A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [8]
Geordi considered it for a moment-what it would be like to be Homer, the greatest bard of his age. To have all that knowledge, all that poetry and legend stored in his mind. And to know that it was gradually abandoning him. Not just his inner world, but his only world-because for blind Homer, the world outside was something forever beyond his reach.
Then he caught himself. Wait a minute. This isn’t Homer, not really. This is just a simulation generated by the holodeck computer. The real Homer died around 700 B.C., back on Earth. How can you feel sorry for someone who no longer exists?
But when he looked at the sightless old gentleman walking alongside him through the fig orchards, it was hard to be quite so logical. Maybe it wasn’t the fall of Troy, exactly-but it was a tragedy nonetheless.
“Is that pity?” asked Homer abruptly. “I can feel it coming through your pores.”
Geordi swallowed. It was frightening just how perceptive this simulation appeared to be.
“Don’t weep for Homer,” said the poet. “Weep for Odysseus and Menelaos, Akhilleus and Hektor. When my memory dies, so do they.”
Over the hills, the moon was just coming up. It was large, a pale and luminous shade of blue.
“I wouldn’t worry,” said Geordi. “I think you’ll find that there will be others to take up the stories. Just as they were passed down to you.”
Homer harumphed. “I wonder. Poeting isn’t the honored profession it once was. With so few new bards, our numbers dwindle all the time. In a generation or two, we may vanish entirely from the face of the earth.”
“That won’t happen,” said Geordi. “Not ever.”
“You sound so sure. No man can see the future.”
Geordi couldn’t help but smile. “Why’s that? I thought it was a storyteller’s job to see things that aren’t there.”
Homer laughed heartily. “You lift my spirits, Geordi.” A pause. “Have you ever thought of becoming a bard yourself?”
Geordi shrugged. “Once or twice, I guess. When I was younger. But that’s not really what I’m good at. I like… well, machines. Engines. Warp…” He stopped himself. “Things like that.”
“Machines, eh? That is one of the ways I’ve always thought of Odysseus. An engineer, a builder of things mechanical. The home, for instance, that carried the invaders into Troy.”
“You know,” said Geordi, “I’ve always been curious about that. I mean… didn’t anyone at all think to look inside?”
“I have to admit,” said Homer, “I’ve wondered about that myself.” The moon pulled free of the hills as he thought about it. “My best guess is that Cassandra helped the Greeks without knowing it. Everyone considered the girl insane, you see. No one wanted to be associated with her. So when she warned them about the horse, everyone rushed forth to embrace it. To prove their sanity, as it were.”
Geordi smiled. “That would explain it, I guess.”
There were other questions he’d like to have asked. About the construction of the horse, for instance-an engineer’s curiosity. But it occurred to him that his holodeck time was almost up, and he didn’t want to be a pig about it.
“What’s wrong, my friend?” Homer’s brow had creased. “The muscles in your arm just tensed.”
“Nothing,” said Geordi. “Nothing really. It’s just that it’s time for me to go.”
Homer nodded. “Back where you came from.” It wasn’t a question. “That faraway place.”
“Yes. But I’ve still got time to walk you back to the house.”
“Thank you,” said the poet. “I am grateful.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Geordi.
Commander William Riker felt as if he had done something wrong somehow. He said so.
“You shouldn’t,” said Troi. “You acted just as he would have expected-you put the welfare of the ship and its crew first.”
They stood forward of the control consoles, dwarfed by the magnitude of the celestial tableau on the viewscreen. Her tone, like his, was confidential.
“Sure. But now that I think about it, the effect was a little humiliating-wasn’t it? I mean, to be shooed from your own bridge like some kind of worn-out part… especially when your defenses are down,