by David Mack
The only street-level route across the chasm was the walled bridge on the other side of the main gates, and sentry houses at either end of the bridge were equipped with military-grade antivehicular and antipersonnel weapons, which were manned by a well-armed and expertly trained private security force. There were secret underground passages that led in and out of the bank, but those were even more fiercely defended than the main entrance.
Caught in the crisscrossing foot traffic outside the gate, Bateson stumbled as someone much larger than him shouldered him out of the way. He turned, ready to fire off a scathing stream of invective, but held his tongue as he saw who had jostled him: a hulking Gorn archosaur carrying a battle rifle. Gorn troops were all around him, intermingled with security personnel from the Atlas—some of them in uniform, some undercover in civilian garb—and what looked like a battalion of Orion riot police, decked out in body armor and black-visored helmets, and carrying transparent-aluminum shields and a variety of nonlethal weapons. Bateson bladed through the Brownian chaos of dodging bodies toward the closest member of his crew, a Selay lieutenant from the security division. “Zsestoz!”
The lanky reptilian turned and snapped to attention, apparently surprised to see Bateson on the planet’s surface. “Ssssir!” His enunciation of the s sound was exaggerated when it came at the start of a word, a biological affectation he couldn’t help.
“What the hell happened? We can’t get a straight answer through the regular channels.”
Zsestoz flicked his tongue and hissed. “The local police and bank sssecurity haven’t told us anything, sssir. All we’ve heard was the sssame alert that was sssent to the ship.”
“Find the Orions in charge, from the police and the bank, and bring them here. Now.”
“Aye, sssir.”
The lieutenant stepped away and was swallowed by the swarming mass of aimless activity that surrounded the bank. Bateson had just started pondering worst-case scenarios when he heard a deep, rasping growl behind him. Mastering his natural instinct to cringe or flee, he put on a blank mask of disinterest and turned to confront his opposite number in this incipient fiasco, the captain of the Gorn battle cruiser Hastur-zolis. “Commander Tezog. A pleasure.”
The archosaur bared his prodigious fangs. “What are your people hiding from us?”
“With all respect, Commander, I think you’ll find it’s the Orions who are hiding something from both of us.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zsestoz waving him over to a pair of Orions—one in a uniform festooned with insignia, the other in a smartly tailored suit. Bateson directed the Gorn commander’s attention toward the pair. “But if you’d care to join me, I think that together, we might finally get some answers.”
Tezog lumbered past Bateson without acknowledging the diplomatic gesture, and the captain followed him. One advantage of letting Tezog take the lead became readily apparent: people were much faster to make a path for him than they had been for Bateson. He stayed close behind the Gorn, then stepped forward alongside him as they reached the Orions.
The police official was a paunchy man of middling years; his dark jade scalp was partly visible through his thinning hair, and his thick mustache was the most memorable feature on his otherwise bland face. Representing the Bank of Orion was a tall and athletic woman in her prime, with a dense mane of natural curls the hue of dark copper framing her elegant features and emerald-colored eyes. Zsestoz gestured at the policeman first, then the woman. “Captain Bateson, this is Commandant Keilo Essan of the Orion Colonial Police, and Akili Kamar, Director of Security at the Bank of Orion.”
Bateson greeted the Orions in turn. “Commandant Essan. Director Kamar. This is Commander Tezog of the Hastur-zolis.” He waited until they’d offered their unanswered smiles to the Gorn, then he continued. “As I’m sure you can understand, we’d both like an explanation.”
“For what?” Kamar’s deflection was cold and smooth.
Tezog took half a step and invaded the woman’s personal space, but she held her ground as he said through gritted fangs, “Your people reported an attempted security breach.”
Essan held up a hand to Tezog. “That’s still under investigation.” He signaled with a gesture for the Gorn to back up from Kamar. After a long, low snarl, Tezog complied.
“I’m sure your inquiry is top-notch,” Bateson said to the Orions, “but I need to insist that my security team be involved. We have sensor technology that—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Kamar said.
The Gorn commander inched forward again. “We insist.”
“Be that as it may, the bank’s regulations don’t permit it, and Orion law recognizes our jurisdiction over criminal acts that transpire on our property. I assure you both, it’s not personal.” Kamar tilted her head toward Essan. “Part of my role here is to make sure the commandant doesn’t overstep his bounds, either.” She regarded the milling packs of military personnel with open disdain. “Now, please remove your troops from our property with all due haste—before I’m forced to file formal charges against them for trespassing.” She turned and walked to the main gates, which were opened ahead of her and closed behind her.
Essan clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “If there’s nothing else, then?”
Bateson had little patience for bureaucrats on his best days, and this day was already shaping up to be far worse than merely mediocre. “On the contrary, Commandant. I can’t help but notice that even though Director Kamar insists her people have jurisdiction, your people seem to be doing all the detective work outside the perimeter. And since the message I and Commander Tezog received described this incident as an attempted breach, I suspect whatever evidence there is to be found here is outside the bank—under your jurisdiction.”
The commandant grew increasingly nervous. “Actually, Captain, the bank’s property line extends more than thirty meters beyond the perimeter fence. We’re still inside their jurisdiction.”
Tezog edged forward beside Bateson, adding his own brand of hulking menace to the conversation. “But your people are the ones in possession of the evidence.”
“Captain . . . Commander . . . please. You’re putting me in a most untenable position.”
His protests only fanned Bateson’s ire. “You do understand what’s at stake here, yes? Under the circumstances, do you really think that either Tezog or I will settle for anything less than your complete cooperation?”
The Gorn commander added, “I warn you, Commandant: Yes is the wrong answer.”
The Orion shot fearful glances at Tezog and Bateson, then held up a hand in surrender. In his other hand, he slowly lifted a small communicator and spoke into it.
“Essan to Major Jarek.”
A man answered over the comm. “Jarek here, sir.”
“Please meet me near the main gate at once. Essan out.” He put away the device and cracked a meek and worried smile at the starship commanders. “He’ll be just a moment.”
The three of them waited without speaking for close to a minute until another Orion police official arrived, snapped to attention in front of Essan, and saluted. “Sir.”
The commandant returned the salute and spoke quickly. “Do you have all the scans we’ve taken so far?”
“Yes, sir,” Jarek replied.
“Good,” Essan said. “Transmit them all to the Atlas and the Hastur-zolis.” At Jarek’s first sign of hesitation, he added, “Now, Major. That’s an order.”
Jarek lifted a tricorder-like device from a holster on his hip. “Yes, sir.” He keyed in commands while Essan, Tezog, and Bateson watched. Several seconds later, he switched off the device. “Done.”
“Thank you, Major. You’re dismissed.” The commandant shooed his subordinate with frantic gestures, then he turned back to the starship commanders. “Are we quite finished now?”
Tezog activated his wrist-mounted communicator. “In a moment.” He spoke a long string of hisses, rasps, growls, and clicks into the device, then listene
d to a similar string of noise in reply. He turned off the comm. “Now we’re done.” He bowed his head slightly at Bateson. “Captain.” And on that note, he turned and stalked away, marshaling his soldiers behind him.
Essan didn’t wait for Bateson’s permission to depart. He hurried away, back into the relative safety of a clutch of Orion police, leaving Bateson to mop up his share of the mess. The captain tapped his combadge. “Bateson to Atlas.”
Fawkes answered, “Atlas here. Go ahead, sir.”
“Beam up all our security teams from the bank’s perimeter. It seems we’ve stumbled into the middle of a jurisdictional pissing match down here.”
“Understood. I’m alerting all transporter stations now.” In the background of the comm channel, Bateson heard muffled voices, and Fawkes replying under her breath. Then she was back, sounding anxious as hell. “Sir, we’ve started analyzing the scans the Orions just sent up.”
He was certain he heard a warning of bad news in her tone. “And . . . ?”
“I’d rather not say on an open channel, sir.”
That was all he’d needed to hear to know the situation was worse than he’d feared. “Hold that thought, Fawkes—and have me beamed up on the double.”
• • •
Two hours, one troubling meeting, and four cups of coffee later, Bateson was seated at the desk inside his ready room on the Atlas, facing the image of Admiral Marta Batanides. She wore her bone-white hair pulled back into a knot at the back of her head, but a few wild wisps framed her lean features, which even now retained much of the angular beauty of her youth. Her steel-blue eyes widened at the news Bateson had just shared. “Would you repeat that, Captain?”
“Energy readings detected by the Orions during the failed incursion were one hundred percent consistent with those generated by a Soong-type android.”
Batanides reclined and pressed her fingertips together in front of her lips, as if she were praying. Given the gravity of the Orions’ discovery, Bateson wouldn’t have blamed her if she were. After collecting her thoughts, she asked, “Are you and your crew absolutely certain?”
“As certain as we can be, working from someone else’s scans.”
She took another moment to think, then she nodded. “All right. The good news is that the Orions probably won’t recognize those energy signatures for what they are. It’s possible the Gorn might not know what they mean, either—but once they share that intel with their Typhon Pact allies, the Romulans and the Breen will both know what they’re looking at. Which means we don’t have much time to contain this.” She picked up a padd and keyed in some commands. “According to the daily logs from our embassy there, the SI section chief, Commander Hilar Tohm, had two meetings with the Soong-made android known as Data over the past two days.”
The mention of the android’s name stoked Bateson’s interest. “Data? From the Enterprise? But . . . I thought he was dead!”
“It’s a long story, Captain, and a few notches above your clearance level. For now, let it suffice to say, he was dead, but he got better.”
One of the drawbacks of answering to an admiral with oversight responsibilities for Starfleet Intelligence, in Bateson’s opinion, was that she had a knack for reminding him just how far out of the loop he was most of the time. For now, he would have to content himself with answers to lesser queries. “Do we know why he met with Tohm? Or why he’s on Orion?”
“Not yet. The duty logs only noted that the meetings occurred. To find out the substance of her interactions with Data, we’ll have to debrief her and check her private files.”
Having dealt more than once with Starfleet Intelligence, he feared he was about to be left in the dark again. “By ‘we,’ I presume you mean your people in SI.”
“Correct. But you’re not being sidelined, Morgan, I promise. In fact, there’s something equally important that I need you and your crew to handle.”
“And that would be . . . ?”
There was a new edge in her voice. “You need to track down Lieutenant Commander Data and take him into custody. If he was involved with the attempted breach at the bank, he’ll be on his guard, which means he’ll be exceptionally dangerous.”
She sent over a data packet, and a Starfleet Intelligence dossier about Data opened on one side of Bateson’s monitor. The principal image of Data closely resembled the android he remembered meeting years earlier, but with one key difference: he now looked fully human.
“We have it on good authority that Data has become quite expert at disguising himself,” Batanides continued, “and that he can even fool biometric sensors into thinking he’s any of a number of species. We know he can mimic voices; we also have unverified reports that he might have learned to spoof retinal patterns. Tell your people to approach him with extreme caution.”
“Understood.”
“One more thing, Morgan, and this is vital: Make sure no one—especially not Data—contacts the Enterprise crew. The last thing anyone needs at this stage is Picard and his ship racing to Orion and attracting the Typhon Pact’s attention to us in the process.” She sighed and shook her head in quiet frustration. “We’ve come too far to let this fall apart. We’re counting on you to hold it together.”
“I will, Admiral.”
An encouraging half smile. “Good hunting, Captain. Batanides out.”
She closed the channel, and Bateson’s screen went dark. He exhaled and felt his strength falter under the weight of responsibility. This was not how this was supposed to go. He drew a deep breath, hardened himself for what had to be done, and got up from his chair.
Time to start a manhunt.
• • •
Keeping pace with the headlong floodcrush of people moving through the starport in Orion’s capital made Data imagine himself being swept away by a mighty river, a slave to the current. It was an imperfect analogy, he knew, but his new brain and programming tended to make strange connections and draw peculiar associations. Perhaps that was an essential ingredient of my father’s genius, he speculated. The ability to imagine seemingly unrelated ideas in fusion.
Thinking of his father filled him with melancholy. It seemed odd to him that he should miss Noonien so deeply when he possessed all of the man’s memories—his entire lifetime of experience, all his skills, all his vast knowledge. But knowing every detail of the life Soong had lived was not the same as having him there in the flesh. It was not the same as being able to share a moment with him, or the singular experience of knowing one was being seen through a parent’s all-forgiving eyes. Knowing all that his father had ever said was not the same as hearing what he would say now if he were alive. Memories were no substitute for the man himself.
Lost in this wilderness of maudlin reminiscence, Data was three-tenths of a second slower than normal to realize that he was being followed. It wasn’t the first time he’d had this feeling since arriving on Orion. It had happened on the night he’d arrived, and shortly before both his meetings with Hilar Tohm. Unable to corroborate his suspicions, he had tried to dismiss them as mere paranoia, the product of an emotional misfire in his positronic matrix. Now it haunted him again—the sensation of being watched. Of being hunted.
He quickened his pace, hoping that if he could get off the main thoroughfare and into the service corridors, he could either confront his pursuer or evade him long enough to beam back to the Archeus and get off the surface. Once out of orbit he would be free to engage his ship’s cloaking device and resume his hunt for the Immortal once known as Emil Vaslovik.
The crowd ahead of him thinned as he turned a corner. At first it felt like an opportunity: open ground, free of obstacles. Then he saw it for what it was: a danger zone. An area devoid of camouflage or cover. The nearest escape points ahead of him would be too far to reach in time if his pursuer had a beam weapon. At the risk of hastening the confrontation, he chose to stop and double back into a more densely trafficked part of the starport. He flipped up his collar and lowered the brim of his hat to
hide his face, then tucked his hands into his pockets and lowered his chin as he rounded the corner, returning the way he’d come.
As soon as he made the turn, he heard the bark of an angry masculine voice.
“Commander Data! Drop to your knees and place your hands on your head!”
A dozen Starfleet personnel in black commando uniforms had emerged from concealed positions along the corridor, and ten more looked down from the level above. They all aimed their combat rifles at Data, and a clatter of running footsteps behind his back told him that he was surrounded. Civilians scattered, screaming in panic, as the Starfleet security force advanced on Data, slowly shrinking their perimeter around him. A male Bajoran seemed to be the one in charge. Data froze as the man shouted, “Commander! This is your final warning! Drop to your knees and place your palms on your head!”
With careful, slow movements, Data lowered himself first to one knee, then he tucked the other knee under himself. Before removing his hands from his pockets, he clutched the quantum transmitter he’d concealed in his pocket, and which held a prerecorded message he’d saved in its transmission queue as a hedge against an unforeseen emergency. A single tap on the finger-sized metallic cylinder sent the SOS to the one person Data knew he could trust to answer it. Then he took his hands from his pockets and placed them atop his head.
“Hold your fire,” he said. “I surrender.”
7
The door signal was so understated that it barely rose above the ambient background hum inside Picard’s ready room. The captain closed the crew evaluations he’d been reviewing to fill the time between Worf’s increasingly bleak reports on the search for the Sirriam. “Come.”