by Jeffrey Lang
Sam wagged his eyebrows. “Bartenders have their sources.” He took the bottle and poured Picard another glass, then some for Riker and Troi, then himself. “Skol,” he said. Troi and Riker took theirs and sipped. Riker, never the wine enthusiast, cocked an eyebrow and said, “It's good.”
Troi slapped his arm. “Whiskey has destroyed your palate.”
“Or refined it beyond this pale stuff.”
Picard wasn't listening to either of them, but was beside himself. “Thank you,” he said to Sam. “But why . . . ?”
Sam recorked the bottle and set it down on the bar before Picard. “A gift,” he said. “For good works.”
Before Picard could say another word, Sam's attention was drawn to a stir in the crowd originating near the doors. Picard, Troi and Riker turned, too, and saw Data and McAdams enter, arm in arm. Both were wearing civilian formal wear—Data a simple, but elegant evening suit and Rhea in a long midnight blue, floor-length evening gown.
The crowd parted before them as they swept toward the small dance floor. Then, Data spoke to Ensign Ubango, who smiled and nodded enthusiastically. She had given up on Tchaikovsky some time ago and had been working her way through some light background pieces, but she seemed quite pleased about whatever it was Data had asked her to play.
Data and McAdams took their positions in the center of the floor, both very erect and formal, Data's arm around McAdams's waist, her hand on his shoulder, their other hands lightly clasped. When Ubango saw the dancers were in position, she launched into a piece Picard instantly recognized as Chopin's Waltz No. 1 in E-Flat.
Data and McAdams threw themselves into the dance with passion, precision and obvious pleasure. Their footwork, especially considering the relatively tiny space they had to work in, was astonishing, and the turns and dips were so carefully synchronized with the beats of the waltz, it was not clear whether the music was leading the dancers or the dancers were helping Ubango to keep time. It was a breathtaking display of virtuosity.
As the dancers spun 'round and 'round the floor, Picard realized it was the first time he had seen Data dance since Miles and Keiko O'Brien's wedding. He remembered well the odd, forced rictus Data had worn during his dance with Keiko, a sharp contrast to the warm, genuine smile he had tonight, one obviously meant for only one person. And that person, Picard noted, was smiling back at Data in exactly the same manner.
Waltz No. 1 ended, but Ubango immediately slipped into something by Brahms. Data looked ready to shift tempo immediately, but McAdams, flushed, had to pause, catch her breath and sip a glass of water before she could go on. But as soon as she was done, McAdams took Data's hand again and they launched themselves back out onto the floor. Picard thought he heard a smattering of applause from the small crowd, and turned to make a comment to Riker and Troi, but then saw that his first officer wore a resigned expression. Then, as Picard watched, Troi reached up and patted Riker's hand, and Riker took her hand in his and squeezed it.
Picard turned to look at Sam and almost said, “Interesting enough for you?” but stopped when he saw the wistful smile on the bartender's face, almost like he was remembering another day, another dance, and so Picard held his tongue and drank his wine.
And the music played on.
And the dancers danced.
Geordi La Forge's combadge beeped stridently, rousing him from a sound sleep. Lifting the badge from his nightstand, he activated the chronochip in his left implant and checked the time: 0045. Why would anyone be calling him at this hour when the ship was in orbit and the main engines in standby mode? But, wait, no . . . if there was an emergency in Main Engineering, the ship's computer would have alerted him. Unless the problem was with the computer . . .
He tapped the badge. “La Forge here,” he said hoarsely, sitting up. “What's the problem?”
“Geordi? I am sorry. Did I wake you?”
“Data?”
“Yes,” Data said. “It is I. I apologize for the lateness of this call, but there was something I wanted to ask you.”
“What is it, Data? Something wrong with the main computer?”
“No, Geordi. The computer is fine. Ship's status is optimum. The question I have for you is of a personal nature.”
Geordi sagged back against his pillow. “Oh,” he said. “All right. This wasn't something that could wait until morning?”
“I am afraid not, Geordi.”
“All right,” Geordi sighed. “Go ahead.”
Data inhaled deeply, then began: “Is it appropriate to call a woman the morning after you have dined together and gone dancing to ask her if she would like to have breakfast together?”
Geordi sighed, then considered the question. “Are we talking about Lieutenant McAdams?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” Geordi replied, “I think you should ask yourself a different question first: Do you want to get involved in a personal relationship with someone you work with?”
Data replied, “I considered this issue and decided that if Commander Riker and Counselor Troi and the captain and Dr. Crusher can do this, then so can I.”
“Not exactly the same thing, is it, Data? I mean, Commander Riker and the counselor—that was a long time ago. And the captain and Dr. Crusher—that's theoretical at best.” It was a common topic of conversation on the ship, but no one knew for certain the status of the relationship between their commanding officer and the chief medical officer—not even the two themselves, Geordi suspected.
There was silence for several seconds, so Geordi said, “Data?”
“Yes, Geordi.”
“Ask her to breakfast, but wait until tomorrow morning.”
“Would seven hundred hours be an acceptable time to call her?”
“Yes. Wait, no. Make it seven-thirty.”
“Why?”
“I don't know. It just feels better.”
“Thank you, Geordi.”
Data inhaled deeply, seemingly well pleased with the answer. “Another question?” he asked.
Geordi bunched up the pillow under his head, laid the combadge on his chest and closed his eyes, settling in for a long conversation. “Go ahead.”
“Would it be inappropriate to take her flowers?”
“No,” Geordi said. “I can't imagine why it would be. Women like to get flowers. Most of them, anyway.”
“Right now?”
“No, not right now. Maybe tomorrow. At breakfast.”
“Ah. Excellent suggestion. May I ask—?”
“Go ahead, Data.”
Data proceeded to bombard La Forge with a series of questions and observations about dating and interpersonal relationships. Some of them were charmingly naive, some insightful and a few quite odd coming from a person whom La Forge had always considered one of the most intelligent mature individuals he knew. He suddenly felt like he was back in the Academy again having a bull session with one of his roommates.
After about an hour, it grew to be too much. Though it was obvious that his friend had quickly grown to care about Rhea McAdams and was impatient for things to move forward as quickly as possible, Geordi's mouth was growing dry and he was fading into sleep. Muzzily, he said, “Data? That's enough. Can we continue this conversation tomorrow?”
“But Geordi—”
“No, Data. Really, that's enough. I understand how you're feeling, but you can't do everything in one night. You just have to take things slow. Don't scare the poor woman. You have all the time in the world.”
Data did not reply immediately and Geordi worried that he might have hurt his friend's feelings. Then, just as he was about to apologize, La Forge heard Data say, “Yes, Geordi. You are correct. I do.” Then, he added softly, “But no one else does.”
PART TWO
Seventy Years Ago
“Dammit, Ira,” Soong muttered, rubbing his neck. “I thought you said you could climb.”
Graves grunted something profane, then admitted he had misjudged the distance to the shelf. The drop had be
en less than two meters and his elbow barely clipped Soong's neck, but there had been a frightening moment when both of them had almost tumbled off the ledge.
“Are you two all right down there?” Vaslovik called through the comm. They had agreed that he shouldn't attempt the descent until they had gotten themselves situated and made sure the ledge was stable.
“Yes,” Soong and Graves said simultaneously.
“Good,” Vaslovik said, sounding, for all the world, like a tutor disciplining two unruly schoolboys. “How does it look down there?”
Graves pulled out his tricorder and checked the ledge, though Soong noticed that Ira had a hard time keeping his eyes off the body. Soong was willing to admit that he was having trouble doing the same. The readings he had taken while waiting for Ira were baffling and inconclusive. To begin, it was difficult to estimate the find's age, partly because of the refrigerating cold and partly because the minerals had leeched into its “flesh.” Still, even a very conservative estimate meant the humanoid that lay there before them was thousands upon thousands of years old. Soong had reset his tricorder at least three times and had kept getting the same unbelievable reading.
Ira stared at his tricorder and groaned.
“Are you all right?” Soong asked.
“I . . . I'm fine,” Ira said. “But my tricorder must have been damaged in the fall. This can't be right.”
“Five hundred thousand years?” Soong asked.
Ira's head snapped around. “Yours, too?” He shook his head. “All right. Yes. So, there's some kind of impurity in the minerals that's affecting both tricorders.”
“Or, they're both right.”
Overhead, they heard Vaslovik begin to make his slow descent. Soong had sent the antigravs up to the older man on a slender line, after warning him about the weak battery. He should be fine. Soong had developed a healthy respect for the professor's common sense.
“It can't be true,” Graves denied. “Even a mummified corpse would have disintegrated into dust long ago.”
“Check your readings again, Ira,” Soong said. “It isn't a corpse; not the way you mean, anyway. Don't forget what we found upstairs.” Graves's eyes flicked up toward the top of the cliff, then refocused on the tricorder display.
“Of course,” he said, suddenly growing very excited. “I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking.” Soong was too exhausted to be shocked, but he filed away the moment for later consideration: Ira Graves had just apologized to him and admitted that he had made a mistake. “Professor,” Graves called through his comm link. “You're not going to believe what this is.”
“Busy now,” Vaslovik responded. “Half a moment, Ira.” Soong looked up and saw that Vaslovik was about halfway down the cliff and making good time. The line he had tied off with a secure piton was shaking slightly under the strain, but no more than should have been expected. “You're sure the cliff will hold all three of us?”
“It should be all right,” Soong replied. “This appears to be the remains of a bridge that cracked away a few thousand years ago.” He sent his light down over the edge, but the darkness swallowed the beam before it could reach bottom. “How's the other pattern enhancer?” he asked, remembering that Ira was carrying it. “Please tell me it didn't crack when you fell.”
“It's fine,” Ira said, not really paying attention. He was fixated on the readings he was taking from the body. “It's hard to be sure,” he muttered, “but I think the atomic structure is essentially identical to the specimen we found in the chamber upstairs.”
“I would agree with that,” Soong said dryly, searching for a bottle of water in his pack. He was afraid it would be frozen into slush by now. “Except that the one upstairs looked human, and it must have been created less than fifty years ago. This one is older.”
Graves muttered, “A lot older,” but then let it go. “Who do you suppose made the other one?” he asked.
“Hard to say,” Soong replied, warming his water bottle-in his hands. “Same people who shot it with a phaser, I hope.”
“Why, ‘I hope’?”
“Because if it was two different people,” Soong reasoned, “that doubles our chances that there's someone around who won't be happy we're here.” The initial excitement of the find was wearing off and he was beginning to worry. Now, Graves was, too.
The professor, apparently, had also been thinking, but not about danger. No sooner did he touch down on the ledge (which he did much more gracefully than either Soong or Graves had), than he was kneeling by the body. Vaslovik stripped off his glove and stroked the frozen surface of the hand with his bare fingertips. As Soong had noted earlier, the figure's arms and hands seemed elongated, which could have been because of some deformation over time or, perhaps, because the artificial being had been constructed to resemble his maker's.
“This is extraordinary,” Vaslovik breathed, speaking quickly and almost too low for Graves and Soong to hear him. “You've done scans, haven't you? What do they say? How does this compare to the one we found upstairs?”
“Difficult to say,” Graves replied, doing his best (Soong thought) to sound blasé. “We'll need to get a sample and run it through a scanner. The sensors in these tricorders aren't sensitive enough—”
“Don't play games with me, Ira,” Vaslovik said impatiently. “Use your tools—all of them, including your brain. What does your intuition tell you?”
Graves sighed softly, then murmured, his words almost absorbed by the ice, “They're the same. They have to be.”
“I agree,” Vaslovik said. “What do you think, Noonien?”
Soong hadn't expected to be asked anything, so he said the first thing that came into his mind. “This thing, whatever it is, didn't climb down here to die. He may have been on the bridge when it shattered. So, that's two . . . artificial beings . . .”
“Androids,” Vaslovik said. “Call them androids. That's what they are.”
“All right,” Soong admitted, and a strange thrill went through him at the sound of the word. “Androids. Two androids who were destroyed by violence. That's two out of the two we found. So, my question is: Are there any more? If so, where are they? And why do I get the feeling they might not be happy to see us?”
Vaslovik turned away from their find and began examining the cliff wall. “Those,” he said, “are all very good questions. And I can think of only one way we might be able to answer them.” Suddenly Vaslovik aimed his light at the cliff face, revealing something Soong had completely overlooked until now: an outline in the rock. No, not an outline. A door.
“And when were you planning on explaining all this to me?” Soong asked, popping open the legs of the pattern enhancer and dropping it onto the floor of the ledge, probably a little more carelessly than he should have. He didn't care, he decided. He was angry. And tired. And he was the only one who could climb out of here if he had to. Ha! Let Graves and Vaslovik try to make it up to the surface without a transporter.
“I'm explaining it to you now,” Vaslovik stated, straining to sound reasonable. “Because it has become necessary and prudent to do so.”
“And it wasn't necessary when I was dangling halfway down the cliff?” he asked irritably. His resources were at a low ebb and it seemed easier somehow to be irked than to be reasonable. Everything ached and he was cold and he wasn't going to get Vaslovik to admit he had done anything wrong. “You told me,” he said, “that we were looking for archaeological artifacts, remnants of an ancient civilization that might have made androids.”
“We were,” Vaslovik replied coolly. “And we found some.”
“What we found,” Soong said, pointing the pry bar up at the top of the cliff, “was a room that had once been some kind of a lab, a room that has recently been stripped to the walls. Then, near the precipice, we found the first body . . . no, correction, an android body.”
Vaslovik nodded. “Call it Brown. He'd been destroyed by a phaser blast.”
“Yes,” Soong said. “Whatever you s
ay, but you're evading the point. It looked human, much more so than this one here. It can't be an archaeological artifact.”
“That's debatable,” Vaslovik said.
Soong rubbed his face with his gloved hand and heard the brush of stubble. “How could that be debatable?” he asked. “All the readings indicate that it must have been done relatively recently. What could be ‘archaeological’ about something done with a phaser?”
“The body was destroyed by a phaser about forty years ago,” Vaslovik said. “But that doesn't mean it couldn't have been quite old. It's difficult to say without more research, but it's all connected.”
Soong felt the growing desire to take a swing at the professor with the pick—a sure sign that he was on the edge of exhaustion. “What's all connected?” Soong asked, exasperated. “Assume for a moment that I don't have a clue what you're talking about. I am not a servant or a hired man. I am not Dr. Watson to your Sherlock Holmes. If you want my cooperation, you'll tell me everything you know, or I'll simply beam back to the ship and take a nap.”
They locked eyes and Soong actually believed he felt Vaslovik wrestling with him for control of his mind. It would be easier, he found himself thinking, so much easier, to simply acknowledge Vaslovik as the master, to take directions and obey orders, to absolve himself of responsibility. Then, whatever happened, Soong would be able to say (to himself, if no one else), “I was following orders.” But then, he would not share in any of the glory either, and Soong was just young enough and just ambitious enough to believe glory was an end in itself.
Vaslovik seemed to sense these thoughts, too. It must have been a long time—an extraordinarily long time—since someone had been willing to challenge him, because then he smiled. And it wasn't an indulgent smile either, but the smile of one master acknowledging another. Soong felt . . . vindicated, as if he were finally being treated like one of the adults.
“All right,” Vaslovik said, speaking low. “Here's what I learned before we came here: there was a device in the room upstairs. It duplicated things.”