Go To Part Seven
Return To Part Five
“That’s not an “I’m enjoying the scenery” face, is it?” Lian Rendell speculated.
At this point in their voyage, the two officers from the Drake did have some compelling natural vistas to admire. The shuttle-car had emerged from the mountain range tunnels at last and was travelling on its track just above a lovely wooded valley.
Noel DelMonde was sitting with his feet propped up on the control panel and his arms crossed behind his head. “Jus' figurin' on what a hybrid 'tween that ol' Landru computer an' Federation tech would look like.”
The engineer had been able to puzzle out the little vessel’s food services functions. It turned out that the thing could produce a fairly decent cup of ersatz coffee. The doctor walked to the dispenser and ordered herself a cup. “Not a pretty picture?”
“Depend on which end of it is pointed at you, I guess,” the Cajun replied, philosophically.
“Be careful,” the doctor warned. “If you keep thinking hard enough, you’re going to find that you have invented the very machine the kidnappers want.”
“Yeah, I workin' that direction all right,” the engineer agreed wearily. “In th' preliminary research we did fo' th' mission prep, we not able t' narrow down th; energy source they usin' down here. Once you figure in that it looks to be borolithium crystals, though…”
R endell removed her coffee from the dispenser. “That clarifies the situation?”
“Somewhat. I mean, they’s a half dozen or so ways you can process the borolithium. It’s reflective, refractive… You can even rig it up so you can cut wit' it… like diamonds…”
The Haven wrinkled her nose and waggled her ring finger. “Doesn’t make pretty jewelry, though.”
“No, it not have a great depth o' color to it, but it is extremely resonant. An' we knowed that these folks here done some work wit' sonics…”
“Kirk and his team were attacked by the Landru computer using sonics to knock them out.” With a gesture, the doctor silently asked if the engineer would like a cup of coffee.
With a movement of his shoulders, the Cajun expressed both his acceptance of the offer and his low opinion of the beverage available. “Th' original Landru might have used neuro-sonics t' work his mind control mojo.”
“That is frighteningly plausible.” Rendell punched in another order for black coffee. “I suppose you’re thinking of the Doron Group on Europa and their experiments in the late 22nd century to use specific frequencies to modulate the Human limbic systems – particularly the amygdala and hypothalamus.”
Delmonde nodded. “Them crazies was able t' zombie-fy a good chunk o' that colony.”
The doctor made a face as the dispenser obediently produced another cup of steaming black liquid. “And literally fry the brains of many of the rest.”
“Neither Earth nor Mars has a resonator wit' th' sonic-energetic qualities o' either dilithium or borolithium,” the engineer mused. “That what you need fo' an operation that precise. Anyt'ing else is like tryin' to tattoo picture o' a butterfly on an eggshell usin' a sledgehammer.”
“I assume that the Doron Group experiments put quite the damper on further experimentation with neuro-sonic manipulation on the part of Federation scientists,” Rendell said, handing DelMonde his coffee.
“Yep.” The engineer accepted the drink with a nod of thanks. “We generally frown on literal brain-fryin'. Humans are funny like that.”
“However,” the doctor said, taking the seat opposite him. “On this planet, no such legal or moral impediments apparently existed…”
“Yep, so good ol’ Landru was free t' mad scientist away…”
“His intentions could have been quite beneficent,” the Haven pointed out, sipping her drink. “If the native brain structure is as similar as it seems to be, precise sonic manipulation of targeted regions of the area corresponding to the Human amygdala could take a patient suffering from uncontrolled rage and terror and move them to a state of…”
“Bliss?” DelMonde suggested with a smile, knowingly quoting the preliminary report.
“Seems to fit, doesn’t it?”
“Like a danged glove.” The engineer took a long sip of his coffee. “Borolithium crystals could be integrated into th' architecture in ways that team might not have noticed.”
The doctor tapped on the seemingly glass panel of the cockpit in front of her. “In the windows?”
“Even crushed up in what might look like concrete.” The Cajun made a mashing gesture of his free hand to illustrate. “You’d have to know what you were lookin' fo' an' point a tricorder at it t' find th' stuff. My guess is that borolithium is everywhere in that city. When it was operational, the Landru computer was runnin' a kind o' a sonic neural net that could blanket th' entire area.”
Rendell frowned and shook her head. “If the Orions want to use Landru’s neuro-sonics, they’re going to need a lot of borolithium.”
“Not necessarily.” The engineer smiled and wagged a finger. “This is why they are so hyped 'bout someone like me crossbreedin' th' Landru computer system wit' Federation tech. After th' Doron Group, neuro-sonics were outlawed seven ways from Sunday. That was enough t' stop any rush to th' patent office, but that not mean we not able t' do shit like that no more…”
“Ahhh.” The Haven smiled and nodded. “…And do it very, very well, I would think. Contemporary Federation neural interface technology paired with Landru’s system would be infinitely more precise.”
“If th' mind control aspects o' Landru’s neuro-sonics works th' way we t'ink it does, a hybrid incorporatin' modern Federation technology would probably eliminate all those pesky 'immune' folks, fo' example.”
The doctor nodded. “Our bio-computers would be much more flexible, more able to 'learn' which frequencies are most effective on which individuals and under which situations. And clever people like you would also probably be able to devise hybrid instrumentation that could be powered by crystals other than borolithium, wouldn’t you?”
“You could work th' same trick wit' dilthium or a half-dozen other t'ings we got access to these days,” the engineer confirmed. “Jus' need t' be careful t' skip the brain fryin' stuff, though…”
“Dilithium…” Rendell’s features contracted into a worried frown. “Build this technology into a spaceship….”
“An' the whole t'ing becomes a flyin' resonator.” The Cajun nodded. “Zombie-fyin' folks wherever you go.”
“Oh, this is dangerous stuff….”Rendell blew out a long worried breath before taking another fortifying sip of her coffee. “Very potentially attractive to the Orions. Worth risking a bit of a diplomatic brush-up with the Federation.”
“Worth killin' folks fo',” the engineer affirmed glumly. “Namely us.”
Rendell pointed a warning finger at him. “Not until after you invent this hybrid device for them.”
“Yeah, but wit' stakes this high, they gonna be willin' to play mighty rough,” DelMonde countered. “An' us takin' this jaunt is quite definitely not part o' th' plan.”
“So,” the doctor said, setting her coffee down in alarm. “You’re assuming that when we arrive in Peace City…”
The Cajun nodded grimly. “Somebody gonna be waitin' fo' us…”
“Vale to Drake! Vale to Drake! Emergency beam up! Emer…“ The lieutenant shook the non-functioning device in frustration. “I’m not getting a signal.”
“Your ship is out of range?” Lindstrom was holding back bystanders who had gathered to gawk with his wide-spread arms.
Vale was on his knees on the plot of neatly trimmed grass where the communicators had fallen. “No, it’s not that,” he replied, continuing to twist the puzzlingly un-lit controls a bit stupidly. “This unit is… Some kind of malfunction…”
“Try the other one!” the director suggested, pointing towards it with his foot. He turned to his Security Chief. “What about Sulu?”
Rani Bachchan was seated on the pavement where the captain of the Drake had fallen. She had pulled his head and shoulders onto her lap and was smoothing his hair back from his face gently. “He’s breathing.”
Tristan Vale found himself staring at her. A random data point floated through his mind reminding him that Human widows wore black.
“I am in shock,” he realized. “Too many emotions... Too many people….Too much to process. Sort it all out later…. Focus! Focus!”
Numbly, the Indiian reached for the second communicator. When he flipped it open, it also remained strangely silent and dull. “Vale to… Nothing.”
Lindstrom’s people burst from the side doors Parliament Building and began to belatedly work their way through the crowd to them.
“We’ve had these kind of attacks before,” Lindstrom said as a pair of aides took his place and commenced directing bystanders back from the scene. “A few times they’ve knocked out communications for a couple hours.”
Bachchan gestured urgently to more personnel arriving on the scene with a stretcher. “We should get him to the hospital.”
“The ship…” Vale protested helplessly, still gripping his pair of non-functional communicators.
“There’s no way to contact your ship right now, Lieutenant.” Lindstrom held out a hand to help him up. “Come with us. We have to get him stabilized.”
Vale closed his eyes against the sickening swirl of emotions inside and around him. “Focus,” he coached himself sternly, putting the communicators in his jacket pocket. “Process. Focus.”
“Yes,” he decided, reaching up to accept the director’s aid.
“Okay, boys, ya’ll got me,” Noel DelMonde genially raised his hands as he stepped out of the shuttlecar. “Let’s all settle down.”
The transport had come to a stop at a subterranean station in the tunnels below Peace City. A group of six brown-robed figured were waiting on the platform with their pipe-weapons at the ready when the doors of the shuttle opened.
“Where is the woman?” the leader demanded.
“Oh?” Delmonde gestured towards the shuttle nonchalantly. “You mean my friend?”
Another brown-robe brandished his weapon. “Where is she?”
“The lady is of a high-strung an' sensitive disposition,” the engineer explained with an air of polite apology. “She was greatly fatigued by recent events, so I let her off at a previous stop t' check into a hotel an' get some rest.”
The kidnappers stepped back and exchanged glances, caucusing silently over the plausibility of this claim.
An acolyte at the end of the platform shook his head slowly. “The Archon lies,” he objected, pointing an accusing finger at the engineer.
The Cajun gave the group a sweetly innocent smile. “Who me?” he asked, pointing at his chest.
“Check the interior,” the leader ordered. However, there was hesitation to his tone that suggested that he might not wish to do such a potentially unpleasant task himself.
“Oh, why put yourself t' th' bother?” DelMonde asked in an extremely mellifluous and friendly tone. “Ya’ll not th' leas' bit interested in her, non? It me you want. An' you done got me. Right?”
As if to test that point, the engineer, with hands still raised, strolled boldly through the crowd of brown-robes to the other side of the platform.
“An' th' dang clock is clickin' on this t'ing, non?” he asked with genial concern, before turning his back on them and starting to walk slowly away. “So I be t'inkin' that ya’ll had best get your tails in gear.”
“Archon!” several of the brown-robes protested. “Archon! Where are you..?”
“Ya’ll need t' get me t' place where I s’posed to go, right?” The Cajun called over his shoulder, continuing slowly forward. “Wit'out no shilly-shallyin' 'round, non? Or there gonna be hell t' pay, I suspect…”
“Enough of this!” the leader ordered, gesturing to his subordinates. “Take him.”
Once the natives had recaptured their jovially recalcitrant captive and hustled him from the station, Dr. Rendell emerged from the shuttlecar where she had been crouching against the interior half-wall nearest the door, lightly concealed only by the cover of the engineer’s discarded frock coat.
The two officers from the Drake had projected a number of scenarios to oppose whoever met them at the station. Rendell was quite relieved that their greeting party had turned out to be merely the local yokels and the combat strategy implemented did not involve her coming out “phaser blazing” as had been discussed. Although she had agreed to the plan in theory, she was not entirely positive about how skillfully she could have executed the stratagem in practice – particularly if they had been met by some dreadful, bulked-up, Orion trader types. She was certain she could not have played the part of the armed commando with the graceful élan with which the engineer had deployed his tel-empathic abilities to re-direct their befuddled kidnappers.
“Frighteningly effective technique…” the Haven mused, shaking her head admiringly as she set off on their trail. “The next time that boy agrees with me a bit too readily, I am quite definitely going to be on my guard!”
It was simultaneously the same and also an exponentially different experience than he’d had before.
Sulu floated lightly on the delicious clouds of remembered joy as the welcoming songs of the people of Landru thrilled the core of his being. Their harmony embraced him as a favorite son come home. Accepted. Beloved. Made whole again.
On his first mission to Beta III, Sulu had been attacked by the Lawgivers – assaulted at the very core of his being. What he had experienced as a result was only a simulacra of the kind of peace of the soul Landru preached imposed on him by the Landru computer. Although the contact Sulu had with the community of minds of the people of Beta III was very real, it was a forced experience. The fact that he was an unwilling participant soured his memories – made them somehow shameful.
Now, even though Sulu was once more sent into communion with the minds and souls of the Betans as the result of an attack, there was a marked difference. He somehow felt free. The experience had a more natural tone.
A sense of wholeness rang like sacred temple bells through him. He was one. At peace. Unified. No conflict. No schism. No dark shadow. Whole. One. As he knew that he Should Be.
A part of him tried to struggle with this wondrous unity, but the resonance tolling inside him was too powerful. He had no choice but to conform to it. To rest inside it. To be. One.
Harmony. Acceptance deeper than any he’d known… With the exception of Jilla’s love… But without the sad shadow of Damnation.
Sulu experienced a fraction of second of guilt, feeling disloyal about weighting his wife’s devotion at the light end of this comparison. However, he then discovered that his current state allowed him to experience a purified version of his emotions for his beloved – purged of guilt, darkness, or regret. He sent a pulse of pure joy down the thread of love that bound them, and then laughed as he felt a puzzled thrum of emotion from her in response.
His joy fractured into a million facets of delight that refracted out into the body of Landru. His family of Acceptance. They caroled felicity back to him in a chorus of a million loving voices.
The glorious harmonics opened crystalline visions in his mind of a land beyond reality. He eagerly stepped into this astral plane, gasping at the exquisite beauty that surrounded and enveloped him. Boundless untapped power surged in and around him as he wandered through flowered fields of glory in this strange, yet strangely familiar land.
The Children of Landru descanted their gorgeous hymns of salutation and adoration. Feeling no limits or fears, Sulu strode towards them across the astral plane like a young God with arms open wide.
“You feel a terrible sense of guilt concerning the attack on the captain.”
Rani Bachchan looked up at Tristan Vale, sharply. “What?”
As soon as the words left his mouth and he registered the array of emotions it produced, the lieutenant knew it would have been more strategic not to have made such an observation aloud. He was, however, still reeling from the emotional aftereffects of the Anarchist attack on his captain. Vale and Bachchan stood opposite each other on either side of Sulu’s bed in the catatonic ward which was not – to say the least – the most calming of atmospheres.
“Despite appearances,” Lindstrom said, laying a steadying hand on his Security Chief’s shoulder, “Lieutenant Vale is Indiian.”
“Oh, well, yes.” Bachchan took in a deep breath and smooth an escaped curl back from her face. “Sulu and I are old friends. This is very upsetting. As I told you, I’m in charge of Security. I should have anticipated an attack like this…”
“To be fair, Ranni,” Lindstrom interjected. “These extremists have been very vocal, but episodes of violence from them have been very rare.”
“But the planetary parliament was an obvious target.” The Security Chief frowned and shook her head. “I didn’t even have a phaser with me. You must think me a fool.”
“We’re just not accustomed to this sort of violence from this population,” the director explained.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Bachchan turned abruptly toward the door. “I need to supervise our investigation.”
“Certainly.”
Vale frowned as he watched the doors to the ward close behind her. Everything she had said about feeling responsible for the attack rang true, but her reaction ran even deeper and stronger. There was a remarkable amount of anger present… and grief. “She has deep and conflicting emotions concerning our presence here.”
“Ranni was part of the original team who came to Beta III,” Lindstrom explained. “She has a husband and a daughter who were victims of this sort of attack.”
In the present circumstances with his own senses out of balance, it was difficult to gauge whether or not reaction to feelings about her family members was sufficient to provoke the strong emotional response Bachchan displayed. “It might have been better not to reveal any information about empathic abilities.”
“Perhaps.” Lindstrom crossed his arms. Vale could feel a protective anger on behalf of his subordinates rising in him again. “I apologize, Lieutenant. I’m not in the habit of treating my team as if they are criminals. Well, as Sulu said, we’re on the other side of that bridge now. Can you sense anything about his condition our instruments can’t tell us?”
The Indiian looked back and forth between the director and his captain helplessly for a moment. To someone unfamiliar with the myriad colors of the tia, there was absolutely no way to even to begin to explain how the Anarchists’ attack had somehow rendered Sulu’s core being not merely unconscious but miraculously transformed in a rather fundamental and quite mysterious fashion.
“Relatively speaking, the captain was fortunate,” Vale reported simply, deciding to keep to understandable concepts he could share easily without violating his commander’s privacy. “He is at peace.”
Noel DelMonde stood chewing the tip of his thumb thoughtfully in front of a large console in a room lined with computers.
A brown-robed figure approached him from behind, leveling their pipe weapon at his back. “Despicable Archon! Grovel at my feet!”
“Oh, hey, girl.” The engineer turned and grinned at the intruder. “I thought that was you.”
Lian Rendell pushed back the hood of her purloined robe and scowled. “After all the trouble I have gone to getting here, you could at least have the courtesy to act surprised.”
“An' have you fuss at me again fo' gettin' snuck up on?” The Cajun snorted. “I not t'ink so.”
“I have been 'phaser blazing' away valiantly.” The doctor gestured towards the corridor behind her with her weapon. “Dispatching desperate, be-robed, young chorus-boys right and left…”
“Thanks awfully much, sugar.” The engineer gave her a charming smile as he turned to disconnect a series of wires from a nearby panel. “I was startin' t' get worried 'bout you.”
“I suppose it was my shoes that gave me away,” Rendell grumbled, frowning at the offending footwear.
“That an' the dress,” the Cajun conceded. “An' th' fact that you half a foot shorter 'an most of ‘em.”
The doctor crossed her arms. “And, of course, the mind-reading.”
“Oh, I not really that good at readi'g most Havens,” the Cajun confessed as he knelt down to open an access point. “Guess I could have mentioned that earlier, non? Ladies generally like t' be sorta mysterious… Haven ladies doubly so.”
Rendell lifted an eyebrow. “Haven ladies are generally doubly so.”
“True dat,” the engineer confirmed readily. “True dat.”
“So this is the Landru computer?” the doctor said, running her hand along the top of the nearest console. “It looks fully functional.”
“As fo' your first question, th' answer is yes, but also quite definitely no,” DelMonde replied. “As fo' th' second assumption – yes, but not like you t'ink.”
The doctor raised both eyebrows. “It seems an explanation is in order.”
“Yep.” Apparently satisfied with the adjustments he had made, the engineer closed the little door he had opened with a snap and rose to his feet. “Well, it seems that th' t'ings that I been t'inkin' that any person wit' half a brain should have done -- some folks done did. 'Round eight years ago, it looks like somebody at Headquarters actually read th' reports, drunk some coffee, had a good t'ink 'bout th' whole t'ing, an' dispatched my personal boyhood heroes, Star Fleet’s Corps o' Engineers t' take a look at th' hunk o' junk that was left after good ol’ JTK beat Landru’s computer down like a clown – ‘cause them computers that have been talked t' death have a bad habit of findin' somebody ready to talk ‘em back to life. An' I know it was th' Corps o' Engineers in the first place because A) their seal is right here…”
Rendell nodded at the embossed emblem to which Delmonde pointed. “Oh, impressive.”
“From my research, I knowed they was here doin' some routine construction an' maintenance – an' those sneaky bastards is good at keepin' a secret. If they decide somet'ing they do is classified, you gotta know how t' look how t' look fo' it. You generally not jus' run up on th' classified stuff while you readin' wit' a big red banner sayin', 'You definitely not be wantin' t' ask us 'bout this shit!' So all I saw was th' routine stuff they done.”
“And what the Corp did in this room was classified?” Rendell made an encircling gesture to encompass all of what looked to her to be standard issue computer banks.
“Yep.” The engineer gave an admiring sigh. “Th' crack team from th' Corp, bein' th' titans o' practicality that they are, looked at th' smokin' hunk o' circuit boards an' burnt conductors that was all that was left o' th' Landru computer an' decided th' t'ing to do was t' disassemble that processor down t' th' last diode – which is exactly what I would have done. But then here those engineers was – beset by Lindstrom an' his pack o' whiney Social Science types askin' them t' fix, repair, an' replace anyt'ing an' ever't'ing -- Which actually is a good idea t' do if you ever do have any kind o' access t' th' Corp fo' any length of time -- since they are God’s Own Repairmen. So, bein' th' Sultans o' Sensibility, they looked in front o' their brilliant noses an' saw this centrally located, secure space, already hooked up t' ever' important site in th' city an' decided t' murder as many fowl as possible usin' as few stones as necessary – as I probably would have done too.”
“Being no slouch in such matters,” the doctor concluded.
“I strive not to be,” Delmonde acknowledged, in a rare moment of something approaching humility. “So now that I have looked it over an' understand how it work, I can see that they installed th' central processor that controls th' environmental an' waste processin' units all over th' city right here – rebuildin' this unit from th' ground up. They, rather brilliantly, I would add, utilized th' pre-existin' delivery systems an' th' renewable borolithium energy sourcin' built into th' architecture – which is a big plus since not only does it not require tons o' new construction, but it keeps th' natives from losin' their shit at the sight o' alien tech.”
“Which is a major concern,” Rendell agreed wearily. She turned back to frown at the main console. “So this isn’t a mad computer anymore?”
“No.” DelMonde shook his head. “Not even grumpy.”
She ran a tentative finger down the nearest flat surface and then tapped the proud Corps of Engineers insignia. “The primary function of this unit is less mind control and more… heating and air conditioning?”
The engineer nodded. “Makes sure th' toilets work right too.”
“Well…” She stepped back and crossed her arms. “That seems important…”
“It a big problem if they don’t.”
“Yes,” the doctor granted.
“Now, what be causin' th' real mess is over here,” the engineer said, directing Rendell’s attention to a cluster of scattered components, belching wires and badly digested sundry parts.
“Oh, good,” Rendell said, then hastily amended, “I mean, yes, that is quite interesting.”
“If you would jus' let me borrow that fo' a second?” The Cajun reached for the pipe-weapon the doctor was holding. The engineer turned the cylindrical object over in his hands, examining it carefully from either end. “Yeah, it’s like I thought. At some point, one o' these yahoos stole a Type One phaser from one o' Lindstrom’s team – which had to be ever' bit as hard as swiping a lollipop from a baby. Why th' hell Star Fleet bothers to'give phasers t' a bunch of Social Workers is beyond me. Weapons in th' hands o' folks like that jus' make them a danger to themselves an' others. -- An' then th' brown-robed idiot who stole th' phaser mounted th' damned th'back in th' good old Landru days. So th' word was out, 'Swipe as many o' th' shiny Archon boxes as you can, boys!'”
“And since all blasphemous alien trash looks alike to them, they stole communicators too?”
“But when they started twistin' all th' knobs an' buttons on th' communicators that they mounted inside their doom pipes…”
“…Which – let me guess – are either made of or lined with borolithium,” Rendell hypothesized, gesturing to the smooth, glassy interior of the pipe-weapon.
“You are correct,” the engineer congratulated her, hefting the pipe and pointing at the wall experimentally. “Strange stuff happened. Now I jus' theorizin' here, because I have not seen th' strange things that happened. I jus' know th' glimpses I seen in people’s memories. Th' brown robes saw stuff happen t' folks that made them t'ink that they was able t' make Landru return. They busted into th' tunnels, broke into this room, saw this computer hummin' away an' thought, 'All right, we back in th' mind control business.'”
“But they’re not?”
“No.” DelMonde replied, setting the weapon carefully aside. “Th' effect o' a communicator on certain settin's goin' off through that borolithium piping can apparently have some kind o' weird effect on some people’s minds, but it’s not exactly mind control like before. This is th' time they start gettin' excited 'bout forcin' Archons t' collaborate wit' 'em. They not understand how, but Archon communicators turned up way higher than they should go somehow make Landru come back to life. So they do something pretty bad that makes one of Lindstrom’s crew cooperate with them.”
The doctor raised a finger. “Forgive me, but your description is beginning to be a little light on details.”
DelMonde shrugged. “Unfortunately, I got a lot of this part of th' story from th' memories o' our chorus-boy friends. As you might imagine, they are more on th' propaganda side o' th' operations. They not usually get included on th' strong arm side o' operations, so they a bit vague on how t'ings went down.”
“That is disappointing.”
“I did discover why I was gettin' bad readin's in th' museum,” the engineer offered.
“Oh?”
“It 'cause they have communication stations like this here ripped-up one down here,” DelMonde explained, gesturing towards the garbage heap of spare parts. “The settings are all jacked up. You’d never have a unit set like this fo' any reason. When they have th' power on – even if they not sendin' a signal – with th' way the main processor is hooked up t' transmit throughout th' city, static generated from th' unit is gonna interfere wit' tricorder readin's taken on th' surface.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s.. uhm…”
“I guess it not all that excitin',” The Cajun admitted. “I were curious, though…”
“So…” Rendell looked around the chamber. “No mad computer?”
“Nope,” the engineer affirmed, rolling his sleeves down. “This time not no mad computer, nor space ghost, nor high priestess needin' me to teacher 'bout the superior values o' th' Federation through kissin'…”
The doctor pursed her lips discontentedly. “A bit anti-climactic, isn’t it?”
“Mais, t'ink of it this way,” DelMonde suggested, re-buttoning his cuffs. “Wit' you bein' so brave an' all, comin’ in here phasers blazin’ an' rescuing me from a fate worse than another one o' them cabaret shows, well, A) at th' very leas', I gonna owe you dinner an' drinks at a nice restaurant where we not sittin' in a cage an' wind up bein' kidnapped at th' end o' th' night, non?”
“At minimum,” she agreed adamantly.
“An' B) it gonna make fo' a log entry that fo' once ain’t gonna be a complete bore t' write and' if there be any justice in th' galaxy might land you a shot at bein' put up fo' a medal,” he suggested, handing her the pipe-weapon.
“If there’s any justice,” she agreed dubiously. “Yes.”
“An' perhaps best of all,” DelMonde continued, straightening his cravat, “C) even though we not out o' this, you already got yourself a hell of a story you gonna be able t' tell t' th' delight o' your friends – particularly them that know me – fo' years t' come.”
“All these points do have an undeniable amount of truth in them and do cast a more profitable light on the entire venture,” Rendell admitted as she reached beyond the entrance to the chamber to retrieve the extra robe and weapon she had gotten for him. “The cumulative effect of which I must grant is quite calming. Are you certain you aren’t able to read Haven minds?”
“Not very well not mos' of th' time,” the Cajun demurred as he shouldered his way into the purloined robe. “But now since not got this t'ing entirely figured out t' th' point that I not positively sure that a couple beefy Orions not gonna beam in an' beat our asses, I t'ink it would be best if we skedaddled th' hell out o' here befo' th' chorus boys start t' wake up an' sing.”
“That does sound like an excellent idea,” the doctor concurred as they beat a hasty retreat down the dark corridor.
The immortal part of Sulu reveled in the crystalline-pure and soul-cleansing silence of the astral plane. His gratitude for this respite from conflict, strife, and struggle overflowed his heart. His thoughts reached out to the Children of Landru, “My precious Family of Acceptance, my journey is long and arduous. The rest I take in your arms now has value to my soul beyond reckoning. Share your burdens with me that I may lighten them.”
A part of him laughed scornfully at this very elevated style of speech and the presumptions of such an offer. However, in this realm of existence, communicating in such a manner sounded perfectly natural.
“Brother of our Body!” voices called back to his mind. “Brother of Acceptance! Lead us! Guide us.”
“My joy in you is without measure,” He responded gently. “I am One with you in the measureless bliss of existence. Our souls will always share the timeless connection of this eternal moment. However, threads tie my destiny to other paths.”
“We are lost in the Cosmos!” some voices cried out with as much sorrow as was possible on the astral planes. “Landru is lost to us! We no longer hear the Voice of Landru.”
“No, my dear ones.” He held out his hands to calm them. “You have not lost Landru. Examine your hearts. His words are written there. He leads and guides you as long as his words live there and you speak them into your world with courage and honor.”
The very small part of Sulu who still held onto the memory of his identity as the captain of the Drake was rather shocked at how boldly this infinitely large part of himself who was quite at home on the astral plane made this very bold claim about the identity of Landru. The Astral Plane Sulu was very definitively indicating that Landru was not a divine being but rather a mortal who, like Earth’s Confucius, left behind writings and sayings of great spiritual significance.
Such sweeping pronouncements of opinion on matters of grave socio-religious importance in questions of belief on non-aligned planets by Star Fleet officers were very definitely frowned upon by Headquarters.
Astral Plane Sulu was not acting like he was putting forth a mere opinion to the Children of Landru, though. Here in this context, in which hearts, souls, fate, and eternity could be examined as easily as roses, clouds, butterflies, and daisies, it seemed as though He might be quietly pointing out verifiable facts that others had simply failed to examine from the proper perspective.
Sulu could feel the happy realization of the Truth of his pronouncement ripple through the Children of Landru’s collective consciousness. The thought that Landru might have been a god who had abandoned them had made his sudden absence unendurably miserable. The certainty that he was instead a very special, very beloved man whose memory they all still shared eased the trauma of their collective grief.
“Blessed be the name of Landru!” one soul-voice rang out, releasing heart-tears of tribute and farewell that they hadn’t been able to cry for a decade.
“Blessed be!” a multitude of others caroled in echo. “Peace to his name!”
“Peace to the Body,” the Sulu who was a citizen of the Astral Plane wished, extending a hand of benediction over his adopted family. “And Harmony… and Joy.”