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Memory Ficlets
Cambridge's defiance in support of prisoners of war:
You’re in a rush. The doors swish open ahead of you, and you elbow someone out of the way, knocking them from the console. You enter coordinates, from memory, in detail, compensate for the planetary rotation, dart for the transporter. You’re out of breath.
“Energize,” you say, as soon as both of your feet are on the transporter platform. The world fuzzes into sparks, blue, and you experience a peculiar wrenching sensation.
Carpet under your feet. Your office materializes around you. You take a breath.
“Computer,” you say, and there’s an answering beep. “Erase all patient files. Erase all backups. Authorization Cambridge-Zeta-One-Four-Eight. Format all memory. Protocol Theta-One.”
A confirming beep. “Files erased,” says the computer. “Memory format in progress.”
You bend over, breathing hard, recovering your breath from the sprint. You’re just thankful that there was a warning at all. Good, at least, that you never kept too much of your patient information in the files. Even if the erasure is interrupted –
“Memory format complete,” says the computer, and the door to your office opens. You turn, straightening.
As you thought, it’s the Admiral, accompanied by two security officers in red-shouldered uniforms. You lift your chin, holding your ground.
“Counselor,” says the Admiral, “you’re hereby ordered to turn over your patient files on all Cardassian prisoners of war.”
Damn, but you have good timing.
You shrug, showing your palms. “You can take everything you can find.”
The Admiral doesn’t like you. You actually find it a bit funny, but there’s no laughter from you. Your face is carefully blank.
“Computer,” says the Admiral, “transfer all files on Cardassian patients to the office of Admiral Ghaan, Starfleet Command.”
The computer emits a negative beep. “No such files exist on this database,” says the computer.
When he turns on you, his face is going blue with fury.
You clasp your hands behind your back. “Oops,” you say.
“What happened to the files?” he snarls.
“Files were erased by authorization of Counselor Hugh Cambridge,” the computer informs the room.
“Traitor,” you mutter. Computers, just can’t be trusted.
The Admiral turns to you. “Then you’ll come with me,” he says. “Your file states your memory is eidetic. You’re now under orders to reveal all pertinent information to Starfleet Intelligence.”
“No.”
That is the point of no return.
The Admiral actually looks somewhat satisfied, at this. “You are refusing a direct order.”
“Yes,” you confirm.
“From the Admiralty.”
“The order is illegal and immoral," you say. "And so I cannot in good conscience accept it.”
“I,” he says, with some relish, “will have you reassigned and busted down to Ensign.”
“So be it,” you say. “I will not reveal the confidences of prisoners of war. Especially not to those who seek to use them for their own ends.” There’s an element of is this really the hill you want to die on, especially with the Cardassians, who are not regarded highly in Starfleet these days. But you remain firm. These Cardassians believed they were fighting for their own world. The fact that they were duped by Gul Dukat –
“Then a court martial,” he says. “You’ll be cashiered out of Starfleet.”
His satisfaction is disgusting. Your persistent defiance of his methods and proposals is based on your conscience. He is preoccupied with petty struggles of power, and you are trying to protect people.
And so your irritation flares. “Admiral,” you shoot back, “if you think my pride, my rank, and my commission should rate above the lives of these men and women, then I’m not the one who should be cashiered out of Starfleet.”
He turns bluer. (He’s Andorian.)
“Tonight,” he says, “you’re going to jail. Arrest him.”
“And you can go to hell,” you say. Not often in your life that you get a great setup for a comeback like that. So the security officers put the cuffs on your wrists, and you start considering who you’re going to call.
Eden, you think.
You’re in a rush. The doors swish open ahead of you, and you elbow someone out of the way, knocking them from the console. You enter coordinates, from memory, in detail, compensate for the planetary rotation, dart for the transporter. You’re out of breath.
“Energize,” you say, as soon as both of your feet are on the transporter platform. The world fuzzes into sparks, blue, and you experience a peculiar wrenching sensation.
Carpet under your feet. Your office materializes around you. You take a breath.
“Computer,” you say, and there’s an answering beep. “Erase all patient files. Erase all backups. Authorization Cambridge-Zeta-One-Four-Eight. Format all memory. Protocol Theta-One.”
A confirming beep. “Files erased,” says the computer. “Memory format in progress.”
You bend over, breathing hard, recovering your breath from the sprint. You’re just thankful that there was a warning at all. Good, at least, that you never kept too much of your patient information in the files. Even if the erasure is interrupted –
“Memory format complete,” says the computer, and the door to your office opens. You turn, straightening.
As you thought, it’s the Admiral, accompanied by two security officers in red-shouldered uniforms. You lift your chin, holding your ground.
“Counselor,” says the Admiral, “you’re hereby ordered to turn over your patient files on all Cardassian prisoners of war.”
Damn, but you have good timing.
You shrug, showing your palms. “You can take everything you can find.”
The Admiral doesn’t like you. You actually find it a bit funny, but there’s no laughter from you. Your face is carefully blank.
“Computer,” says the Admiral, “transfer all files on Cardassian patients to the office of Admiral Ghaan, Starfleet Command.”
The computer emits a negative beep. “No such files exist on this database,” says the computer.
When he turns on you, his face is going blue with fury.
You clasp your hands behind your back. “Oops,” you say.
“What happened to the files?” he snarls.
“Files were erased by authorization of Counselor Hugh Cambridge,” the computer informs the room.
“Traitor,” you mutter. Computers, just can’t be trusted.
The Admiral turns to you. “Then you’ll come with me,” he says. “Your file states your memory is eidetic. You’re now under orders to reveal all pertinent information to Starfleet Intelligence.”
“No.”
That is the point of no return.
The Admiral actually looks somewhat satisfied, at this. “You are refusing a direct order.”
“Yes,” you confirm.
“From the Admiralty.”
“The order is illegal and immoral," you say. "And so I cannot in good conscience accept it.”
“I,” he says, with some relish, “will have you reassigned and busted down to Ensign.”
“So be it,” you say. “I will not reveal the confidences of prisoners of war. Especially not to those who seek to use them for their own ends.” There’s an element of is this really the hill you want to die on, especially with the Cardassians, who are not regarded highly in Starfleet these days. But you remain firm. These Cardassians believed they were fighting for their own world. The fact that they were duped by Gul Dukat –
“Then a court martial,” he says. “You’ll be cashiered out of Starfleet.”
His satisfaction is disgusting. Your persistent defiance of his methods and proposals is based on your conscience. He is preoccupied with petty struggles of power, and you are trying to protect people.
And so your irritation flares. “Admiral,” you shoot back, “if you think my pride, my rank, and my commission should rate above the lives of these men and women, then I’m not the one who should be cashiered out of Starfleet.”
He turns bluer. (He’s Andorian.)
“Tonight,” he says, “you’re going to jail. Arrest him.”
“And you can go to hell,” you say. Not often in your life that you get a great setup for a comeback like that. So the security officers put the cuffs on your wrists, and you start considering who you’re going to call.
Eden, you think.