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Scene 4

            “Broots, I’ve brought someone to help you.”

            Broots turned to see Sydney ushering in Angelo. The older man had his hand against Angelo’s back, and once again it occurred to Broots to wonder how a man who cared as much for his subjects of study as Sydney did could use them as subjects of study. But then, Broots wasn’t sure about the morality of his own involvement in the Centre, either, and he tried not to think about it much. He pulled his sweater close around him, as if it could protect him from Angelo’s strange abilities. “Oh—OK. Um, Angelo, there’s this machine, and these other pieces of technology that seem to belong to it, and this little badge Jarod left us—oh, and these videotapes we found in his apartment. But they’re all just science fiction. Oh, and this great uniform—he was really getting into the sci-fi convention thing. I wish I had his resources and time. Boy, that would be fun!”

            He stopped. Angelo was grimacing at him, that expression of lips curled back from teeth that seemed to pass for a smile. He wondered if Angelo had conscious thoughts, or if he was all a mass of emotions and impressions. “Uh, well, uh, I guess I’ll let you get at it then.”

            He stood aside with Sydney and watched. Angelo stood stock-still, his eyes darting rapidly under his heavy eyelids, his pocked face intense. He pawed among the items Broots had pointed out, ran his hands over the red and black uniform, sniffed at it.

            “Uh—can he pick up emotions through smelling?” Broots whispered.

            “Well, emotions are caused by hormones, which cause certain excretions in the body,” the psychiatrist answered. “That would be an intriguing area of study, the effect of scent on an empath. Thank you, Broots.”

            “Sydney, can I ask you a question?”

            “Certainly.”

            “Why doesn’t Miss Parker like Angelo?”

            Sydney gave a soft laugh. “Miss Parker doesn’t like anyone, Broots.”

            “I know, but she’s always meanest to Angelo. She has her nicer moments with us, you know.”

            “Yes, I know. Well, Broots, I would say it is because she can’t control him. You are scared of her, so she can control you, which gives her freedom to unbend a little. She thinks she knows me well enough to know what I might do in any situation—and she may be right. Or she may be wrong. But it still offers her control. But Angelo? He is a cipher. She does not understand him. She cannot comprehend an empath. She has no control. And she must also protect herself from pitying him. What Mr. Raines did to him—and the fact that her mother died trying to rescue him and Jarod—she must protect herself, or she will have no control.”

            “Who will have no control?” a cold voice jerked into their ears.

            Broots jumped guiltily. Sydney turned around. “We were speaking of an injured animal Broots’ daughter brought home. He wondered why it attacks when it is shown kindness.”

            “Right,” Miss Parker snorted. “What is the one-man freak show doing?”

            Angelo had pulled on the jacket of the red and black uniform. He stood up straight, looking oddly like a man rather than the strange, furtive being he was. His shoulders took on a military bearing.

            “Jarod has put himself into the role this costume indicates,” Sydney said. “It has been more than a toy to him.”

            “Wait—wait—wait!” Broots exclaimed. “Oh, I’m having a brainstorm. I’m a genius. What if he was on one of these episodes?”

            “An actor?” Sydney said softly. “The Pretender playing the role of an actor playing a role? That could be significant, Broots.”

            “He’s been everything from roach exterminator to gigolo,” Miss Parker snapped. “Why shouldn’t he be an actor?”

            “We never found any evidence that he ever fully fulfilled the job description of a gigolo,” Sydney reminded her.

            “Oh, come on, Sydney. He’s male.

            “His employer told us of his reluctance, Miss Parker. You know that originally gigolos were merely professional dance partners.”

            “I don’t need the whole history of male prostitution, Sydney!”

            “I wonder what he felt in that role,” Sydney mused, ignoring her.

            Miss Parker didn’t need to answer. Her grin said everything.

            “What I mean is, did he experience all the feelings of exploitation and loss of value that often accompany such a job? He must have done. He is too familiar with those emotions not to recognize them in that situation.”

            “Look, I don’t care about Jarod’s finer emotional sensations! I just want to find him! Can you stick to the matter at hand? Is he in Los Angeles or wherever they film these things?”

            “No,” Broots said. “Wouldn’t work. They film these things like a year ahead. These ones were taped off TV just recently.” He sounded disappointed.

            Now Angelo had the uniform off, and he was popping a tape into the VCR. He seemed to know what he was looking for, fast-forwarding, stopping to chuckle at something, pausing and staring for a long moment at a beautiful woman with dark curly hair in a blue and black uniform. Finally he stopped and looked at them.

            “What?” Miss Parker demanded.

            Angelo got up and wandered away. Broots, Sydney, and Miss Parker peered closely at the television screen. The tape was paused at a crowded scene, uniformed people milling around at some kind of official function.

            “Look,” Broots said. “There he is.”

            There was Jarod, in red and black uniform with insignia that marked him as a Commander, blended nicely into the background of the scene, looking every inch an officer. Only he was turned and smiling directly into the camera, his face alight with mischief and that silly grin that turned him from a strikingly handsome man into a little boy. Broots’ age, Miss Parker thought sourly, glancing at the short, slender man who was probably her own age as well as Jarod’s.

            “He’s not really there,” Broots said. “He’s inserted electronically into the scene. Maybe he studied post-production, because it’s really well done.”

            “What does it mean?” Miss Parker snapped.

            “He’s living out a fantasy,” Sydney answered. “The fantasy of every boy his age, to be there, either on that ship or on that set.”

            Broots sighed. “Yeah.”

            “Only he never had that fantasy, did he?” Miss Parker demanded. “Because he knew nothing about these stupid TV shows as a child. So he’s living out your fantasy for you, Broots. Too bad you’ll never get to.”

            “Yeah,” he sighed again.

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Scene 5

            Jarod relaxed in his quarters, staring at nothing in thought for a while. This was the most unusual Pretend he had ever done or ever would do. Not only did he have to infiltrate a new situation and act—no, be the part in a new job, but he had to infiltrate a new century, a new world, a new…universe. This one had taken more careful preparation than any other. He had given himself a full month in San Francisco, in this San Francisco, to prepare himself for things like molecular transportation, replicators, and the current mode of speech. Being an officer, an astrophysicist, or a teacher was the easy part. Being in a different universe entirely and not betraying any unfamiliarity with it was the hard part.

            It had started back at the astrophysics lab in the university he had been a professor at for so short a time. He couldn’t believe no one had picked up on the odd readings on some of their instruments. Oh, it had taken some intensive study into the newest theories of quantum mechanics, but he had already known what it was. Sydney had had to train him thoroughly in the art of going through each step to a conclusion, rather than just jumping straight into it with no evidence to show how he had got there.

            Yes, it was what science fiction called a wormhole, and yes, it did connect to an alternate universe. Amazing how easy it was, just like in the science fiction shows. And he wasn’t even an astrophysicist.

            He built a machine that picked up transmissions from the other side. He had planned to find out a little and then leave it to the real physicists, but what he found out first delighted him and then threw him into turmoil.

            A fictional world was real. At first it only seemed vaguely familiar. He hadn’t watched much science fiction, but a face had caught him, an accent, a phrase. Blessing his photographic memory, he searched out the source of his memories and discovered the fascinations of science fiction. It would have been fun on a normal day, but discovering its reality even as he discovered its fictionality boggled his mind as few things ever had. It had been delightful, worthy of following up on, and yet he still intended to pass it over to his physicist friends.

            But then he discovered the Savant Project. He had tapped into a top-secret transmission, and what he learned plunged him into flashback-like memories. The new memories that had surfaced during the child-kidnapping case he had solved so recently blazed out at him, uncontrollably, like a tidal wave, just as they had as he hunted down the kidnapper of that little boy. Darkness. Terror. The sudden knowledge that Mom and Dad weren’t able to help him. The empty horror of their absence. The fear of the men and the strange places they took him. And then the blackness of memory. “Where are my mom and dad?” had become “Who am I?” “Who am I?” had become “Doesn’t anyone love me?”

            It was happening again. In a foreign place, a strange fantasy world, his nightmare was happening to other children. They would grow up like him, imprisoned, alone, unloved, valued for a single ability, treated like an object to be used. “A slave,” he murmured. “Will there be strange, alien wars because of what they are forced to think up? Will presidents of vast, interplanetary alliances die because of them? Will innocent people die as ‘collateral damage’ because of them? Like they did because of me?” As he had a thousand times before, he buried his head in his hands. “Sydney, why did you do this to me? Sydney, why am I psychologically attached to you? Will this happen to these alien children? Will they come to crave the love of their captors, their studiers, their teachers in the art of how to lose themselves? Will their Pavlovs be benign in character, like you? Or will they be Dr. Mengeles, like Mr. Raines?”

            He hadn’t even had to stop to consider whether he should or even could do something about it. He never did. Each new situation called out to him with its own voice, making itself known. This one screamed in the voices of a dozen kidnapped children, Angelo’s voice, his own voice. So he had made the machine. He had made the unsettling, instantaneous voyage to the San Francisco of a strange new world. He had learned all about this Federation, this Starfleet. He had discovered wonderful, fascinating things, marveled at a vision of a possible future. But he had learned about unsettling undercurrents that threatened to one day tear it apart. Alien wars and rumors of wars. Maquis. Section 31.

            Section 31, that top-secret organization within Starfleet Intelligence. It was just like the Triumverate, the head of the Centre. Where power and secrecy were combined was unlimited potential for corruption and exploitation. It was the Federation’s responsibility to deal with its own underworld, he knew. If it refused, it was not worth preserving. But it was his responsibility to protect and avenge the innocent. He had spent thirty years thinking up ways for the Centre to injure the powerless. Now he had the rest of his life to spend helping them. How ever long that was.

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Scene 6

            Jarod squared his shoulders and pushed open the doors into Ten Forward. Quite a few people looked up as he entered the crew lounge. By now most people had heard about the distinguished guest sent from Headquarters. Their first glimpse of him did not disappoint. His red uniform suited him, and many women had told him how handsome he was in the last two years. In the Centre, what he looked like had never mattered. Outside the Centre, all that mattered was that he fit into his role, physically as well as mentally.

            Behind the bar was a woman, a dark woman with a broad, luminous face. Not beautiful, but he ached for the peace in her eyes. Guinan. He had hoped she would be here. He went toward the bar.

            “What can I get for you, Commander?” Her voice was just as it had been on his television, calm and smiling.

            “Well, Guinan, I’ve heard about you and this place, but I’ve never been in here, so it’s all quite new to me. What would you suggest?”

            “Guinan, give him a Sumerian Sunset.”

            He turned to see Deanna Troi in civilian clothes smiling at him. “A Sumerian Sunset,” he repeated. “That sounds intriguing.”

            Guinan was pulling out bottles. “And where are you from, Commander Westmore, that you have never had a Sumerian Sunset?”

            “Oh,” he smiled, “just a little planet of no consequence but to those fortunate enough to have lived in it.” Or unfortunate.

            Pride and Prejudice,” Deanna smiled back. “You don’t find many men who can quote Austen, Commander.”

            “Then the majority of men are sadly under-educated, Counselor. Or should I call you Commander?”

            “You may call me Deanna.”

            “In that case, please call me Jarod. It sits better with me than the formalities of titles.”

            “Jarod, then. Now watch.”

            Guinan poured the last ingredient into the tall glass before him and then, her eyes on him, gave the glass a tap with her dark finger. The clear liquid immediately flushed gold, orange, rose, a sunset in the glass.

            Jarod broke into a laugh. “That is wonderful!” His eyes were bright, his face delighted.

            Deanna grinned. “I thought you would like it.”

            He gave her a quick look. How much could a Betazoid empath find out about him? Her talents seemed to him far different than Angelo’s.

            “Commander?” Geordi LaForge was standing behind him. “Would you like to come join Data and me?”

            “I would. Thank you, Guinan, for the beautiful sunset.”

            She smiled after him. “Come again, Commander.”

            “I will.” 

            He took his seat at one of the lighted tables across from Data, Geordi and Deanna on either side. Data was one of the things that most interested him in this entire world he’d found himself in. In a way he and the android were alike. They were strangers to the world of humanity, trying to discover their place in it, trying to learn to be human.

            “So, Commander,” Geordi said, “how are you finding the Enterprise?”

            His smile broke out. “She is wonderful! I have never seen anything quite like her.”

            Geordi grinned back. “Well, she is the flagship of the fleet. A chance to work aboard her is quite an honor for all of us.”

            “I believe it. Commander Data, would you mind if I asked you a personal question?”

            “I have no feelings to be affronted in any way by a personal question, Commander Westmore,” the gold-skinned android answered. “I will answer any question you have for me.”

            “Is it also an honor for you to work aboard the Enterprise, and if so, how do you evaluate it?”

            “It is true that I still find it difficult to comprehend the Human attachment to what is essentially a tool. If I could feel the emotion, I could comprehend it better. But I also recognize the importance of this vessel to the Federation and the exceedingly high caliber of her crew and officers. I recognize the honor, even if I cannot feel it.”

            Jarod tried to put himself in Data’s place. No feeling. Only thinking. Perhaps if he could have been like that as a child, as Sydney obviously wanted him to be, he could have been spared much pain. Much searching. But Data still searched. And perhaps the absence of emotion was itself a kind of pain. He smiled the tight-lipped smile of his own pain. “Thank you, Commander.”

            “Commander Westmore, I have a question of my own for you,” Geordi said.

            “First, please call me Jarod.”

            Geordi’s eyebrows went up over his VISOR, but he nodded. “If you don’t mind my asking, that is. You may not want to answer.”

            Jarod understood and pulled a small device from his pocket, fiddling with it seemingly absently. It was the jamming device he had picked up back on Earth. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll follow Commander Data’s lead and answer whatever you want. Within reason.” He grinned.

            “Well, then, why Command?”

            “Command?”

            “The red uniform. As an astrophysicist, wouldn’t you normally be wearing Sciences blue? Or, as a Security and Intelligence officer, gold?”

            “Oh, that. Well, the red uniform looked better on me than gold.”

            They all chuckled, except Data, of course, who looked puzzled as to why a man would choose his career path based on the color of its uniform. The laughs of the others alerted him that it was a joke, a gentle irony. But it wasn’t far off from the truth. Jarod had been attracted to the red uniform. Perhaps it was because on this particular Pretend, he felt he needed more control and command of his own. He could so easily get swept up in the emotions of this case so like his own. He needed to exert control over it. He chose red. Command.

            And he reminded himself that it no longer stood for the expendable crewman who always died. Red’s destiny and meaning had been changed. These children’s destinies would be different than his.

            “To tell the truth,” he made himself say before Deanna could look at him oddly, “I am not an astrophysicist—not primarily. I am a Command officer first whose abilities have drawn him into all this. I did not intend to be here, to be working for Starfleet Intelligence. My life originally was on a far different course. Well, now that this has happened, I can’t go back to what might have been. I can only do my job with all my heart and strength. I always do.”

            “I believe it,” Deanna said. “And that includes learning Klingon?”

            Jarod relaxed and chuckled again. “I have a chance to work with the only Klingon in Starfleet, the only Klingon I have ever met. The least I could do was learn a little Klingon.”

            “A little? He told me your accent and grammar are impeccable. When did you begin to learn it?”

            “A little less than a month ago. I have an ear for languages. But not, apparently, for Betazoid.” It had disturbed him, his inability to comprehend the language.

            “That’s because Betazoid is as much about telepathy as it is about talking, Jarod. Unless you’re telepathic as well as brilliant, you just won’t get it.”

            “Well, I have been accused of it. But I’m not.” And glad for it, mostly. He comprehended what went on in others’ brains too well as it was.

            Geordi stood up. “Well, folks, I’ve got to get back to work.”

            “May I accompany you? I have some questions about the newest transporter technology I would like to ask you.”

            “Certainly Comman—Jarod.”

            They nodded goodbyes to Deanna and Data and left Ten Forward, deep in conversation. The counselor and the android were left looking at each other over their drinks.

            “Data, what do you think of him?”

            “An excellent officer, and a very intelligent man, for a Human. He spoke with me for thirty-six minutes about my positronic network, and by the end of our conversation he had come up with a solution to a minor problem that even Geordi had not thought through. He could be an engineering officer, if he chose. What do you think of him, Counselor?”

            “He is…a mystery,” she said slowly. “And his greatest mystery is that he is a mystery to himself.”

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Scene 7

            “Children, this is Commander Jarod,” Counselor Troi announced. “He is here to teach you about the new stars we are approaching.”

            “Good morning, class.” Jarod smiled at all the six-year olds. They smiled back. Children liked him. They trusted him. Maybe it was because he had only recently learned to be a child himself. He and they could approach the world on the same level. “How many of you are interested in stars?”

            Over half the class raised their hands. They were the children of Starfleet crewmembers, after all.

            “Well, by the end of my time with you, I hope you’ll all be interested and have learned some very interesting things. Shall I tell you why I like stars?”

            Deanna watched as the Starfleet officer who could turn himself into a Klingon and talk positronic networks with an android became the sort of teacher a child would remember all her life. As far as she could tell, he inhabited the mind of a child to the extent that he knew instinctively how they needed to be communicated with. His emotions as he interacted with them intrigued her. He felt the way they did. Something inside him had never had a chance to grow up, and there was always a child looking out of his eyes. What could have happened to this strong, intelligent man to leave him still a child inside, still identifying so intensely with the hopes and fears and needs of childhood?

            To the children, he was instantly and instinctively a place of safety. She could have seen it even if she had not felt their emotions. Children gravitated to him as if he were a shelter. The most non-empathic of them felt his warmth and care. Deanna felt his yearning for them—to be them, safe and happy, to protect them and keep them safe and happy. She knew that if his mission failed, it would crush him.

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Scene 8

            Angelo enjoyed watching them fail to work out the machine. He knew what it was for. And he knew why Jarod had left it for them to find. Angelo used his mind far more than they thought he did, the mind Mr. Raines had given him, when he took Timmy’s away.

            Late one night he slithered into the lab. By now no locked room was locked to him. The Centre was well provided with ventilation shafts and other passageways. He crept up to the machine, glanced around, then took the remote device and activated it. Something glowed. Light swirled around him. Angelo giggled.










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