by Jeffrey Lang
“I was . . .” Data began, then faltered. “It felt . . .” He stopped, then looked around the room as if searching for a way to begin. Finally, defeated, he said, “Here is a paradox. It is very difficult to discuss an emotional state without the benefit of emotions. Yet, if I were to activate my emotion chip, I would be unable to discuss the emotions because I would be overwhelmed by them.” He cocked his head at Picard. “How do you do this, Captain?”
Picard smiled ruefully. “With practice, Data. A great deal of practice. And even those who claim to understand the process best cannot always predict how they themselves would act under extreme stress. Now there's a topic to take up with the counselor someday. But back to the subject at hand: do you want to reactivate the chip?”
Data's face tightened and his lips became a thin line.
“What's wrong, Data? Are you afraid?”
“No, Captain,” he replied. “At present, I cannot be afraid. However, even without my emotion chip I can recognize a potentially threatening situation. Nevertheless, I will reactivate it.” Data snapped his head to the side as Picard had seen him do on one or two occasions and slowly straightened it. His face, which had smoothed out when the emotion chip had been deactivated, seemed to age ten years and lines appeared where there had been none moments before. He sighed once, profoundly.
“Data?”
Data did not respond for several seconds and Picard began to worry that he had lapsed into some sort of catatonic state. Then, very gradually, the yellow eyes focused. “Yes, Captain,” he replied. “I am here.”
“Are you all right?”
“I believe so, yes. Though the feelings of grief and despair are still there, I believe I have adapted sufficiently. Yes.” Unexpectedly, Data smiled briefly and said, “The nap must have done me a great deal of good.”
Picard smiled in response. “Why, Mr. Data, I do believe you just made a joke.”
“Really?” he asked. “Was it a good one?”
“I've heard worse,” Picard said kindly. “Now, tell me what happened.”
Data sat up straighter and seemed to be peering into memories of the distant past. “As I laid my mother to rest,” Data said, folding his hands into his lap, “I had an insight.” He looked up at his captain as if seeking permission to tell him, so Picard nodded. “You are going to die.”
Picard waited for him to continue, the silence stretching on uncomfortably until, finally, Picard lifted his hand and said, “And . . . ?”
Data let the other shoe drop. “But I will not,” Data continued.
Picard struggled to keep a neutral expression, not sure whether his impulse was to reply with exasperation or to laugh. Finally, he managed to say, “That's not necessarily true, Data. Not to be morbid, but any number of things could happen.”
“Of course, Captain. I could be crushed beyond repair or vaporized by a phaser or the Enterprise could be destroyed by a Romulan warbird, but these things are true for everyone aboard the ship. What I was referring to was the natural course of every biological entity: if nothing happens to hasten it, your death will occur at the end of its natural span, whereas I have been designed to continue functioning virtually forever.”
Picard nodded, trying not to let Data's analysis of his life expectancy color the conversation. “All right, Data. I think I see your point. You probably will outlive all of us, but such is the nature of your existence—you're an artificial life form. I thought you understood that.”
“Understood?” Data asked, his voice rising sharply. “Yes, I have always understood it. I have always known that I will attend your funeral and Geordi's funeral and Counselor Troi's funeral . . . the funeral of every person aboard the Enterprise. And then, if I decide to join another crew, I will attend the funerals of those shipmates, too.” Picard saw that Data's eyes were beginning to grow moist again and heard his voice crack with emotion. “And then there are those who have already died—my mother, my daughter, my brother . . .” He bent his head and rubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand. “And Tasha . . .” Data paused and collected himself. “There has not been a day since she died when I have not thought of her, but today . . . today was the first time I understood, truly understood that I will never see her again. If there is such a thing as an afterlife, Captain, I will not even see her there because I will not die.” He dropped his head between his hands and stared at the floor. Picard waited, listening to Data breathe deeply, watching him struggle to hold back tears.
Several minutes passed and Picard had the peculiar realization that he had never listened to Data breathe before. He knew that Soong had programmed his creation to simulate many basic human functions—respiration, circulation, even digestion—but they had never, the two of them, sat in a room together with neither of them speaking. He had known Data, had thought of him as a friend, for more than ten years, but had never sat in silence with him for more than a moment or two. It was a sobering thought.
“Captain,” Data said very quietly, still staring at the floor, “I want to deactivate my emotion chip.”
Picard stirred, shifted his weight and asked, “Do you feel like it might shut down of its own accord again? Are you afraid it might endanger other systems?”
Data shook his head, then looked up. “You misunderstand me. I want to turn it off—forever.”
Picard frowned. “Data—we've had this conversation before. You yourself made reference to it earlier. I'm going to tell you now exactly what I told you then: you can't hide from your feelings every time they become unpleasant.”
“But is that not precisely what you instructed me to do when the Borg invaded the Enterprise?”
Picard's shoulders sagged. He had not forgotten about that. When the Enterprise had traveled back in time to the twenty-first century to prevent the Borg from changing Earth's past, the Borg had circumvented their defenses and taken over the lower decks of the ship. Picard had led a raiding party to determine the strength of their forces and Data, unfortunately, began to verbalize every fluctuation in his emotional state.
The party was composed largely of young cadets, crewmen who were not familiar with some of Data's idiosyncrasies and were already unnerved by the prospect of fighting Borg drones hand to hand. There just hadn't been enough time to explain things to either the cadets or Data, so Picard had taken the easy way and ordered Data to deactivate the emotion chip, a case of putting the ship's safety before the well-being of one member of the crew. It was the kind of call Picard hated to make, but which he knew he always must.
“I may have done you an injustice that day, Data,” Picard said. “If you truly want to understand what it means to be human, you will have to learn to transcend these periods of your life, find ways to cope, to draw strength from inner resources. Hemingway wrote, ‘The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.’ ”
“I have noted,” Data said, “that the rest of the thought is frequently omitted when it is quoted: ‘But those that it will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure that it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.’ ” Data fell silent, letting the lines sink in. Finally, he concluded, “But Hemingway knew nothing of artificial life forms.”
“No, he didn't,” Picard agreed. “But I believe he understood that the human heart has a remarkable capacity for healing. This is another aspect of humanity you have yet to experience, Data. I do not wish to usurp Counselor Troi's role, but I believe she would tell you to give yourself time to heal.”
Picard thought he saw some of the lines lift from around Data's eyes and mouth until, finally, he nodded and said, “All right, Captain. I will give myself time.” Then, with a trace of bitterness Picard had never heard in his voice before, Data said, “I have a great deal of it at my disposal.”
Picard tried to smile, found that he could not. “Good,” he said uncertainly. “Very good.” He settled back into the co
uch, then remembered his tea and reached for it. “This strikes me as the right moment to return to matters of duty and tell you about a message that I received shortly before you called me. It is, in an odd way, tangentially related to what we have been discussing. Admiral Haftel of the Daystrom Institute Annex on Galor IV contacted me a short while ago with some unhappy news. Apparently Commander Bruce Maddox has been under his command there for the past two years, on special assignment. Two weeks ago, there was an incident at Maddox's lab, and the commander was caught in a partial building collapse. The admiral was reluctant to go into detail, but ordered us to divert immediately to Galor IV.”
“Commander Maddox is alive?” Data asked.
“Yes,” Picard said, “but there would appear to be complications. The admiral asked that Dr. Crusher accompany us as well.”
“I see,” Data said. “Did the admiral say why he required the Enterprise, specifically?”
“No, that's part of the puzzle,” Picard said. “I checked, and there are several other starships nearer to Galor IV that could divert there if the admiral required general assistance. But he wanted us.”
“Intriguing,” Data said. “Then . . . a mystery.”
“So it would appear.” Picard smiled and said, “The game is afoot.”
But Data, lost in thought, did not smile at Picard's joke. He was too busy trying to determine whether the peculiar sensation that he had just felt run down his back was, in fact, a shiver.
Captain's Log, Stardate 51407.6: We have arrived at Galor IV and are preparing to beam down to meet with Admiral Haftel. While I have some concerns about Data's emotional state, I believe the best course is to involve him in this investigation. Counselor Troi will accompany us to monitor Data's condition.
The away team had been assembled in Transporter Room One for ten minutes awaiting a “go” signal from Dr. Crusher. A routine diagnostic had shown that the transporter's pathogen filters had not successfully neutralized a new form of airborne virus and Crusher wanted it analyzed before she risked spreading it planetside. It was only the work of a few minutes to reprogram the transporter and though Picard disliked making the admiral wait, no one dared suggest that they proceed until Crusher was satisfied. Everyone knew the protocols, but, more significantly, everyone knew the doctor.
While waiting for Crusher's approval, La Forge and Data settled in a corner to discuss a paper they were preparing for a journal, while Troi and Riker took the spare moment to review a handful of outstanding crew evaluations. Picard and McAdams found themselves standing off to one side and the captain was once again pleased to discover how easy it was to fall into conversation with his new chief of security.
“Have you visited any of the Daystrom Institute campuses before, Lieutenant?”
“Yes,” she said, “but not since I was a little girl.” McAdams smiled as if at a fond memory. “My grandfather was invited to lecture and he took me with him. I don't really remember much about the place, though, except that there were no other children and none of the adults would let me play with their toys.”
Picard laughed, then asked, “What was your grandfather's field?”
“At the time, molecular biology, I think. That year. He was a bit of a dabbler. Didn't stick with anything in particular very long. The last time I talked to him he was on an archaeological dig in Central America.”
“Really?” Picard asked, his interest piqued. “That's something of a hobby of mine.”
“Really? Terran or xeno?”
“Xeno. I'm particularly interested in early galactic seed civilizations,” Picard said, warming to the topic. “What about your grandfather?”
“Mostly Terran, though he was also interested in early Lunar settlements.”
“Ah,” Picard said. “I recently read a fascinating piece about the discovery of a midden heap near the Sea of Tranquillity . . .”
The doors to the transporter room parted. “Thank goodness,” Beverly Crusher said from behind him, “I've arrived just in time.” Picard turned to see the doctor checking her medical tricorder's calibration. “Lieutenant, you have no idea how perilous your situation was. If he had managed to get up a good head of steam, we never would have gotten out of here.”
McAdams grinned and said, “That's the sort of thing people say about my grandfather.“
Picard sighed good-naturedly and said, “You're satisfied with your filters, Doctor?”
“Everything's fine, Captain.”
“Then let's go to work.”
The away team beamed directly to the infirmary entrance where they found Admiral Anthony Haftel waiting for them. A serious-minded administrator, he and Picard had locked horns some years ago over the disposition of Lal, soon after Data had created her. Backed by his own superiors, the admiral had wanted her turned over to Starfleet Research for study, and it had taken the tragedy of Lal's fatal cascade failure to convince Haftel to back off from pursuing the matter further. Picard reflected that it made a perverse kind of sense that Bruce Maddox—who years ago had fought so hard for the opportunity to disassemble Data in order to learn the secret that would enable him to produce more Soong-type androids—would end up under Haftel's command at Starfleet's R&D labs at the Daystrom Annex.
As soon as the introductions and reintroductions were completed, Dr. Crusher asked to be taken to Maddox's room. Taking their cue from the doctor, everyone moved as quietly as possible through the halls, despite the fact that Picard saw no evidence of any other patients.
“Not a particularly busy place usually,” Haftel commented. “Most of the doctors who work here are also researchers, so we're glad to see you, Dr. Crusher.”
“Respectfully, Admiral, please try to keep your voice down,” Crusher said.
Picard winced inwardly. Fortunately, Haftel seemed willing to cut her some slack. “Don't worry, Doctor,” Haftel said. “There's only one patient currently in residence: yours. And he won't be bothered. I wish that he could, because there are a number of questions I'd like answered.”
Picard could see Crusher biting back a reply. She asked, “Will his doctor be there?”
“I'm afraid not,” Haftel said. “Dr. Jika was called away on a medical emergency across the campus just before your ship entered orbit. She'll be along as soon as she's able, but I told her I wouldn't keep you waiting. Ah. Here we are.”
Maddox's room was state of the art, as one might expect from a research institute. They found the commander lying unconscious on a biobed, cortical monitors affixed to his neck and forehead. Someone in a Starfleet engineering uniform sat slumped in a chair beside the bed, his back to the Enterprise party. He didn't move as Crusher picked up a medical padd from a nearby console and keyed the patient's chart.
A snore suddenly issued from the seated engineer, drawing Picard's attention. He focused on the officer for the first time, and smiled in recognition.
La Forge shot Picard an inquiring look and the captain nodded, still smiling. Geordi leaned over as quietly as he could and lifted a tray of food from the officer's lap. Then, La Forge nudged his shoulder and, pitching his voice low, said, “Reg? Regggg? Time to wake up.”
Reginald Barclay's eyes snapped open and, as La Forge must have predicted, he leapt to his feet before bothering to check whether he had a tray of food on his lap. He stared wide-eyed at the figures around him as if trying to separate them from some dream he had been having, then exclaimed, “Geordi! I mean, Commander La Forge! You're here. I mean, of course you're here. I knew you were coming, but I wasn't expecting . . .” He looked around again, this time taking in the scene. “You're all here.” He ran his fingers back through his hair, tried to straighten his uniform, then found the paper napkin under his chin and tugged it away. Nodding, he said, “Admiral, excuse me. I . . . I must have dozed off. Captain Picard, I . . . I . . . I . . .” he began to stutter, then willed himself to be calm. “What time is it?”
Geordi glanced at the chronometer in the corner of his optic display and replied, “
Nine A.M. local time, Reg. It's okay. Obviously, you've been here for a while.”
“Indeed, Mr. Barclay,” the captain said. “You have nothing to apologize for. If anything, we should apologize for waking you so suddenly.”
“No, really,” Barclay said. “It's fine. Really. I'm fine. Nine A.M.? Then, I've been asleep for, oh, an hour. That's more than enough. You see, I've been sitting up with Bruce—Commander Maddox—talking to him. They say that helps sometimes, you know.”
“Yes, Reg,” Dr. Crusher said. “Sometimes it does, though sometimes it's not very good for the person who's doing the talking.” She popped open her medical tricorder, passed it in front of Barclay, then studied the results. Crusher rolled her eyes and sighed. “I've seen worse,” she muttered and pulled out a hypo. “This should balance out your electrolytes, but you're going to need real sleep soon. Preferably in bed.” She pressed the hypo against his arm and Barclay seemed to relax as the concoction hit his bloodstream.
“Thank you, Doctor,” he said.
“And eat some real food soon,” Crusher finished with mild disgust, staring at the tray.
“Yes, Doctor.” Barclay sighed contentedly. Some people, Geordi reflected, required more mothering than others. Or enjoyed it more than others. Or possibly both at the same time.
“It's good to see you, Reg,” La Forge said. “The Enterprise has been a much, uh, quieter place since you transferred. I had no idea that this is where you ended up, though. I thought you were at Jupiter Station—”
“And I was,” Barclay interrupted. “For a while. Then I came here about . . .” He searched his memory.
“Three months ago,” Haftel said. “A very eventful three months. Reg has been our envoy with Dr. Lewis Zimmerman on Jupiter Station, who has been helping Commander Maddox with the theoretical work. But when it came time to do the real work of assembling the . . . apparatus . . . Maddox decided it would make more sense for Reg to be here.”