A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [52]
“But?” prodded Riker, sensing that the android was about to list examples.
“There was evidence to the contrary. To begin with, the mode of warfare was a little too primitive. Beyond that, the forces in each conflict zone were employed haphazardly. I could detect no concerted efforts to achieve victory over opposing forces. Only isolated skirmishes, which ultimately achieved nothing. Finally, there was the manner in which events were recorded-as if the agency charged with recording them could predict their eventual outcome.”
The android tapped in a new code and the image changed again. Now they were watching some sort of ambush-in-the-making. One group lay belly-down on a cliff, waiting for another group to pass beneath it.
“In this instance,” said Data, “we have by turns followed the adventures of both groups-long before we knew that they would meet. Yet to concentrate on these two parties, out of all the possible subjects in the zone, those directing the broadcast must have known the outcome ahead of time.”
Riker nodded. “And the reason no one warns the party about to be ambushed-no general, or anything like that-is because it’s meant to happen. Is that what you’re saying? That it’s staged, in some sense?” He snapped his fingers. “Like… like a theatrical event?”
“Precisely,” said the android. “At one time, possibly, these Conflicts represented real disputes. Then they came to serve this other purpose, and their original intent became secondary-if, indeed, it is still of any importance at all.”
The first officer paused to digest it all. “All right,” he said finally. “It all seems to fit-except for the soldiers themselves. What’s their incentive? Not patriotism, obviously. Who would want to risk their life in an entertainment?” He massaged his temple with a forefinger, then answered his own question. “Money, then. The combatants must be mercenaries. Or slaves-fighting for their freedom? That’s the way it worked in ancient Rome.”
Data waited patiently for him to finish. His amber eyes seemed to take on a strange cast-one Riker couldn’t decipher, not even after all the time they’d spent together since the human joined the Enterprise.
“I too considered these possibilities,” said the android. “Until I saw this.”
Tap. Tap tap. His long, slender fingers worked the keyboard of the hologram generator.
The tableau that materialized was one of pure carnage. The aftermath of a bloody encounter.
There was one figure in the foreground-a corpse. A corpse with its helm torn away, its eyes staring at infinity.
A Klingon corpse.
So unprepared was Riker for that sight, so shocked, that he heard his strangled denial even before he knew he’d voiced it.
Then he had time to see the projection more clearly, and his stomach muscles unclenched. He lowered himself back into his chair.
“I know,” said Data. “At first glance, I also feared that it was Worf. Then I realized-as you have, sir-that it was not.” He gazed at the hang-jaw-dead visage, and Riker thought he understood now the hardness in the android’s eyes. “Nonetheless, this told me something-that at least some of the combatants are not native to A’klah. Of course, I have since discovered this to be a gross underestimation. In all the hours of broadcasts I observed, I saw not a single native A’klahn.”
Riker grunted. Then that was it-that was the answer.
“Our people,” he said, “have been pressed into service-drafted. To provide a diversion for the Klah’kimmbri.”
Data nodded. “So it would seem.”
Riker’s throat constricted. He felt his cheeks growing hot.
“The arrogance of these people,” he muttered. “The damned arrogance. To whisk unoffending crews off their own ships…” He found himself unable to express what he was feeling. Anger? Resentment? Embarrassment? All