by Jeffrey Lang
The last Data had heard, the exocomps—the small servomechanisms he had helped to identify as sentient beings several years earlier—had elected to remain with Dr. Farallon and assist in the research. Data wondered if Vaslovik had stolen these as he had stolen Rhea, but then realized, no, if the exocomps had been stolen, he would have heard about it. Another thought occurred to him: the designs for the construction of exocomps had been widely disseminated before Data had discovered their sentience. It was entirely possible someone else had constructed some—perhaps someone with fewer ethical constraints than Farallon—and Vaslovik had liberated them.
But all such thoughts were thrust aside as soon as Vaslovik spoke, or, rather, shouted, his voice reverberating off the marble floors. “Rhea! Are you insane? Do you realize the risk you're running? What if you were followed?”
Rhea spun on her heel and continued down the long hallway. “I don't have time to discuss this.” She called to the exocomps. “Winken, Blinken—go get a stretcher. Tell Nod to get the lab ready. Hurry! My arms are getting tired.”
The two exocomps spun on their axes and regarded Vaslovik, but before he could say anything, Rhea shouted, “Go!” They sped off down the hall and disappeared into the shadows. Vaslovik ran to catch up to them, but Rhea cut him off before he could say a word. “He saved my life,” she said, “and now he's dying. I couldn't take him back to the Enterprise and there was nowhere else to turn. What would you have had me do? Leave him to die?” She didn't wait for Vaslovik to respond, but laid Data gently on the antigravity gurney Winken and Blinken had brought. “So,” she said, “are you going to help me?”
But Data never heard Vaslovik's response. He saw the man's mouth open and close, once, then twice, but he seemed to be speaking slowly, so very slowly. When it opened the third time, Vaslovik's mouth seemed to stretch wide, like a serpent dislocating its jaw to swallow its prey, and Data had the peculiar sensation that he was falling, tumbling headlong into a pit. The world grayed out, stuttered and stammered. Sound fluttered back in and Data heard Rhea's frantic shouts.
“I can't stop it! Hurry! Help me stabilize him. Winken! Get me that phase adjuster!”
Data's vision snapped back into focus and his ability to synthesize information returned. He had been moved—he could see that much—because the paintings and portraits on the walls were different. Rhea had torn open a section of his chest cavity and was desperately working, tearing out microwire bundles and attaching blocky processing units. His neural net was failing, Data guessed. He recognized the tools, the methods, remembered struggling to keep Lal alive. Cascade failure. He knew he should be afraid, but did not feel fear. Had the emotion chip failed again, or had he simply become resigned to his fate?
Rhea was rattling off statistics to someone—probably one of the exocomps—and Data felt the tides of his life's energy ebb and flow with the count. Data wanted to talk to her, to tell her how much he appreciated her efforts, but that it was obviously too late; the damage was too extensive. She moved out of his field of vision and Data felt the cold sting of regret.
Vaslovik was there, not three meters away, glowering just outside the perimeter of the action. Rhea darted back into view carrying a tool, then disappeared again. He heard her call, “Dammit, Akharin, if you're not going to help, then get . . .” but couldn't make out what she said next. Something jostled the gurney and Data's head tilted back so that he was looking toward the wall, at a portrait of a middle-aged man with a long, bushy beard and deep soulful eyes. Data recognized the face, though it was hard for him to say where he had seen it. Something about it was familiar, but oddly wrong.
His sight slipped into gray again, became grainy, and irised down to a narrow tunnel. The room seemed to grow dim and Data wondered where Rhea was. Then, the pinprick of vision he still retained was filled with the sight of Vaslovik. He was taking off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, picking up an instrument. Something boomed, like the rumble of a rolling ocean, and Data suddenly heard the deep rumble of Vaslovik's voice snapping off orders, calling for tools.
Vaslovik stepped away again and Data once again found himself staring up at the portrait. Perhaps Vaslovik had made some adjustment and his cataloging system had been temporarily brought back online. Perhaps it was simply that a memory that had been working its way through his system had finally made its way to his brain, but Data suddenly recognized the man in the portrait, recognized the style of the painting.
It was a self-portrait of Leonardo da Vinci, that was indisputable. But it was not one he recognized. An unknown work? After nine hundred years?
Vaslovik stepped into his field of vision again and Data realized that this was the twin of the face in the portrait.
Then his vision began to fade once more. But in the seconds that remained before everything went black, Data initiated a search through his memory core, sifting through archived Starfleet records for a match to the dual images before his eyes. A file came up, was accessed, and as the information decoded, Data felt something akin to a key slipping into a lock and turning smoothly, tumblers clicking into place as he saw the word, the name, that would explain everything that had happened since the Enterprise had been called to Galor IV.
Flint.
Chapter Twenty-One
Data woke up, which was, in and of itself, something of a novelty. He could count on one hand the number of times he had opened his eyes and not known precisely where he was. He decided he didn't like the sensation.
The room was dimly lit and felt cavernous. Tiny sounds echoed and then were swallowed up in the gloom. Before he had a chance to consider whether or not he could, Data sat up. Something slid off him and fluttered to the floor. The room sensors registered the movement and the lights rose.
He was on a couch. There was a frayed blue blanket lying in a ball on the floor. He waited unmoving to see what would happen next. Nothing did.
He smiled, and even as he did, Data recognized how miraculous it was that he could do it at all. Against all hope, Rhea and Vaslovik had repaired him. His system had been on the verge of cascade failure, yet somehow they had brought him back. He thought about running a system diagnosis, then decided not to bother. He felt fine, and for the moment that was enough.
Data closed his eyes and listened to his chest expanding and contracting, a sound both foreign and familiar. How long had it been since he had done this, simply listened to himself breathe? Had he ever? Then, slowly, he allowed his other senses to unfold until he could feel the brush of air from the ventilation system against his skin. He heard fluids moving through plumbing. The fragrance of cherries and sandalwood wafted through the air. The thought brought a small smile to his face, but then he found himself thinking of the Enterprise. Data had a vague memory of a space battle with . . . Who? The memories were disjointed, fragmented, and this disturbed him.
He opened his eyes, scanned the room and found the door. It opened as he approached onto a wide, shadowy corridor that curved away to both the right and the left.
Data cocked his head and realized he had been listening to music—a piano—since he had awakened. How odd that he had not been consciously aware of this. He turned to his left and walked slowly, all the while trying to determine whether the music was growing fainter or louder. He stopped once to study a small pencil study of a horse's head and shoulders done in the style of da Vinci. Data corrected himself. It wasn't done in the style of da Vinci. If the story was to be believed, this was a da Vinci. Though wealth of any kind meant virtually nothing to Data, he could not help but be aware that the tiny framed square of paper he was looking at was probably as valuable as the entire contents of any given half-dozen Terran museums. He shook his head, but did not linger. There were other mysteries to be plumbed.
He came to a door, this one obviously constructed to withstand sudden changes in pressure. He pressed the control stud and it slid open onto a chamber, this one much bigger than the one where he had awakened. The room was outfitted with several large p
ieces of diagnostic equipment, some of which Data recognized. Others were obviously ancient, but well-tended and still functional. When he stepped into the room, alcoves around the perimeter lit up shadowy figures within.
Data cautiously approached the first alcove and it was a male humanoid, middle-aged, and he was wearing a two-toned jumpsuit. There was a hole in its abdomen in the distinctive burn pattern of a phaser blast, revealing dead circuitry within. There was a small label at the base of the display that read simply BROWN. The name meant nothing to Data.
The next case held another humanoid figure, the only undamaged one in the collection. Data found its baffled expression to be slightly comical. He had no doubt that it had been constructed to resemble a Terran, but there was a slipshod quality about its construction. The label said NORMAN. Once again, the name meant nothing in particular to him.
The last two cases were the most interesting because Data knew for a fact that Noonien Soong had studied them. The first case displayed a pair of unfinished androids labeled THALASSA and HENOCH. Though James Kirk's encounter with the survivors of the ancient civilization that had created these bodies was not one of his more noteworthy adventures, Data had made the tale a topic of special research in the Academy when he had learned of it. On more than one occasion, he had wondered how different a status he might enjoy if Sargon's people had followed through with their plan to house their minds in these shells.
But the last display held the most intriguing form. It was Rayna—or one of the Rayna androids, in any case. As he had on more than one occasion, Data wondered if Kirk, Spock and McCoy had ever marveled at the number of times they had encountered artificial intelligences. Of course, the Enterprise under Kirk's command had been one of the most widely traveled starships in history, but he wondered if there might have been some other factor in action.
It had been during his encounter with Kirk that Flint—or Akharin or Vaslovik—had discovered that he was no longer immortal. McCoy had theorized that the peculiar regenerative property that had kept the android maker alive for centuries had ceased to function after he had left Earth. Obviously, McCoy had been either incorrect or deceived.
But it was hard to leave the room—this museum, this . . . what? Shrine? These devices and beings were his ancestors and distant cousins. He spotted a large desk in the corner, a workstation of some sort, and wondered if it had an intercom. Data noted that he still had his combadge, which was some comfort, but he didn't know if the station's systems would recognize the signal. He might be able to contact Rhea, he knew, but something made him hesitate. He remembered the sight of her opening her arm and showing the wires underneath, the slight embarrassment in her voice as she said, Looks like you found me, Sherlock, and Data decided he wasn't quite ready to see her. Not yet.
Leaning over the desk, he realized that it wasn't a desk at all, but another display item, another computer console. Studying it in detail in the low light was difficult, but Data's eyes were adapted to function with much less. He quickly saw that the console conformed to the design standards developed by the Federation almost a hundred years earlier. He didn't touch the surface for fear of inadvertently activating something, but a moment's search was all that was required to find a label. He almost laughed when he read it and said aloud, “How fitting.”
From behind him Data heard Vaslovik say, “That's the only one here that can still function. Not that we leave it turned on, of course.”
Data turned and saw the man framed by the doorway, the bright light from the hall casting a long shadow before him. It was impossible to read Vaslovik's expression, but Data had the definite impression that he was awaiting Data's judgment.
“Why not?” Data asked. “Certainly it could do no harm unless it was tied into your network.”
“But it is,” Vaslovik said. “Temporarily, anyway, for study. We had to do some minor repair work. It had been rather badly neglected for many years, I'm afraid.”
“And now you will protect it here, as part of this collection,” Data remarked. “Is that what this is to you? A collection? Have I been saved so that I may take my place in it? I have been part of a collection, sir. I found it unacceptable.”
Vaslovik shook his head. “No, not a collection, not in the sense you suggest. That would be demeaning.”
“Then what? Why are they all here?”
“Because they had no one to speak for them while they lived.”
“So you see yourself as their advocate?”
“More a soldier than an advocate. This is a war, after all. I have been at war for the past century.”
Data shook his head in confusion. “I am sorry, Professor, but I do not understand. A war against whom? Or what?”
“Against arrogance,” Vaslovik said sternly. “Against genius without conscience.”
Data sensed that he had arrived at the heart of the matter and paused to consider his next question. Then, slowly, he strode to the case holding the Rayna android and studied it carefully. He asked, “And was she the catalyst of your war?”
Vaslovik flinched as if he had been flicked by a lash. Then, slowly, he grinned, but there was no warmth in it, no humor. It was the smile of a master swordsman acknowledging an opponent's touch. “I see your mind is as sharp as your creator's. Yes, Data, I am Flint—or, if you prefer, Akharin. I assume your starship captains make their logs available for study and that you, unlike most cadets, actually read and retained most of the information therein?”
Data said, “I have had reason on several occasions to consult Captain Kirk's logs, but, even if I had not, surely you can see why the story of an immortal android maker would hold some interest for me.”
Vaslovik smiled, this time a genuine smile. “Of course. As you have obviously surmised, I did not lose my immortal constitution, but merely misled his medical officer. Dr. . . .”
“McCoy.”
“Yes, McCoy . . . Well, you see, immortality is not a guarantee for a faultless memory, Data. Sometimes, at night when I cannot sleep, I lay awake and try to remember the names of all the wives I have had in my sixty centuries. I regret to report that I cannot . . . though sometimes I see faces in my dreams, faces that I know were once dear to me. . . . I can only assume that I was once wedded to some of them.”
Data was confused. “Are you saying, then, that you do not remember all the lives you have lived before, that you do not recall being Brahms or Leonardo or Alexander . . . ?”
Vaslovik waved his hand dismissively, turning away from Data to study the Rayna android. “You misunderstand me. No, I remember having been all these men and their experiences are part of my own, but the details . . . Do you remember what you did on the Thursday closest to this date two years ago?” But, before Data could answer, he held up his index finger and said, “No, wait. Never mind. For a moment, I forgot who I was addressing. Of course you remember. In any case, I do not forget the important things.” He reached up and lightly touched the case near Rayna's face. “I remember her. I remember what she was meant to be and also what she truly was. I remember my folly.”
Data watched in respectful silence as Vaslovik quietly grieved for his lost creation.
As he had told Vaslovik, Data's familiarity with the Flint encounter—and many of the artifacts in this “shrine”—was not accidental. Data had spent much time at the Academy studying the history of artificial intelligence. In a way, he supposed it was analogous to investigating one's genealogy. On the surface, the reports filed on the Flint encounter seemed thorough, but conspicuously lacking in context. He understood now that it must have been a personal conflict over Rayna that pushed her system beyond its limits. The term “cascade failure” was not invented then—but Commander Spock had described the etiology perfectly in his logs.
Data wondered about what Flint had expected from Rayna. Were they to have been father and daughter? Husband and wife? Master and apprentice? Pygmalion and Galatea? All of these at the same time and more? Data had to admit to himself that he c
ould not fully understand all these subtleties; emotion was, after all, still a relatively new thing to him and the jumble he perceived through the veil of Vaslovik's conflicted desires was too complex for him to untangle. But there were more concrete issues at hand he could deal with, facts to be sorted, time lines to be filled in. He asked, “And when did Flint become Vaslovik?”
Vaslovik turned to regard Data again. He had, Data saw, been lost in thought, lost in the past, but the question seemed to pique his interest, and so he roused himself. Lowering his hand from the display case, he touched his chest, and smiled. “In a sense,” he said, “McCoy was right when he pronounced Flint ‘mortal.’ Flint began to die the moment Kirk and his companions recognized . . . my condition. Over the centuries, I have grown very proficient at this process, ending one life and beginning another.”
“So, the Vaslovik identity had already been prepared?”
“Yes, as a precaution. Kirk was not the first to discover my immortality, though he was the first in many, many lifetimes. I did not have as much time to lay the groundwork as I might have liked . . . as you apparently discovered. But it wasn't simply a matter of becoming Vaslovik. I had to decide who he was going to be. One of the unique benefits of my existence, Mr. Data, is that every one hundred years or so, I have the opportunity to choose who I wish to become. And here is the peculiar thing: though I would like to be able to say that the choices I have made have been based on logic or compassion or profound insight into the human condition, the simple truth is that most of the choices were made to atone for mistakes made in the previous lifetime.”
“Atone?” Data asked.
“Yes,” Vaslovik said, shaking his head wearily. “Atone. Immortality does not, I'm afraid, impart saintliness; quite the opposite, in fact.” He looked up at Rayna and Data saw that his eyes were moist. “I wronged her, my Rayna. I thought I wanted to give her life, told myself that, believed it, but the truth is that I wanted only to shape her life in order to give my own purpose. Sentience—especially artificial sentience—is a wondrous thing, and wondrously fragile. To create a mind—a soul—only to exploit it is a profanity. And it was with that thought in mind that I shaped the heart of Emil Vaslovik, and made it his mission to find others to whom he could impart that sense of responsibility.” His voice quivered with conviction, but Data had to wonder if the man standing before him realized that he had begun to speak of Vaslovik in the third person. It must be a strain to keep the many personalities separate.