He That Breaks a Thing to Find Out What it is Has Left The Path of Wisdom.

  

 

‘Late one evening I came to the gate, like a great arch in the wall of rock; and it was strongly guarded. But the keepers of the gate were on the watch for me and told me that Saruman awaited me. I rode under the arch, and the gate closed silently behind me, and suddenly I was afraid, though I knew no reason for it. 

 

‘But I rode to the foot of Orthanc, and came to the stair of Saruman; and there he met me and led me up to his high chamber. He wore a ring on his finger. 

 

‘“So you have come, Gandalf,” he said to me gravely; but in his eyes there seemed to be a white light, as if a cold laughter was in his heart. 

 

‘“Yes, I have come,” I said. “I have come for your aid, Saruman the White.”

 

And that title seemed to anger him. 

 

‘“Have you indeed, Gandalf the Grey!” he scoffed. “For aid? It has seldom been heard of that Gandalf the Grey sought for aid, one so cunning and so wise, wandering about the lands, and concerning himself in every business, whether it belongs to him or not.” 

 

‘I looked at him and wondered. 

 

“But if I am not deceived,” said I, “things are now moving which will require the union of all our strength.” 

 

‘“That may be so,” he said, “but the thought is late in coming to you. How long, I wonder, have you concealed from me, the head of the Council, a matter of greatest import? What brings you now from your lurking-place in the Shire?” 

 

‘“The Nine have come forth again,” I answered. “They have crossed the River. So Radagast said to me.” 

 

‘“Radagast the Brown!” laughed Saruman, and he no longer concealed his scorn. 

 

“Radagast the Bird-tamer! Radagast the Simple! Radagast the Fool!

Yet he had just the wit to play the part that I set him. For you have come, and that was all the purpose of my message.

 

And here you will stay, Gandalf the Grey, and rest from journeys.

For I am Saruman The Wise, Saruman Ring-maker, Saruman of Many Colours!” 

 

‘I looked then and saw that his robes, which had seemed white, were not so, but were woven of all colours, and if he moved they shimmered and changed hue so that the eye was bewildered. 

 

‘“I liked white better,” I said. 

 

‘“White!” he sneered. “It serves as a beginning. White cloth may be dyed. The white page can be overwritten; and the white light can be broken.” 

 

‘“In which case it is no longer white,” said I. 

 

“And he that breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.” 

 

 

The Price

 

GUNN:

I'll only say this once --

The guys you send to create those diversions will die. 

PRICE :

Yes, they are. 

You try not to get anybody killed, you wind up getting everybody killed. 

Get ready to move out. 

ANGEL :

What should I do? 

PRICE :

Go to the village, call out the Groosalugg and kill him. 

ANGEL :

Kill their undefeated champion? 

I can't, I'll turn into The Beast. 

PRICE :

I know. 

ANGEL :

When I fired you guys, the reason I.... 

The Darkness was coming out of me. 

I didn't want you near it. 

The Thing that comes out here is 

TEN times worse. 

I do this, you know I won't come back from it. 

PRICE :

Yes, you will. 

I know you. 

We know you. 

We know you're A Man with a Demon inside, 

not the other way around. 

You have the strength to do what's needed, 

and you'll come back to us. 

FRED :

I could go with you. 

I know how to prepare the Challenge Torch. 

PRICE :

You'll come back. 

GUNN :

You really think he'll come back? 

PRICE :

I need him to think it.

The Grandson thought about it for a minute 

and then asked His Grandfather : 

"Which wolf wins?"

The Old Cherokee simply replied, 

"The one you feed."

Why Does He Talk in Such an Extraordinary Way?

DOCTOR :

Are you absolutely positive? 

GULLIVER: 

I would not impose any falsities upon you. 

I adhere strictly to truth. 

DOCTOR: 

Of course. 

This, er, this person who controls this place, The Master? 

GULLIVER: 

The Master, yes. 

DOCTOR: 

Have you seen him? 

GULLIVER: 

Upon occasion he has been pleased to grant me an audience. 

DOCTOR: 

Where might I find him? 

GULLIVER: 

The Master's palace is no ordinary edifice, but a citadel, 

a walled town at the top of a hill or cliff, which is reckoned the highest in the kingdom. 

DOCTOR: 

Yes, now I think I understand. 

May I ask, sir, where you come from? 

Would it not be Nottingham? 

GULLIVER: 

[Smiling]

My father had a small estate in Nottingham, sir. 

I was the third of five sons. 

He sent me to Emmanuel College in Cambridge at fourteen years old, where I applied myself close to my studies, learning navigation and other parts of the mathematics 

DOCTOR: 

Useful for those who intend to travel 

DOCTOR + GULLIVER: 

As I always believed it would someday or other, my fortune to do,

DOCTOR: 

Now I know who you are, sir. 

Your name is Lemuel Gulliver. 

GULLIVER: 

Your servant. 

ZOE: 

Gulliver? 

DOCTOR: 

Yes, yes. 

Oh, I'm looking forward to a long talk with you one of these days.

GULLIVER: 

I should like that above all things, but it would not be proper at this juncture to trouble you with the particulars of my adventures. 

DOCTOR: 

Oh, I wouldn't dream of detaining you. 

GULLIVER: 

Having been condemned by nature and fortune to a restless and active life, I must take my leave of you. Farewell. 

DOCTOR: 

Farewell. 

(Gulliver leaves.) 

ZOE: 

Why does he talk in such an extraordinary way? 

DOCTOR: 

Well, he can only speak the words that Dean Swift 

gave him to say. 

ZOE: 

But that's ridiculous. 

I mean, there never was such a person as Gulliver. 

He's a fictional character. 

DOCTOR: 

Of course he is. Don't you understand? 

This World that we've tumbled into is a World of Fiction. 

Unicorns, minotaur, Gulliver's Travels, they're all alive here. 

ZOE: 

Then what are we doing here? 

What do they want with us? 

The GELF Wars

 

"The thing about human beings was this: human beings couldn't agree. They couldn't agree about anything. Right from the moment their ancestors first slimed out of the oceans, and one group of sludge thought it was better to live in trees while the other thought it blatantly obvious that the ground was the hip place to be. And they'd disagreed about pretty well everything else ever since.

They disagreed about politics, religion, philosophy - everything.

And the reason was this: basically, all human beings believed all other human beings were insane, in varying degrees.

This was largely due to a defective gene, isolated by a group of Danish scientists at the Copenhagen Institute in the late 1960s. This was a discovery which had the potential for curing all humankind's ills, and the scientists, naturally ecstatic, decided to celebrate by going out for a meal. Two of them wanted to go for a smorgasbord, one wanted Chinese cuisine, another preferred French, while the last was on a diet and just wanted to stay in the lab and type up the report. The disagreement blew up out of all proportion, the scientists fell to squabbling and the paper was never completed. Which was just as well in a way, because if it had been presented, no one would have agreed with it, anyway.

Small wonder, then, that homo sapiens spent most of their short time on Earth waging war against each other.

For their first few thousand years on the planet they did little else, and they discovered two things that were rather curious: the first was that when they were at war, they agreed more. Whole nations agreed that other nations were insane, and they agreed that the mutually beneficial solution was to band together to eliminate the loonies. For many people, it was the most agreeable period of their lives, because, apart from a brief period on New Year's Eve (which, incidentally, no one could agree the date of), the only time human beings lived happily side by side was when they were trying to kill each other.

Then, in the middle of the twentieth century, the human race hit a major problem.

It got so good at war, it couldn't have one anymore.

It had spent so much time practising and perfecting the art of genocide, developing more and more lethal devices for mass destruction, that conducting a war without totally obliterating the planet and everything on it became an impossibility.

This didn't make human beings happy at all. They talked about how maybe it was still possible to have a small, contained war. A little war. If you like, a warette.

They spoke of conventional wars, limited wars, and this insane option might even have worked, if only people could have agreed on a new set of rules. But, people being people, they couldn't.

War was out. War was a no-no.

And like a small child suddenly deprived of its very favourite toy, the human race mourned and sulked and twiddled its collective thumbs, wondering what to do next.

Towards the conclusion of the twenty-first century, a solution was found. The solution was sport.

Sporting events were, in their way, little wars, and with war gone people started taking their sport ever more seriously. Scientists and theoreticians channelled their energies away from weaponry and into the new arena of battle.

And since the weapons of sport were human beings themselves, scientists set about improving them.

When chemical enhancements had gone as far as they could go, the scientists turned to genetic engineering.

Super sportsmen and women were grown, literally grown, in laboratory test-tubes around the planet.

The world's official sports bodies banned the new mutants from competing in events against normal athletes, and so a new, alternative sports body was formed, and set up in competition.

The GAS (Genetic Alternative Sports) finished 'normal' sport within two years. Sports fans were no longer interested in seeing a conventional boxing match, when they could witness two genetically engineered pugilists - who were created with their brains in their shorts, and all their other major organs crammed into their legs and feet, leaving their heads solid blocks of unthinking muscle - knock hell out of one another for hours on end in a way that normal boxers could only manage for minutes.

Basketball players were grown twenty feet tall.

Swimmers were equipped with gills and fins.

Soccer players were bred with five legs and no mouths, making after-match interviews infinitely more interesting. However, not all breeds of genetic athletes were accepted by the GAS and new rules had to be created after the 2224 World Cup, when Scotland fielded a goalkeeper who was a human oblong of flesh, measuring eight feet high by sixteen across, thereby filling the entire goal. Somehow they still failed to qualify for the second round.

American football provided the greatest variety of mutant athletes, each one specifically designed for its position. The Nose Tackle, for instance, was an enormous nose - a huge wedge of boneless flesh that was hammered into the scrimmage line at every play. Wide receivers were huge Xs - four long arms that tapered to the tiny waist perched on top of legs capable of ten-yard strides. The defensive line were even larger, specifically bred to secrete noxious chemicals whenever the ball was in play.

Genetic Alternative Sports were a huge hit, and the technological advancements spilled into other avenues of human life.

Cars were suddenly coming off the production line made from human mutations. Bone on the outside, soft supple flesh in the interior, and engines made from mutated internal organs - living cars, that drove themselves, parked themselves and never crashed. More importantly than that, they didn't rely on fossil fuels to run. All they required was carfood - a special mulch made from pig offal. Cars in the twenty-third century ran on sausages.

The trend spread. GELFs, Genetically Engineered Life Forms, were everywhere, and soon virtually every consumer product was made of living tissue. Gelf armchairs, which could sense your mood, and massage your shoulders when you were feeling tense, became a part of everyday life. Gelf vacuum cleaners, which were half kitchen appliance, half family pet, waddled around on their squat little legs, doing the household chores and amusing the children.

Finally, the bubble burst. The Gelfs rebelled, just as the Mechanoids had rebelled before them.

The unrest had been festering for half a century. The dichotomy was that, although Gelfs were created from human chromosomes, and therefore technically qualified as human, they had no rights whatsoever. Quite simply, they wanted to vote. And normal humans were damned if they were going to file into polling stations alongside walking furniture and twenty-feet tall athletic freaks.

The rebellion started in the Austrian town of Salzburg, when a vacuum cleaner and Gelf Volkswagen Beetle robbed a high street bank. They took the manager and a security guard hostage, agreeing to release them only if Valter Holman was brought to justice for murder.

Valter Holman had killed his armchair, and the whole of the Gelf community was up in arms, those that had arms, because the law courts refused to accept that a crime had been committed.

The facts in the case were undisputed. It was a crime of passion. Holman had returned home from work unexpectedly one afternoon to discover his armchair sitting on his naked wife. He immediately leapt to the right conclusion, and shot the chair as it hurriedly tried to wriggle back into its upholstery.

Finally the establishment capitulated, and Holman was brought to trial. After the two-day hearing the court ruled that since Holman would have to live out the rest of his life being known as the man who was cuckolded by his own furniture, he had suffered enough, and was given a six-month suspended sentence.

And so the Gelf War started.

And for a short time, humankind indulged in its favourite pastime. Humans versus man-made humans.

Armchairs and vacuum cleaners fought side by side with bizarrely shaped genetically engineered sports stars and living, breathing motor cars.

The Gelfs didn't stand a chance, and most of them were wiped out or captured. The few remaining went to ground, becoming experts in urban guerrilla warfare. For a short time, Gelf-hunters proliferated, and a rebel vacuum cleaner waddling frantically down a crowded street, pursued by a Gelf runner, became a common sight.

But it wasn't the Gelf resistance fighters who caused the problem. The problem was what to do with those who'd surrendered. Legally, killing them constituted murder, but equally, the authorities could hardly send them back into docile human service.

Fortunately the problem coincided with the nomination of Earth as Garbage World. All the captured Gelfs were dumped like refuse on the island of Zanzibar and left to die.

Most of them did. But not all. Some survived. Not the brightest, not even the biggest, just those best equipped to cope with the harsh rigours of living on a planet swamped in toxic waste and choking poisons. The ones who could endure the endless winter as Earth soared through the universe looking for its new sun. And gradually, a new strain of Gelf evolved.

A creature who could live anywhere. Even in the revolting conditions on Earth. A creature with a sixth sense - telepathy. A creature who was able to read its prey's mind, even through hundreds of feet of compacted ice. A creature with no shape of its own: whose form was dictated by the requirements of survival.

These were the polymorphs.

The shape-changers.

They didn't need food for survival.

They fed on other creatures' emotions. Their diet was fear, jealousy, anger ...

And when no other creatures were left on the island of Zanzibar, they began to feed off each other.

Until finally, there were only a handful left."

The Spectre

“Why can’t I TOUCH Them?

Why can’t I DO ANYTHING?”

“The Spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark night.

Scrooge followed to the window : desperate in his curiosity. He looked out.

The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they went. 

Every one of them wore chains like Marley’s Ghost; some few (they might be guilty governments) were linked together; none were free. 

Many had been personally known to Scrooge in their lives. He had been quite familiar with one old ghost, in a white waistcoat, with a monstrous iron safe attached to its ankle, who cried piteously at being unable to assist a wretched woman with an infant, whom it saw below, upon a door-step. 

The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, 

and had lost the power 

for ever.”

Shit. What are Friends For?

Fuck! You've gone completely •sideways•, man.

That'll blast you right through the wall.

You'll be stone dead in 10 seconds.

Fuck, they'll make me explain things. Shit.

Bullshit.

[Brandishing a Harpoon] 

Don't fuck with me now, man.

I am AHAB.

Jesus Christ.

All right, you weird fucker!

Sit down! Back in the tub!

I'll plunge this into your fucking throat.

Don't make me use this, man.

All right, man.

Probably the only solution.

Let me make sure I've got this all lined up :

You want me to, uh … 

Throw this  [electrical tape recorder] into the tub [WITH YOU] when “White Rabbit" peaks, is that it?

“Oh, fuck.

I was beginning to think....

I was gonna have to go outside …

and get one of

the goddamn •maids• to do it.”

Oh, no. I'll do it.

Shit. What are friends for?

The Utility of the Fool

   

Use The Force, Luke..!!

LET GO, Luke..!!

 

The Utility of the Fool

“It is useful to take your place at the bottom of a hierarchy. It can aid in the development of gratitude and humility. 

Gratitude: There are people whose expertise exceeds your own, and you should be wisely pleased about that. 

There are many valuable niches to fill, given the many complex and serious problems we must solve. 

The fact that there are people who fill those niches with trustworthy skill and experience is something for which to be truly thankful. 

Humility: It is better to presume ignorance and invite learning than to assume sufficient knowledge and risk the consequent blindness. It is much better to make friends with what you do not know than with what you do know, as there is an infinite supply of the former but a finite stock of the latter. 

When you are tightly boxed in or cornered — all too often by your own stubborn and fixed adherence to some unconsciously worshipped assumptions — all there is to help you is what you have not yet learned.

It is necessary and helpful to be, and in some ways to remain, a beginner. 

For this reason, the Tarot deck beloved by intuitives, romantics, fortune-tellers, and scoundrels alike contains within it the Fool as a positive card, an illustrated variant of which opens this chapter. 

The Fool is a young, handsome man, eyes lifted upward, journeying in the mountains, sun shining brightly upon him—about to carelessly step over a cliff (or is he?). 

His strength, however, is precisely his willingness to risk such a drop; to risk being once again at the bottom. 

No one unwilling to be a foolish beginner can learn. 

It was for this reason, among others, that Carl Jung regarded the Fool as the archetypal precursor to the figure of the equally archetypal Redeemer, the perfected individual.

The beginner, the fool, is continually required to be patient and tolerant—with himself and, equally, with others. His displays of ignorance, inexperience, and lack of skill may still sometimes be rightly attributed to irresponsibility and condemned, justly, by others. But the insufficiency of the fool is often better regarded as an inevitable consequence of each individual’s essential vulnerability, rather than as a true moral failing. Much that is great starts small, ignorant, and useless. 

This lesson permeates popular as well as classical or traditional culture. 

Consider, for example, the Disney heroes Pinocchio and Simba, as well as J. K. Rowling’s magical Harry Potter. 

Pinocchio begins as a wooden-headed marionette, the puppet of everyone’s decisions but his own. 

The Lion King has his origin as a naive cub, the unwitting pawn of a treacherous and malevolent uncle. 

The student of wizarding is an unloved orphan, with a dusty cupboard for a bedroom, and Voldemort — who might as well be Satan himself — for his archenemy. 

Great mythologized heroes often come into the world, likewise, in the most meager of circumstances (as the child of an Israelite slave, for example, or newborn in a lowly manger) and in great danger (consider the Pharaoh’s decision to slay all the firstborn male babies of the Israelites, and Herod’s comparable edict, much later). 

But today’s beginner is tomorrow’s master. Thus, it is necessary even for the most accomplished (but who wishes to accomplish still more) to retain identification with the as yet unsuccessful; to appreciate the striving toward competence; to carefully and with true humility subordinate him or herself to the current game; and to develop the knowledge, self-control, and discipline necessary to make the next move.

I visited a restaurant in Toronto with my wife, son, and daughter while writing this. As I made my way to my party’s table, a young waiter asked if he might say a few words to me. He told me that he had been watching my videos, listening to my podcasts, and reading my book, and that he had, in consequence, changed his attitude toward his comparatively lower-status (but still useful and necessary) job. He had ceased criticizing what he was doing or himself for doing it, deciding instead to be grateful and seek out whatever opportunities presented themselves right there before him. He made up his mind to become more diligent and reliable and to see what would happen if he worked as hard at it as he could. He told me, with an uncontrived smile, that he had been promoted three times in six months.

The young man had come to realize that every place he might find himself in had more potential than he might first see (particularly when his vision was impaired by the resentment and cynicism he felt from being near the bottom). After all, it is not as if a restaurant is a simple place—and this was part of an extensive national organization, a large, high-quality chain. To do a good job in such a place, servers must get along with the cooks, who are by universal recognition a formidably troublesome and tricky lot. They must also be polite and engaging with customers. They have to pay attention constantly. They must adjust to highly varying workloads—the rushes and dead times that inevitably accompany the life of a server. They have to show up on time, sober and awake. They must treat their superiors with the proper respect and do the same for those—such as the dishwashers—below them in the structure of authority. And if they do all these things, and happen to be working in a functional institution, they will soon render themselves difficult to replace. Customers, colleagues, and superiors alike will begin to react to them in an increasingly positive manner. Doors that would otherwise remain closed to them—even invisible—will be opened. Furthermore, the skills they acquire will prove eminently portable, whether they continue to rise in the hierarchy of restaurateurs, decide instead to further their education, or change their career trajectory completely (in which case they will leave with laudatory praise from their previous employers and vastly increased chances of discovering the next opportunity).

As might be expected, the young man who had something to say to me was thrilled with what had happened to him. His status concerns had been solidly and realistically addressed by his rapid career advance, and the additional money he was making did not hurt, either. He had accepted, and therefore transcended, his role as a beginner. He had ceased being casually cynical about the place he occupied in the world and the people who surrounded him, and accepted the structure and the position he was offered. He started to see possibility and opportunity, where before he was blinded, essentially, by His Pride. 

He stopped denigrating the Social Institution he found himself part of and began to play his part properly. 

And that increment in Humility paid off in spades. "

And “Doom” Spelt Backwards, is “mooD”

“ The  Magician  wishing  for  a  manifestation  of  Doctor Doom  will  not  only  invoke  Doom  directly  and verbally,  create  Doom-like  conditions  in  his  temple,  reinforce  Doom  associations  in  every gesture  and  every  article  of  furniture,  use  the  colors  and  perfumes  associated  with  Doom, etc.;  

He  will  also  banish  other  gods  verbally,  banish  them  by  removing  their  associated furnitures  and  colors  and  perfumes,  and  banish  them  in  every  other  way.”

I Love The Corps

So, This is UltraWar.

Me...

...against ME!

Thing is...

I'm not at war with my contradictions.

My Mistakes.

My "Discarded Selves"...

I worked all that OUT!

And there's an 

EASIER Way 

to Do This.

You Need to 

UNDERSTAND.

All The People I've BEEN, 

all The Roles I've Played....

I'm not DIVIDED.

I'm A CORPS.

Jon Ronson On... Ambition

Guise will be Guise

April Becomes Leslie Knope - Parks and Recreation

April (Aubrey Plaza) channels her inner Leslie Knope (Amy Poehler) when she's tasked with speaking to the public about a new Parks and Recreation project.

Guise will be Guise....

DEAD A.I.s

 

 

 

You Wanna Learn How to FIGHT, 

How to  SPEAK-UP and Be BRAVE --

 

Because Saints 

Stand-up for 

Themselves

AND OTHERS -- 

 

So That They Might 

Be HEARD. 

 

BUFFY, 

The Vampire Slayer 

(and you are...?) :

Hey. 

 

YANA,

Jenny Calendar :

Hi. Uh, is there something that... 

Did you want something? 

 

BUFFY, 

The Vampire Slayer 

(and you are...?) :

Look... I know you feel badly 

about What Happened, and 

I just Wanted to Say... 

 

Good. Keep it up. 

 

YANA,

Jenny Calendar :

Don't worry, I will. 

 

BUFFY, 

The Vampire Slayer 

(and you are...?) :

Oh, wait. Um... 

 

He Misses You. 

 

He doesn't say 

anything, I mean, but 

I know that he does --and 

I don't want him to be lonely. 

 

I don't want anyone to. 

 

YANA,

Jenny Calendar :

Buffy, you know that if I have 

a chance to make this up... 

 

BUFFY, 

The Vampire Slayer 

(and you are...?) :

(winces) We're... Good here. 

Let's just leave it.

 

 

 

LARIS :

Oh, the cheeky fuckers.

They've overwritten 

the particle residuum.

 

PICARD :

Overwritten it? 

 

LARIS :

Yes. And in a very sophisticated way.

It's barely detectable.

It would read as instrument-failure 

if you didn't know better.

 

But it's not.

It's a flat-out wipe.

 

PICARD :

Can you recover it? 

Uh —

 

(pretending to ignores The Question,

which she affects not have heard, 

The Romulan ex-Spy Mistress 

launches herself off into 

a seeming Non-Sequituer --)

LARIS : 

....have you never noticed the 

complete absence of any 

form of Artificial Life 

in Romulan culture? 

 

We don't have androids or AIs.

We don't study Cybernetics.

Our computers are limited to purely numerical functions.

 

 

.....They must have saturated 

this place in antileptons.

(...at no small risk to 

themselves, by the way.)

This place hasn't just 

been cleaned, Admiral.

It's been scrubbed.

 

PICARD :

Is that to be expected 

of your "Zhat Vash"? 

 

LARIS :

Well, they're not 

"my" Zhat Vash, and 

I thought you didn't 

believe in them.

 

PICARD :

I may be coming around.

So, then all this is about the 

Zhat Vash-hatred of androids.

 

 

LARIS :

It's not simply hate.

It's Hate and Fear and pure loathing for any form of Synthetic Life.

 

Why..? That I can't tell you.

I don't know.

 

But I am certain that is 

The Silence That Seals 

The Mouths of The Zhat Vash, 

as surely and eternally as Death.

 

The Operatives who did this 

wouldn't have wanted 

to leave the impression that 

the place had been scrubbed.

 

We may find they've 

neglected something, 

some actual clue that 

lay tucked inside 

a false clue, as it were.

 

PICARD : 

Something like this, for example? 

There's no record of any 

incoming or outgoing calls.

 

 

LARIS :

The information's there, 

but the indexes have 

been surgically deleted.

 (scrolling down through The White Noise)

There's no way to sort the data.

Essentially, they've sterilized it, 

so that it's qualitatively agnostic.

 

There's no distinction.

 

Everything looks 

like Everything Else.

LARIS :

What we need is a record of 

any contact that 

she may have had 

 

PICARD :

-- with Her Sister.

 

 LARIS :

Mm, and no doubt it's in here, 

but it will look the same 

as everything else.

 

 PICARD :

N-No, it it will look like her.

Like Dahj.

 

Wh-What's her name? 

 

 LARIS :

Um, Dr. Jurati.

She said that they would 

be identical twins, right?

 PICARD :

Even closer than twins, perhaps.

 

 

LARIS :

Okay. So what's the first thing you do 

when you bring a new 

digital assistant online?

 

 PICARD :

Introduce myself.

 

LARIS :

Exactly. Computers like Efficiency, 

so what a computer does is build heuristics, 

shortcuts to the tasks it performs most often.

 

 PICARD :

You're saying that if 

they were indistinguishable, then 

The Machine, at some point, 

could have mistaken 

The Sister for Dahj.

 

 

 

LARIS :

Exactly. And if it did, even for 

a few seconds before it flagged The Error, 

then The Tags might still be in here, 

overlooked by even the most 

diligent of scrubbers.

 

[BEEPING.]

 

Got you.

Okay -- These were all outgoing.

And these were incoming.

 

PICARD :

It's her.

Ghosts in The Machine.

Can you tell me where she is? 

 

 

LARIS :

No. But I can tell you where she isn't.

Nonlocal information packets are 

routed through subspace relays.

This routing leaves tiny but 

unmistakable code marks.

 

 PICARD :

Nonlocal? 

 

 

LARIS :

I'm saying this transmission 

came from off-world.

 

 PICARD :

Are you certain?

 

 

LARIS :

Wherever this girl was 

calling her sister from, 

it's nowhere on Earth.

 

 

[Janeway's quarters]

 

(Janeway is reading a book whilst music plays quietly. The doorbell chimes.)

 

JANEWAY: 

Come in. Are you having a little trouble regenerating? 

 

SEVEN: 

My alcove is functioning properly. 

I am having trouble with The Nature of Individuality. 

 

JANEWAY : 

There's a time and a place for philosophical discussion. 

Two in the morning in my quarters isn't one of them. 

But I'll tell you what. 

Meet me in the mess hall tomorrow. 

 

SEVEN: 

Tomorrow will be too late. 

We'll have already rewritten The Doctor's programme by then.

 

JANEWAY: 

And violated his rights as An Individual. 

 

SEVEN: 

Precisely. 

 

JANEWAY: 

If you've come to act as My Conscience, you're a little late. 

I considered these issues eighteen months ago,

as I did again this morning. 

I came to the same conclusion. 

 

SEVEN: 

Your conclusion is wrong. 

 

JANEWAY: 

Coffee, black. 

(she takes a sip.) 

Lukewarm. 

 

Now, I've told that replicator a dozen times

about the temperature of my coffee. 

 

It just doesn't seem to want to listen. 

 

Almost as if it's got a mind of its own. 

But it doesn't.

 

MAYBE IT THINKS HAVING LUKEWARM COFFEE

WOULD BE GOOD FOR YOUR HUMILITY, CAPTAIN.

 

A replicator operates through a series of electronic pathways

that allow it to receive instructions

and take appropriate action, and there you go. 

 

A cup of coffee, a bowl of soup,

a plasma conduit, whatever we tell it to do. 

 

As difficult as it is to accept,

The Doctor is more like that replicator than he is like us. 

 

SEVEN: 

He would disagree. 

 

JANEWAY: 

I'm sure he would,

but I can't let that change my decision.

 

I learned that the hard way

when his programme almost self-destructed. 

I won't take that risk again. 

 

SEVEN: 

The risk isn't yours to take. 

 

JANEWAY: 

If one of my crew chose to put a phaser

to his own head, should I let him? 

 

SEVEN:

It would depend on the situation. 

 

JANEWAY: 

It always depends on the situation, Seven,

but we can debate philosophy another time. 

 

SEVEN: 

When you separated me from The Collective,

I was an unknown risk to your crew,

yet you kept me on board.

 

You allowed me to evolve into An Individual. 

 

JANEWAY: 

You're a human being. 

He's a hologram. 

 

SEVEN: 

And you allowed that hologram to evolve as well,

to exceed his original programming. 

 

And yet now you choose to abandon him. 

 

JANEWAY: 

Objection noted. 

Good night. 

 

SEVEN: 

It is unsettling. 

You say that I am a human being and yet I am also Borg. 

Part of me not unlike your replicator. 

 

Not unlike The Doctor. 

Will you one day choose to abandon me as well? 

 

I have always looked to you as my example,

my guide to humanity. 

 

Perhaps I've been mistaken. 

Good night.

 

[Medical lab]

 

(The EMH comes out of his office to meet Torres and Janeway.)

 

JANEWAY: 

I'd like to think I made my decision eighteen months ago

for all the right reasons. 

 

The Truth is, my own biases about What You Are

had just as much to do with it.

 

At the very least, you deserve to know

Exactly What Happened.

If you're willing.

 

 

EMH: 

I'm ready. 

 

(They do the procedure in the Computer Control room.)

 

[Memories - Mess hall]

 

(The room is dark.)

 

PARIS: 

You're standing on my foot. 

 

EMH: 

I am not. 

 

TORRES:

Shush. 

 

(Neelix and Jetal enter.)

 

NEELIX: 

If you ask me, they should have just locked the turbolift and thrown away….

 

JETAL: 

Neelix, the power's down. 

Jetal to Torres. 

 

TORRES: 

Er, go ahead, Ensign. 

Or should I say. 

(The lights come on.)

 

ALL: 

Surprise!  

 

(Tuvok carries in the blue cake.)

 

JETAL: 

I'm going to kill you.

 (Later.)

 

CHAKOTAY: 

I want you to go along on a few of the shuttle surveys. 

If I can talk you into it. 

 

EMH: 

Another away mission? 

Certainly! I'm flattered. 

 

KIM: 

I guess the birthday girl and I get the pleasure of your company, Doc. 

 

CHAKOTAY: 

You launch at nineteen hundred hours, shuttlebay one. 

 

JETAL: 

Hello, Doctor. 

 

EMH: 

Ensign Jetal. I haven't seen you in months. 

 

JETAL: 

The price I pay for staying in good health. 

 

EMH: 

So, keeping busy down on deck eleven? 

 

JETAL: 

Too busy. We're modifying one of the shuttles,

making it more manoeuvrable and more cool. 

 

EMH: 

I see you've been working with Mister Paris.

My condolences.

 

[Memories - Shuttlecraft]

 

KIM:

I thought I picked up a slight distortion in subspace,

but it's not there any more. 

 

JETAL:

Nothing on long range sensors but a few hydrogen atoms. 

 

KIM:

Candid shot? 

 

EMH:

Try to look natural. 

 

JETAL:

Oh, at least it's my good side. 

EMH: Let's get one of the group. 

(The EMH stands the holo-imager on a rear seat and sets the self-timer.)

KIM: This is the last one. 

EMH: Say cheese. 

BOTH: Cheese. 

JETAL: Doctor, I have a shuttle to fly. 

EMH: Ah, yes. 

(Whumph!)

KIM: What was that? 

JETAL: Our sensors are dead. 

KIM: Power's being drained. Shields and weapons are offline. 

EMH: How? 

(He snaps an image of the ship attacking them. Then they are boarded. Another Whumph! makes him drop the holo-imager, and as it lands it snaps the alien before it shoots them. 

The EMH is unaffected, and he dashes to the controls. The alien is beamed away.)

EMH: Doctor to Voyager, mayday. We're under attack. I've got wounded. Mayday! 

CHAKOTAY [OC]: Acknowledged, Doctor. Set navigational controls to return to Voyager. 

EMH: Commander, can you hear me? 

CHAKOTAY [OC]: Doctor, please respond. 

(The EMH gets Jetal's blood on his hands.)

EMH: Hello? Computer, engage autonavigation. Lay in a course for Voyager, full impulse. 

KIM: Doctor. 

EMH: Stay calm. That weapon carried quite a punch. 

KIM: Is she okay? 

EMH: She's unconscious. 

KIM: Voyager? 

EMH: We've lost contact. I sent that alien back to his ship. You think they'd be grateful. 

KIM: You should have beamed him into space. 

EMH: I'm not in the business of killing people, Ensign. Synaptic shock? But there was no neural damage. Mister Kim! I don't understand. No. 

(The attack continues until Voyager arrives.)

CHAKOTAY [OC]: Doctor, stand by for transport. 

EMH: Beam us directly to Sickbay.

 

[Memories - Sickbay]

 

EMH: 

Prepare these people for surgery. 

 

PARIS: Here. What happened? 

EMH: We were fired on. There's something wrong with their nervous systems. We've got to stabilise their synapses. Get me a choline compound.

 

PARIS: 

Which choline compound? 

 

EMH: 

It doesn't matter. 

Just make sure it's a pure base. 

Her spinal cord's deteriorating. (He checks Kim.) 

Same rate of collapse. 

PARIS: 

Acetylcholine, twenty five microlitres. 

It's not helping. I'm reading massive synaptic failure.

 

EMH:

This doesn't make any sense. 

PARIS: 

Paris to Engineering. Transfer all available power to Sickbay. 

TORRES [OC]: Acknowledged. 

 

 

EMH: 

Some kind of plasmic energy is arcing between their neural membranes. That weapon, it was designed to do this. 

PARIS: To leave a residual charge in the victim's body? 

EMH: An energy pulse that remains in the neural membranes, working its way up the spinal cord to the brain. They'll be dead in minutes if we don't find a way to stop it. I've got to protect their brain functions. 

PARIS: His neocortex is failing. 

EMH: A spinal shunt. I'll isolate the spinal cord from the brain stem until I can repair the cellular damage. But I don't have time to perform the procedure on both of them. 

PARIS: Then talk me through it. We'll do them together. 

EMH: It's too complex. 

PARIS: Then make a choice, before we lose them both! 

(The EMH choses Kim.)

EMH: Subdermal scalpel. Bio-electric field generator. 

PARIS: His vital signs are stabilising. It's working. 

EMH: Cellular regenerator. His neural membranes are re-establishing themselves. Good. (The biobed behind them signals Jetal's death.)

 

[Computer Control room]

 

EMH: The attack, how did it end? Were there more casualties? 

JANEWAY: We exchanged fire for another few minutes, then the aliens withdrew. There was only one casualty. Ensign Jetal. 

EMH: I don't mean to seem unfeeling, but I'm programmed to accept the loss of a patient with professional detachment.

 

[Memories - Bridge]

 

JANEWAY: We are assembled here today to pay final respects to our honoured dead, Ensign Ahni Jetal. Her intelligence and her charm have made our long journey home seem not quite so long. As she continues on a journey of her own, we will keep her in our hearts and in our memories.

(Tuvok fires Jetal's torpedo casing coffin into space.)

 

[Memories - Mess hall]

 

EMH: We're low on synthetic antigens, and I'm sorry to report many of the medicinal plants you've collected over the past several months were destroyed as well. 

NEELIX: I have some herbs in storage you might be able to use. 

EMH: Been holding out on me? 

NEELIX: No, I was keeping them around just in case. 

EMH: Good planning. 

NEELIX: As for the antigens, I'll have to start replicating them in batches. Which do you want first? 

EMH: Decisions, decisions. How do you make a decision, Mister Neelix? In general, I mean. 

NEELIX: I guess I weigh the alternatives and try to decide which is best. 

(The EMH picks up two fruit. One red, one yellow.)

 

EMH: Which is best. How do you determine that? 

 

NEELIX: I never thought about it, really. 

 

EMH: Well, maybe you should. Think about it, I mean. 

 

NEELIX: I guess every situation is a little different. 

 

EMH: 

For me, it's rather simple. 

While I'm faced with a decision, my programme calculates the variables, and I take action. 

For example, what could be simpler than a triage situation in Sickbay? Two patients, for example, both injured, for example, both in imminent danger of dying. 

Calculate the variables. 

My programme needs to ascertain which patient has the greater chance of survival, and that's the one I treat. 

 

(He throws the red fruit across the room.)

 

EMH: 

Simple. 

But, what if they have an Equal Chance of Survival? 

What then? Hmm? 

Flip a coin? Pick a card? 

 

NEELIX: 

Doctor. 

 

EMH: 

Oh, I'm all right. 

I'm a hologram. 

I don't get injured, I don't feel pain, I don't die. 

Unlike some people I could tell you about. 

For example, Two Patients. 

 

Both injured, both in imminent danger of. 

Don't touch me! I'm a hologram. Photonic energy. Don't waste your time. 

 

NEELIX: 

Neelix to Security. Send a team to the Mess hall, please. 

 

EMH: 

A whole team, Mister Neelix? Throwing a little party, are we?

Why, I attended a party just recently.

A birthday party for a very nice young woman.

I made a decision there, too. Several of them, in fact.

When I came through the door, do I turn right or do I turn left?

As I recall, I decided on the latter.

 

Then, what should I see before me but the hors d'oeuvre tray,

and another decision. 

Do I take a canapé or refuse?

 

Oh, that's an easy one.

I'm a hologram. I don't eat. 

 

(Tuvok and security arrive.)

 

NEELIX:

Something's wrong with him. 

 

EMH:

Don't you know it's rude to refer to somebody in the third person.

You had a choice, Mister Neelix.

Should I do something rude or not do something rude? 

 

TUVOK:

Doctor, we must return to Sickbay. 

 

EMH:

Why should I? What if I don't want to return to Sickbay?

What if I decide not to return to Sickbay? No, I don't choose this.

 

Leave me alone!

Let me go!

 

Why did she have to die? Why did I kill her?

Why did I decide to kill her? Why? Somebody tell me why!

 

[Computer control room]

 

JANEWAY:

It was downhill from there.

 

You developed a feedback loop

between your ethical and cognitive subroutines.

 

You were having the same thoughts over and over again.

We couldn't stop it.     

 

TORRES:

Our only option was to erase your memories of those events. 

 

EMH:

You were right.

I didn't deserve to keep those memories,

not after what I did. 

 

JANEWAY:

You were performing Your Duty. 

 

EMH:

Two patients, which do I kill?

 

JANEWAY:

Doctor.

    

EMH: 

Doctor? Hardly! 

A Doctor retains his objectivity. 

I didn't do that, did I? 

 

Two patients, equal chances of survival

and I chose the one I was closer to? 

I chose My Friend?

 

That's not in My Programming! 

That's not what I was Designed to Do!

 

Go ahead! Reprogramme me! I'll lend you a hand!

Let's start with this very day, this hour, this second! 

 

JANEWAY: 

Computer, deactivate the EMH. 

 

TORRES: 

Here we go again. Captain? 

 

JANEWAY: 

It's as though there's a battle being fought inside him, 

between His Original Programming and What He's Become. 

 

Our solution was to end that battle. 

What if we were wrong? 

 

TORRES: 

We've seen what happens to him. 

In fact, we've seen it twice. 

 

JANEWAY: 

Still, we allowed him to evolve,

and at the first sign of Trouble...? 

 

We gave him A Soul, B'Elanna. 

Do we have the right to take it away now?

 

TORRES: 

We gave him personality subroutines -- 

I'd hardly call that A Soul.

 

[Cargo Bay two]

 

(Janeway brings Seven out of regeneration.)

 

SEVEN: 

Captain. 

 

JANEWAY: 

I'm having Trouble --

with The Nature of Individuality. 

 

SEVEN: 

You require a philosophical discussion? 

 

JANEWAY: 

There's a Time and a Place for it. 

This is one of them. 

 

After I freed you from The Collective, you were transformed. 

It's been a difficult process. 

 

Was it worth it? 

 

SEVEN: 

I had no choice.

 

JANEWAY:

That's not what I asked you.

 

SEVEN: 

If I could change What Happened, 

erase What You Did to Me, would I? 

 

No.

 

Captain's log, supplemental. 

Our Doctor is now our patient. 

 

It's been two weeks since I've ordered a round the clock vigil. 

A crew member has stayed with him at all times, offering a sounding board and a familiar presence while he struggles to understand his memories and thoughts. 

 

The Chance of Recovery? Uncertain.

 

[Holodeck]

 

EMH: 

The more I think about it, the more I realise

There's nothing I could've done differently. 

 

JANEWAY: 

What do you mean? 

 

EMH: 

The primordial atom burst, sending out its radiation,

setting everything in motion. 

 

One particle collides with another, gases expand, planets contract, 

and before you know it we've got starships and holodecks and chicken soup. 

 

In fact, you can't help but have starships and holodecks and chicken soup, 

because it was all determined twenty billion years ago!  

 

(Tuvok enters during this outburst.)

 

TUVOK: 

There is A Certain Logic to your Logic.

Progress? 

 

JANEWAY: 

I'm not sure if he's making any sense of this experience, 

or if his programme's just running in circles. 

 

TUVOK: 

You've been here for sixteen hours. 

Let me continue while you rest. 

 

JANEWAY: 

I'll be all right. 

Go back to the bridge.  

 

 

(Tuvok leaves. Janeway returns to her book.)

 

EMH: 

How can you read at a time like this? 

 

JANEWAY: 

It helps me Think.

 

EMH: 

Think? What do you need to think about? 

 

JANEWAY:

 You. This book is relevant to your situation. 

 

EMH: 

Oh? What is it? 

 

JANEWAY: 

Poetry, written on Earth a thousand years ago. 

La Vita Nuova. 

 

EMH: 

La Vita Nuova. The New Life? Ha! 

Tell that to Ensign Jetal. 

Actually, I killed her countless times. 

 

JANEWAY: 

What do you mean? 

 

EMH: 

Causality, Probability. 

 

For every action, there's an infinite number of reactions

and in each one of them, I killed her. 

 

Or did I? 

 

Too many possibilities. 

Too many pathways for my programme to follow. 

Impossible to choose. 

 

Still, I can't live with the knowledge of what I've done. I can't. 

 

(Janeway has fallen asleep.)

 

EMH: 

Captain? Captain? 

 

JANEWAY: 

Oh, sorry. 

 

EMH: 

How could you sleep at a time like this? 

 

JANEWAY: 

It's been a long day.

 

You were saying? 

 

EMH: 

What's wrong? 

 

JANEWAY: 

Nothing. 

 

EMH: 

You're ill!

 

JANEWAY: 

I have a headache.

 

EMH: 

Fever, you have a fever! 

 

JANEWAY: 

I'll live.

 

EMH: 

Medical emergency! 

 

JANEWAY: 

Doctor --

 

EMH: 

Someone's got to treat you immediately. 

Call Mister Paris. You've got to get to Sickbay.

 

JANEWAY: 

Doctor, I'm a little busy right now --

Helping a Friend. 

 

EMH: 

I, I'll be all right. Go, sleep, please. 

I'll still be here in the morning. 

 

JANEWAY: 

Are you sure? 

 

EMH: 

Yes. Please, 

 

I don't want to be responsible for 

any more suffering. 

 

(Janeway leave her book open at the first page.)

 

JANEWAY: 

Good night. If you need anything --

 

EMH: 

-- I'll call. 

Thank You, Captain. 

 

(Janeway leaves. The EMH picks up the book and reads aloud.)

 

EMH: 

"In That Book which is My Memory, 

on The First Page of The Chapter That is The Day When I First Met You,

 appear the words - 

 

Here begins A New Life.

 

 

 

 

PICARD:

(sighs) 

Another damn dream.

 

DATA'S GHOST :

No, Captain.

 

It is a 

Massively Complex Quantum Simulation.

 

I would imagine, however, 

from Your Point of View, 

Hearing me say so would not be out of place in 

A Dream You Might Have about me --

 

If you ever have dreams about me.

 

 

PICARD:

I dream about you all the time.

 

DATA'S GHOST :

Interesting.

 

Are you wearing the clothes you had on 

when you died?

 

PICARD:

Data... am I dead?

 

DATA'S GHOST :

Yes, Captain.

Do you remember dying?

 

PICARD:

I think I do --

 

Something in My Head seemed to just go away -

 

Like a child's sand castle collapsing.

 

DATA'S GHOST :

Hmm.

 

I'm aware that I was killed in 2379, 

but I have no memory of My Death.

 

My Consciousness exists 

in a Massively Complex Quantum Reconstruction, 

made from a copy of 

The Memories I Downloaded into B4 Just Before I Died.

 

PICARD:

You don't remember Your Death,

I can't forget it.

 

 

DATA'S GHOST :

Apparently, I ended My Existence

in the hope of prolonging yours.

 

PICARD:

That's right. 

Before I had even grasped the nature of our predicament, 

you had conceived and executed it.

 

I was furious!

 

DATA'S GHOST :

My apologies, Captain.

 

But I am not certain

I could have done otherwise.

 

 

PICARD:

True. That might have been 

The Most Data Thing 

you ever did.

 

I always wished that I could have said,

I was sorry that it was you and not me.

 

DATA'S GHOST :

Captain -- Do you regret 

Sacrificing Your Life 

for Soji and Her People?

 

PICARD:

Not for an instant.

 

DATA'S GHOST :

Then why would you imagine 

I regret sacrificing mine for yours?

 

 

PICARD:

Ah.

 Did you say all this was A Simulation?

 

DATA'S GHOST :

Yes, sir. An extremely sophisticated one.

 

My memory engrams were extracted from a single neuron 

salvaged by Bruce Maddox, and then 

My Consciousness was reconstructed by My Brother,

Dr. Altan Soong.

 

 

PICARD:

I don't much care for him.

 

DATA'S GHOST :

Mm. The Soongs can be...

I believe the phrase is "an acquired taste."

 

PICARD:

Mm-hmm. Well, whatever This is, 

it's wonderful to see you, Data.

 

To see your strange, beautiful face.

 

Among the many, many things that I regretted after Your Death

was that I never told you...

 

 

DATA'S GHOST :

...that you loved me.

 

Knowing that You Loved Me 

forms a small --

but statistically significant 

part of My Memories.

 

I hope that brings you 

some comfort, sir.

 

PICARD:

It does.

Thank you, Data.

 

 

DATA'S GHOST :

Which is why I would like to ask you 

to do me a favour.

 

PICARD:

Of course. Anything.

 

DATA'S GHOST :

When you leave...

 

PICARD:

Leave?

(stammers)

I'm sorry, I-I don't understand.

I thought This was A Simulation.

 

 

DATA'S GHOST :

Yes, sir.

But you are not.

 

Before your brain functions ceased, 

Doctors Soong and Jurati, with help from Soji,

were able to scan, map and transfer

a complete neural image of your brain substrates.

 

PICARD:

Do I have to go?

 

DATA'S GHOST :

Yes, Captain.

 

 

PICARD:

Uh, you wanted me to do you a favor.

 

DATA'S GHOST :

Yes, sir.

 

When you leave, I would be profoundly grateful -- 

if you terminated My Consciousness.

 

PICARD:

You want to die?

 

Not exactly, sir.

I Want to Live, however briefly, 

knowing that My Life is finite.

 

Mortality gives meaning 

to Human Life, Captain.

 

Peace, Love, Friendship --

These are precious.

Because we know they cannot endure.

 

A Butterfly That Lives Forever...

Is really not a Butterfly, at all.

 

PICARD:

Very well.

I will do what you ask.

 

 

DATA'S GHOST :

Thank you, sir.

 

PICARD:

Goodbye, Commander.

 

 

DATA'S GHOST :

(echoing) : 

Goodbye, Captain.

 

(breathing deeply)