An Electric Shepherd In The Elysian Fields
Posted: 2003-02-05 08:27pm
First draft is done. I'd like to get Mike's reaction to the idea of posting it to the main page. As much as we all rag on Trek here, I kind of felt it might be fitting to honor one of their number who actually did something noteworthy, even if it was only dying to protect people. Yes, Spock did it, too -- and if they bring Data back the way they did Spock, we can always take this thing down.
An Electric Shepherd In The Elysian Fields
The sky outside Valdez, Alaska at high noon is awe-inspiring. Bright, almost glacial, it stretches almost beyond comprehension. Sure, Cochrane may roll in his grave (if he has one), but I say Montana be damned -- this is Big Sky Country.
Right -- enough stalling. I wasn't here to see the sights, or sample the food, or gawk up at the sun like some stupefied cavedweller... still stalling.
Funerals have never been my thing, and this is no easy task. It is doubly difficult in light of the identity of the honored dead. I went into this as if I were about to hear the punchline of some lame riddle: how do you mourn the death of something that was never alive? I'm having a hard time reconciling that flippant attitude with the way I feel now...
Tables covered with immaculate white linen embossed with the Starfleet Delta and surrounded by modest chairs stretched away before a small stage with a podium, itself flanked by a pair of speakers. Suspended just above it was a repeater display for the benefit of those of us seated toward the back. To the side was a small bandstand. From my seat, I could faintly make out an archaic drum set, a saxophone, and two guitars -- one bass, the other unfamiliar.
I recognized some of the faces as we'd made our way to our seats: Captain Jean-Luc Picard, the eagle of this particular nest; his former XO, Captain William Riker and Mrs. (Lt. Cmmdr.) Deanna Troi Riker; Enterprise CMO Beverly Crusher; her son, former Starfleet Ensign Wesley Crusher... all the the Enterprise crew, and the senior staff of Riker's ship, the Titan, most of whom have yet to make names for themselves, for good or ill.
But the one to whom most eyes kept drifting sat beside the glowering Lt. Cmmdr. Worf -- a placid face with vacant golden eyes stared back at everyone in turn, while registering, it seemed, nothing at all. The lights were on, as the old saying goes, but nobody was home. I couldn't look at it more than once...
I've had the opportunity to ditch out on a Picard speech on a few occasions... but being invited to cover a funeral is beyond bizarre, and this aspect of the thing alone was sufficient to pique my journalistic curiosity and keep me in my seat... for now, anyway.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Picard began, "at this time I'd like to extend my thanks to all of you for joining my senior staff -- and former senior staff -- here today. I am pleased that those of you who remember our fallen comrade so fondly were able to take the time to be with us."
A general murmur rolled through the crowd.
"It has taken me some time," Picard continued, "to determine how I might best organize these proceedings. This solemn duty would have been well expedited with the aid of a less partial voice... someone who could step back and see the big picture, distill all the revelant facts into a cogent thesis, and suggest the most effective route through this jungle of thorns to the place of quiet comfort we must now seek. Unfortunately, it is the absence of this very man that sets us on this journey."
Standard hype and melodrama. I thought wearily. Get on with it, man! Say something!
"Therefore," Picard intoned, "I have decided to let those of you who knew him best say a few words. I will then follow with a final announcement, and we will conclude with the dedication. Mister Crusher, if you would be so kind?"
I thumbed the control on my PDT -- the Table of Contents for the Event Programme didn't say anything about a "dedication"... what the hell?
Wesley Crusher approached the podium -- so this was the plan -- torture us to induce misery, then have someone holograph our berevement and claim that we mourned Picard's pet calculator.
"I haven't seen Data in a long time." Crusher said, rather timidly. I left the Enterprise 8 years ago, and I didn't really get around to sending too many letters home."
Oh, Christ, quit talking to your mother from the podium and get it over with. I urged.
"But I can tell you what I remember." Crusher couldn't seem to look at us. "I remember a teacher. A guiding hand who was always patient, always willing to point out the obvious to a young kid whose reach very often exceeded his grasp. And I remember a friend. Someone who really understood..." Crusher paused for a drink of water. He seemed to be having a little trouble swallowing. "...understood what I wanted, because in his own way, I think he wanted the same thing... that's -- that's all, thank you." Crusher stepped down, looking somehow both ages older and very much younger than his 29 years.
Captain William Riker, former Enterprise first officer patted him on the shoulder as he replaced Crusher at the podium. "It took some time," Riker gazed out at the audience. "to decide how I wanted to remember Data. Inevitably, there are going to be people who will ask why we went to all this trouble over a machine. Why do we mourn his death, they'll ask, when we're not even really sure he was alive in the first place?" He looked pointedly at me when he said this. Note to self: never speak to Reginald Barclay in candor.
"But the truth is that, for those who knew Data, the question just doesn't apply. Data was everything a person could want in a friend: for starters, he was fair. He would never ask anything of his friends -- when he asked anything of us at all -- that he wouldn't do himself, in a heartbeat. He accepted victory and defeat alike with grace... and even style. He was also unfailingly honest. He wouldn't hesitate to tell you if you had done something foolish -- in his own way, of course. But..." Riker trailed off, then cleared his throat. "But there was one thing he told me, over and over again, that I never believed."
The audience sat expectantly. Overhead, a bird cried out in the empty sky.
"I never believed that he didn't care." Riker's voice cracked. "When I had to prosecute the claim that Data was nothing but property, I saw him worry. When he help save a lonely little girl on a dying planet, I saw compassion. When he led my rescue from the asylum on Tilonus IV, I saw loyalty. And when I was told he was gone... I saw a hero. I refuse to believe that Data was nothing more than circuitry and duraplast and molybdenum alloy. I refuse to believe that he was anything less than the best of us. I refuse to believe that the Tin Man had no heart." His voice finally broke, and Captain Riker stepped down.
Picard retook his place at the podium; the sunlight brought out the years on his face. He stood there for a long moment, not speaking. Finally, he cleared his throat. "Before I came here, I had prepared a speech. A very long, and -- I felt -- very eloquent commemoration of an outstanding officer and a dear friend. I thought that fifteen minutes of prettily-worded praise would somehow do justice to the memory of our friend. I no longer have that speech." A ripple of confusion swept the audience. "What I do have," Picard continued, "are two announcements and a dedication."
An object was beamed in behind the podium next to Picard. The repeater above the stage focused on it, showing case containing a Starfleet uniform with the mustard Ops Division shirt underneath. Affixed to the collar were rank pips; two gold, one black.
Picard removed the black pip. "In recognition of exemplary service above and beyond the call of duty," he said, "it is my honor and privilege to award Lieutenant Commander Data this -- sadly overdue -- promotion to full Commander." He replaced the black rank pip with a third gold.
There was subdued applause as the case containing the uniform beamed out again.
"It is also my privilege to inform you," Picard said quietly, "that in recognition of Commander Data's achievements, both as a Starfleet officer and as brother to Lore and B-4 and son of Dr. Noonien Soong, that Commander Data will henceforth be remembered as Commander Data Soong."
The faces around me registered surprise... then Captain Riker was smiling, and it seemed infectious...
"And finally," Picard announced, "by order of Vice Admiral Brunnhauser, approved by the City of Valdez, this park will henceforth be known as Data Soong Park." Picard checked some information on the podium's integrated PADD. "The dedication plaque and park tour holo are now online. I can think of no more fitting way to remember our friend and celebrate his search for his own inner nature than with this celebration of nature in which we find ourselves today."
The applause returned, this time nowhere near subdued.
Someone was moving... it was it. Him. Whatever. B-4 had left its seat and was making its way slowly through the crowd. It tapped on the shoulder of a young lieutenant I didn't recognize -- probably from the Titan -- who followed it toward Riker. Riker stood, smiling strangely, and followed it as well, bringing two more young officers.
Picard was confused, "Captain? What's going on here?"
Before Riker could answer, though, the B-4 spoke up. "I... I want to do this." it said, pointing in the direction of the side stage... the music. "Can I?"
"It was his idea, sir." Riker said. "He sent us the music via subspace as soon as we entered the system. We've been rehearsing all night." Riker grinned. "Surprise..."
They assembled on the side stage. Riker took up the sax, while the two younger officers took their places -- one sat at the drums, the other lifting the bass guitar. The B-4 slipped a metal ring onto one of its fingers and took up the standard guitar. Then it said, "For you... brother." And smiled.
It picked out a string of chords... long, lonely, haunted sounds that wailed in the cold sunlight... the drums and bass kicked in, and when the android began to sing, even Worf was silent...
I can't recall a time
So many children had the blues
Can't recall a time
So many children had the blues
This world's a painted picture
They're growing up too fast
The innocence of childhood
Just a mem'ry from the past
And I can't recall a time
Lord I can't recall a time
So many elders lived in fear
Can't recall the time
So many elders lived in fear
Crime and disrespect
Have them locked behind closed doors
Stretching out fixed incomes
While the cost of living soars
And I can't recall the time
My, my, my...
I found out later that they called that style of music, "Blues." Afterward, just before the drinking got underway, I shook its hand -- his hand. I asked him why he picked that song.
"I don't know," he said, that same strange, small smile resurfacing. "I just like it. I think my brother would've liked it, too." Then the smile faded, and creases formed around the eyes. "I wish he were here."
An Electric Shepherd In The Elysian Fields
The sky outside Valdez, Alaska at high noon is awe-inspiring. Bright, almost glacial, it stretches almost beyond comprehension. Sure, Cochrane may roll in his grave (if he has one), but I say Montana be damned -- this is Big Sky Country.
Right -- enough stalling. I wasn't here to see the sights, or sample the food, or gawk up at the sun like some stupefied cavedweller... still stalling.
Funerals have never been my thing, and this is no easy task. It is doubly difficult in light of the identity of the honored dead. I went into this as if I were about to hear the punchline of some lame riddle: how do you mourn the death of something that was never alive? I'm having a hard time reconciling that flippant attitude with the way I feel now...
Tables covered with immaculate white linen embossed with the Starfleet Delta and surrounded by modest chairs stretched away before a small stage with a podium, itself flanked by a pair of speakers. Suspended just above it was a repeater display for the benefit of those of us seated toward the back. To the side was a small bandstand. From my seat, I could faintly make out an archaic drum set, a saxophone, and two guitars -- one bass, the other unfamiliar.
I recognized some of the faces as we'd made our way to our seats: Captain Jean-Luc Picard, the eagle of this particular nest; his former XO, Captain William Riker and Mrs. (Lt. Cmmdr.) Deanna Troi Riker; Enterprise CMO Beverly Crusher; her son, former Starfleet Ensign Wesley Crusher... all the the Enterprise crew, and the senior staff of Riker's ship, the Titan, most of whom have yet to make names for themselves, for good or ill.
But the one to whom most eyes kept drifting sat beside the glowering Lt. Cmmdr. Worf -- a placid face with vacant golden eyes stared back at everyone in turn, while registering, it seemed, nothing at all. The lights were on, as the old saying goes, but nobody was home. I couldn't look at it more than once...
I've had the opportunity to ditch out on a Picard speech on a few occasions... but being invited to cover a funeral is beyond bizarre, and this aspect of the thing alone was sufficient to pique my journalistic curiosity and keep me in my seat... for now, anyway.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Picard began, "at this time I'd like to extend my thanks to all of you for joining my senior staff -- and former senior staff -- here today. I am pleased that those of you who remember our fallen comrade so fondly were able to take the time to be with us."
A general murmur rolled through the crowd.
"It has taken me some time," Picard continued, "to determine how I might best organize these proceedings. This solemn duty would have been well expedited with the aid of a less partial voice... someone who could step back and see the big picture, distill all the revelant facts into a cogent thesis, and suggest the most effective route through this jungle of thorns to the place of quiet comfort we must now seek. Unfortunately, it is the absence of this very man that sets us on this journey."
Standard hype and melodrama. I thought wearily. Get on with it, man! Say something!
"Therefore," Picard intoned, "I have decided to let those of you who knew him best say a few words. I will then follow with a final announcement, and we will conclude with the dedication. Mister Crusher, if you would be so kind?"
I thumbed the control on my PDT -- the Table of Contents for the Event Programme didn't say anything about a "dedication"... what the hell?
Wesley Crusher approached the podium -- so this was the plan -- torture us to induce misery, then have someone holograph our berevement and claim that we mourned Picard's pet calculator.
"I haven't seen Data in a long time." Crusher said, rather timidly. I left the Enterprise 8 years ago, and I didn't really get around to sending too many letters home."
Oh, Christ, quit talking to your mother from the podium and get it over with. I urged.
"But I can tell you what I remember." Crusher couldn't seem to look at us. "I remember a teacher. A guiding hand who was always patient, always willing to point out the obvious to a young kid whose reach very often exceeded his grasp. And I remember a friend. Someone who really understood..." Crusher paused for a drink of water. He seemed to be having a little trouble swallowing. "...understood what I wanted, because in his own way, I think he wanted the same thing... that's -- that's all, thank you." Crusher stepped down, looking somehow both ages older and very much younger than his 29 years.
Captain William Riker, former Enterprise first officer patted him on the shoulder as he replaced Crusher at the podium. "It took some time," Riker gazed out at the audience. "to decide how I wanted to remember Data. Inevitably, there are going to be people who will ask why we went to all this trouble over a machine. Why do we mourn his death, they'll ask, when we're not even really sure he was alive in the first place?" He looked pointedly at me when he said this. Note to self: never speak to Reginald Barclay in candor.
"But the truth is that, for those who knew Data, the question just doesn't apply. Data was everything a person could want in a friend: for starters, he was fair. He would never ask anything of his friends -- when he asked anything of us at all -- that he wouldn't do himself, in a heartbeat. He accepted victory and defeat alike with grace... and even style. He was also unfailingly honest. He wouldn't hesitate to tell you if you had done something foolish -- in his own way, of course. But..." Riker trailed off, then cleared his throat. "But there was one thing he told me, over and over again, that I never believed."
The audience sat expectantly. Overhead, a bird cried out in the empty sky.
"I never believed that he didn't care." Riker's voice cracked. "When I had to prosecute the claim that Data was nothing but property, I saw him worry. When he help save a lonely little girl on a dying planet, I saw compassion. When he led my rescue from the asylum on Tilonus IV, I saw loyalty. And when I was told he was gone... I saw a hero. I refuse to believe that Data was nothing more than circuitry and duraplast and molybdenum alloy. I refuse to believe that he was anything less than the best of us. I refuse to believe that the Tin Man had no heart." His voice finally broke, and Captain Riker stepped down.
Picard retook his place at the podium; the sunlight brought out the years on his face. He stood there for a long moment, not speaking. Finally, he cleared his throat. "Before I came here, I had prepared a speech. A very long, and -- I felt -- very eloquent commemoration of an outstanding officer and a dear friend. I thought that fifteen minutes of prettily-worded praise would somehow do justice to the memory of our friend. I no longer have that speech." A ripple of confusion swept the audience. "What I do have," Picard continued, "are two announcements and a dedication."
An object was beamed in behind the podium next to Picard. The repeater above the stage focused on it, showing case containing a Starfleet uniform with the mustard Ops Division shirt underneath. Affixed to the collar were rank pips; two gold, one black.
Picard removed the black pip. "In recognition of exemplary service above and beyond the call of duty," he said, "it is my honor and privilege to award Lieutenant Commander Data this -- sadly overdue -- promotion to full Commander." He replaced the black rank pip with a third gold.
There was subdued applause as the case containing the uniform beamed out again.
"It is also my privilege to inform you," Picard said quietly, "that in recognition of Commander Data's achievements, both as a Starfleet officer and as brother to Lore and B-4 and son of Dr. Noonien Soong, that Commander Data will henceforth be remembered as Commander Data Soong."
The faces around me registered surprise... then Captain Riker was smiling, and it seemed infectious...
"And finally," Picard announced, "by order of Vice Admiral Brunnhauser, approved by the City of Valdez, this park will henceforth be known as Data Soong Park." Picard checked some information on the podium's integrated PADD. "The dedication plaque and park tour holo are now online. I can think of no more fitting way to remember our friend and celebrate his search for his own inner nature than with this celebration of nature in which we find ourselves today."
The applause returned, this time nowhere near subdued.
Someone was moving... it was it. Him. Whatever. B-4 had left its seat and was making its way slowly through the crowd. It tapped on the shoulder of a young lieutenant I didn't recognize -- probably from the Titan -- who followed it toward Riker. Riker stood, smiling strangely, and followed it as well, bringing two more young officers.
Picard was confused, "Captain? What's going on here?"
Before Riker could answer, though, the B-4 spoke up. "I... I want to do this." it said, pointing in the direction of the side stage... the music. "Can I?"
"It was his idea, sir." Riker said. "He sent us the music via subspace as soon as we entered the system. We've been rehearsing all night." Riker grinned. "Surprise..."
They assembled on the side stage. Riker took up the sax, while the two younger officers took their places -- one sat at the drums, the other lifting the bass guitar. The B-4 slipped a metal ring onto one of its fingers and took up the standard guitar. Then it said, "For you... brother." And smiled.
It picked out a string of chords... long, lonely, haunted sounds that wailed in the cold sunlight... the drums and bass kicked in, and when the android began to sing, even Worf was silent...
I can't recall a time
So many children had the blues
Can't recall a time
So many children had the blues
This world's a painted picture
They're growing up too fast
The innocence of childhood
Just a mem'ry from the past
And I can't recall a time
Lord I can't recall a time
So many elders lived in fear
Can't recall the time
So many elders lived in fear
Crime and disrespect
Have them locked behind closed doors
Stretching out fixed incomes
While the cost of living soars
And I can't recall the time
My, my, my...
I found out later that they called that style of music, "Blues." Afterward, just before the drinking got underway, I shook its hand -- his hand. I asked him why he picked that song.
"I don't know," he said, that same strange, small smile resurfacing. "I just like it. I think my brother would've liked it, too." Then the smile faded, and creases formed around the eyes. "I wish he were here."
