, its cheating yourself. So, you were asking about dinner – how about that Greek-Andorian bistro by on 5th and Constitution?”

“Yeah, dad. That sounds good.” He is quiet. I am too. I have a lot to think about and a choice to make.

197,725 B.C.E.

"Is that responsibility? Getting in where people really need your help and enjoying the rush along the way?" joy of winning "Accepting responsibility for the lives of others is keeping them safe. Is it winningc for those who cannot win for themselves? Is it committing to do something? What is asked?" What is expected?

"Is that responsibility? Getting in where people really need your help and enjoying the rush along the way?" joy of winning "Accepting responsibility for the lives of others is keeping them safe. Is it winning for those who cannot win for themselves? Is it committing to do something? What is asked?" What is expected?