by Jeffrey Lang
Tough little ship.
Riker smiled at the memory. The Klingon had almost snarled out loud, but had understood Riker's real message: You're the captain now. Good job. There were still days Riker regretted not having gone that route—captaining a vessel that he could actually feel move under his feet, a little ship. Well, perhaps someday . . .
“. . . But didn't you feel a little—peculiar—getting involved in a project like this?” Riker's eyes darted to La Forge, who was speaking quietly to Barclay as they walked. It seemed that Riker, walking nearest the pair, was the only one who could overhear them. And Barclay, to Riker's surprise, didn't seem at all disconcerted by the question.
“You mean, because of what happened when Bruce wanted to disassemble Data?”
“Well, yeah,” La Forge said.
“I thought of that,” Barclay admitted. “And I wrestled with the question, but, in the end, I realized that this time harming Data wasn't even an issue. And what Commander Maddox was ultimately attempting to do was something that would benefit Data.”
“What do you mean?” La Forge asked.
Reg sounded confused, as if Geordi was overlooking something that struck Barclay as elementary. “Just that, well, if it worked, Data wouldn't be alone anymore, would he?” He shook his head and flipped his hair back over the top of his head. “It's not a good thing, feeling alone.”
La Forge became thoughtful as he considered Barclay's reply, and slipped into silence as they walked on.
Maddox's lab complex was in a building near the edge of the campus. Perched atop a gentle slope, the five-story structure overlooked a wide, well-tended lawn that ran down into a stand of old-growth forest. As the officers approached, the extensive damage on one side of the building was obvious. The admiral nodded to a pair of security guards patrolling the grounds, then stepped up to the retinal scanner beside the main entrance. “Cleared for access,” the computer intoned. The locking mechanism clicked, and the doors parted.
As the others passed through, McAdams stepped back from the doors and looked up and down the front of the building. Riker paused and overheard her ask the admiral, “Is this the only entrance?”
“Yes. We move equipment in and out with a bulk transporter on the top floor, so there isn't even a freight entrance.”
“Does anyone else use the building?”
Haftel shook his head. “No. Maddox, Vaslovik and Barclay were alone out here.”
“Isn't
that a little unusual?” Haftel nodded. “These were unusual circumstances. Most of the work done here at the Annex is theoretical in nature: lots of holographic modeling, very little real engineering. Maddox was trying to actually build something, and there were some dangerous materials involved, so we wanted to make sure they were as far away from everyone else as possible.”
“In other words, no one was anywhere near the building when this happened. Convenient.”
“I suppose,” Haftel agreed. “But, before you make too much of that, it would have been pretty unlikely for anyone to be outside considering the weather conditions, Lieutenant.”
McAdams sighed. “And I'm guessing the security system didn't catch anything.”
“No,” Haftel said. “The lightning strikes took out the sensors.”
The interior of the building was essentially one large room sliced into work areas with modulated force fields and retractable walls—standard design for labs that had to adapt to a variety of uses. Off to the left there was an office equipped with a library workstation and a variety of computers, but the space was dominated by a holographic imaging tank about three meters on each side. Riker paused to look at the holo tank and noticed that the hardware was stenciled BROCKCEPAK, one of the few manufacturers in the galaxy who produced the bio-neural circuitry used in the Federation's most advanced computer systems. He pointed out the label to Barclay, who nodded in acknowledgment.
“Vaslovik,” he said by way of explanation. “He commissioned this equipment and had it delivered within weeks of coming onto the project.”
Riker whistled appreciatively. The slow production curve for bio-neural packs was slowing down assembly of starships throughout the sector. It was one of the major concerns with the new technology, especially during the ongoing conflict with the Dominion.
“He had considerable resources at his disposal,” Haftel-said.
“That's putting it mildly,” La Forge replied.
The larger interior chamber was the primary workroom. A good portion of the floor was destroyed, blown outward, no doubt from the overloaded EPS conduit the admiral had mentioned. The blast had taken out an entire corner of the building, and a large section of the ceiling had caved in, littering the lab with wreckage from the floor above. An array of force-field generators had been set up, presumably to strengthen the building's weakened structure. “Step carefully and try not to touch anything,” Haftel told the group.
It wasn't easy to discern from among the broken bits and chunks of rubble, but enough remained that Riker could form a mental picture of how the lab had been arranged. Work lights had hung from the ceiling and a series of low tables had been set up in concentric rings around a three-meter-long black metal slab. Splinters of electronic junk that must have once been diagnostic tools, hologenerators and computer components littered the floor. The central black slab had been overturned and, beneath it, pinned to the broken floor, was a silver humanoid form.
There was no blood, no fluids of any kind, no expression of pain or horror on its blank face, yet, somehow, Riker found the sight of the half-formed thing's demise to be both horrible and unbearably sad.
The scrawled “DATA” was in a part of the room farthest from the center of the blast, near a wide dark patch in the floor of similar color. Riker noted that that part of the room also had the least amount of damage. Two or three consoles appeared to be still online.
Data and McAdams fanned out, using their tricorders.
“I am detecting two distinct sets of human DNA,” Data reported.
“Confirmed,” McAdams said, kneeling down to study the bloody graffito. “One is concentrated here. I assume this is where Commander Maddox was found?”
“That's right,” Haftel said.
“The other DNA readings are much more scattered, as if something was vaporized,” Data said. “Professor Vaslovik must have been standing right above the conduit when it overloaded.”
“That was our conclusion as well,” Haftel said.
McAdams stood up, and rejoined the group. The captain threw her an inquiring glance Riker could read easily. Anything new? McAdams merely shook her head.
But Data continued waving his tricorder around the room in silence, a peculiar expression on his face. He was frowning, almost, Riker realized, as if he didn't like what the tricorder was telling him. Finally, without a word, Data leaned forward and waved his tricorder over the bloodstains. After studying the results for several seconds, he straightened, snapped the device shut and strode across the room to the still-working consoles near his name. He immediately activated a comm circuit and connected to the DIT mainframe.
“Computer?” Data asked.
The computer emitted a tone of acknowledgment. “This is Lieutenant Commander Data of the U.S.S. Enterprise. Authenticate my voiceprint.”
The computer paused as it searched its files for Data's voiceprint. “Authenticated,” it droned.
“Data, what are you doing?” Picard asked.
“Computer, implement a class-one planetary security alert,” Data went on. “Authorization, Data Epsilon One One Four. Implement.”
“Commander Data, belay that!” Haftel shouted, but he couldn't get the words out before the computer spoke again.
“Implemented,” it said. Seconds later, klaxons began to sound all around the campus. In every settled area around the planet, Riker knew, transporters were shifting into stand-by mode, ships were grounding themselves or returning to their origin point, and all but the most necessa
ry communications were being politely, but firmly, shut down. Computers were completing whatever task they had just been asked to perform and were then informing their users that they would have to receive clearance before performing additional tasks. Automated defense systems were coming online and every security officer in every city, town and research station was going to a state of full alert, and awaitng further instruction.
Data had just turned off Galor IV.
Haftel, to his credit, looked calm. There was nothing else for him to be at the moment, since there was nothing else he could do until Data released the planet. “Commander,” he asked through a tightly clenched jaw. “Why did you just do that?”
Data turned toward the admiral and said, “My apologies, sir, but there was no time to lose.” Pointing at the wreckage strewn across the lab, in tones worthy of the Great Detective himself, he said, “This was no accident, but a deliberate attempt to deceive us. Someone tried to destroy this laboratory and I believe the culprits are still on this planet.”
Chapter Eight
“Have you lost your mind?”
It was not, Troi thought, the most tactful question that the captain had ever asked, but it had the virtue of getting directly to the point. Everyone seated around the table in the observation lounge—the captain, Geordi, Rhea and Admiral Haftel—stared at Data, awaiting an answer. Will was on the bridge helping the local authorities untangle the snarls Data had created. Reg had gone off in search of an empty bunk, assuming (quite correctly) that there was nothing else for him to do right now.
“No, Captain,” Data replied neutrally. “I do not believe I have.” Troi allowed the tendrils of her empathic senses to reach out and feel what she already expected to find: confusion tinted with fear. Beneath that she felt an undertow of concern, which was more than she could have hoped for under the circumstances.
Only Admiral Haftel was close to losing his temper, which was, Troi decided, an understandable response considering that he had invited Data to Galor IV to help solve a problem, not create another one. “Commander,” he said tightly, “I want an immediate explanation for your actions.”
“My apologies, Admiral,” Data said, “for the inconvenience to you and everyone on Galor IV. When I became convinced that I was standing in the midst of a crime scene, I perceived that speed was essential. Any delay might have been enough time for the culprits to escape.”
“Explain yourself, Mr. Data,” Picard said. “What evidence do you have that what happened in Commander Maddox's lab was deliberate?”
Troi felt Picard and La Forge brace themselves for the impeccably organized, torrential flood of observations and insights that invariably comprised one of Data's verbal reports. It was something that they had learned to expect, but Troi knew that something was wrong. Data was suddenly immersed in a sour, discordant stew of uncertainty. “I am afraid, Captain,” he said, eyes flicking down at the tabletop, “that I do not have any empirical evidence to support my conclusions.”
Deanna listened to everyone in the room readjust themselves in their seats.
Picard let the springs in his seat tip him closer to the table. He was not angry, Troi knew, only confused and concerned that he had misunderstood his officer. Breakdowns in communication were one of the things Picard strived hardest to avoid, and he quickly grew frustrated with himself when he thought he had missed something. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said I do not have any empirical evidence,” Data said, looking up at the captain. “I found nothing in the wreckage or in any of my tricorder readings that would lead me to believe that the conclusions drawn by the Institute's security team are incorrect. An EPS conduit did indeed explode beneath the lab, and every indication is that the overloaded power grid was triggered by a lightning strike. The android was destroyed. Dr. Vaslovik was killed. Commander Maddox was injured. I have no reason to conclude that the events did not occur in this manner.”
“Except . . . ,” Picard said expectantly.
“Except,” Data continued, “it simply does not . . . feel right, sir.”
Haftel's eyes narrowed.
With a visible effort of will, Picard kept his expression as neutral as possible, though Troi could feel his anxiety rolling off him. “It doesn't feel right,” Picard repeated.
“No, sir.” Data did not say anything more.
“I see.” Picard closed his eyes, massaged the bridge of his nose, then opened them and fixed his gaze on Data. “Lieutenant Commander Data, effective immediately, you are relieved of duty and ordered to submit to a complete systems diagnostic, to be carried out at once by Lieutenant Commander La Forge. Lieutenant McAdams.”
“Sir?”
“Go with them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Data began to protest and Troi felt his uncertainty deepen. “But, Captain . . . The investigation . . .”
“. . . Will proceed without you. I'm sorry, Data, but we have to consider the possibility that the strain of recent events might be affecting your . . . your mind . . . in ways that even you cannot perceive.”
“Captain,” Data said, his voice breaking ever so slightly with the strain of keeping his tone even, “I do not believe my emotional state is negatively affecting my perceptions.”
“I understand, Commander. Now you understand me: my primary concern at this moment is for your welfare. If Mr. La Forge doesn't find anything amiss, we'll discuss the next step.”
Seeing that Picard wasn't going to change his mind, Data nodded. “Aye, sir.”
“Dismissed,” Picard said.
Data stood and walked to the door, La Forge and McAdams following close behind. No one spoke until the trio left the room, but as soon as the doors snapped shut, Haftel rose and said, “Captain, you'll excuse me, but I need to contact my people on the surface. I'll expect a full report from you on Mr. Data within twenty-four hours—”
“So, you're calling off the alert?” Troi asked.
Haftel stopped and looked at her. “I don't believe I have any choice. Do you disagree, Counselor?”
Troi pursed her lips, frowning. “No,” she said. “I don't. I'm just concerned about what this will mean to Data.”
“Counselor,” Haftel said sternly, “we're all concerned about Mr. Data. And yes, there are still things about this incident that need explaining, things that may involve him directly. That's why I summoned the Enterprise here. But he just as much as admitted he was experiencing a major malfunction—”
“Respectfully, Admiral, he did not,” Troi said.
“Counselor, what are you saying?” Picard asked quietly.
“I'm saying we may be overlooking something important here, Captain,” Troi said. “Think about it, sir: You just told Data that he's made an error. Has this ever happened before?”
Picard frowned, then said ruefully, “In fact, Counselor, it has, but in the end, it always turned out that he was correct.” He shrugged. “But this was before the emotion chip was installed, before his . . . what would you call it? His breakdown.”
“I've been monitoring Data's emotions all day,” Troi said, “and I can say for certain that though he has been functioning under a great deal of stress, he's been managing it quite well. The only time he gave off an emotional response that truly concerned me is when he realized that you didn't believe him.”
“Which means . . . what, exactly?” Haftel asked uncertainly.
“Data is trying to come to terms with some very complex concepts—among them mortality and isolation,” Troi explained. “These are concepts that even organic beings have trouble understanding. But I believe that something else is happening simultaneously, something we've all been helping him to work toward for years, but perhaps never expected to see happen so suddenly. We just heard him tell us he came to a conclusion without any evidence to back it up, something the best Starfleet officers do routinely. Yes, in Data's case, it could mean a malfunction. Or . . .”
“Or?” Haftel demanded, clearly not liking where he t
hought the conversation was leading.
“Or he's finally developing thought processes that extend beyond the scope of pure fact,” Troi finished, and she could see that the captain had already grasped her meaning.
“Intuition,” Picard breathed. “Data has developed intuition.”
Chapter Nine
With practiced ease, Geordi La Forge found the key spot near the base of Data's skull, pressed it with the tip of his thumb, then pulled off the top of his head. Looking across the lab to where Rhea McAdams stood, Geordi saw her turn her face away. He smiled, remembering the first time he had done this, how he'd worried that he would cause Data pain or, worse, “break” something. How long ago was that now? Ten years? Eleven? He had learned a few things since then, including, first, this process was no more intrusive to Data than getting a haircut was to Geordi; and, second, Noonien Soong built things so well that it was almost impossible to “break” them.
That didn't mean that there weren't parts of Data that couldn't be broken. He worried that the scene that just took place in the captain's ready room might have done what neither the Borg queen or Lore or Fajo the collector had been able to do: twist something around in Data so hard that it snapped. The emotion chip, the damned emotion chip: there were times when Geordi truly regretted helping his friend install it.
True, Soong had created the chip specifically to help Data's personal evolution, and Data had wanted emotions, but wasn't that at least partially because he had been programmed to want them? Now that he was thinking about it, he realized how strange a thing it was that Soong had designed Data to want to become something else rather than create him to be content as he was. What had he been thinking? Data and Geordi had sat up many a late night discussing the details of Data's structure and performance, but never the motivations of his creator. Maybe I avoided thinking about it, Geordi admitted to himself, out of a kind of embarrassment. I don't mind peeling back a portion of Data's cranium because I think I understand how the individual sections function and how they all fit together. But asking him to reflect on what Soong might have been thinking—that would be a lot like asking him to look into his soul.