Immortal Coil

by Jeffrey Lang

  Maddox, who rarely held strong opinions about anything literary, said, “That . . . that's terrible.”

  Vaslovik chuckled. “Leaves a bad taste in your mouth, doesn't it? The author's name was Edward Bulwer-Lytton. Wrote reams of stuff just like that back in the nineteenth century. Became so famous for sheer badness that some literary society used to hold a contest in his honor. The object was to compose the worst opening sentence for a novel.”

  Maddox regarded the old man carefully to make sure he wasn't kidding. Vaslovik had a peculiar sense of humor, but Maddox could see that he wasn't joking about this. “Why would they do that?” Maddox asked. “What value is there in writing a bad sentence?”

  Vaslovik shrugged, but his eyes glittered merrily. “Don't really know. It was the twentieth century. Who knows why they did anything? Self-awareness—or even enlightened self-interest—didn't seem to be part of their makeup. I expect it just seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Maddox rechecked his tricorder readings, mostly to give himself another minute or two before he had to crawl back into the bowels of the console. “And this has exactly what to do with me being waist-deep in isolinear chips and EPS conduits?”

  “It's a dark and stormy night despite the fact that the planet is protected by a weather control grid,” Vaslovik explained. “Maybe the problem you're trying to track down has nothing to do with anything inside the lab. Maybe it has something to do with the weather.”

  Maddox looked out the window. Vaslovik was right; it was dark despite being almost an hour before sunset. Like most people who had lived most of their lives on Federation worlds, Maddox was at once fascinated and intimidated by the idea of a real storm, the kind where lightning and wind could damage buildings, people and things.

  The climate over much of Galor IV was generally quite moderate; it was one of the reasons why the Daystrom Institute of Technology had situated the Annex there, but violent weather was not entirely unknown, necessitating the weather control grid. There were too many delicate, intricately planned experiments taking place at any one time to risk a stray lightning bolt our-turning the figurative apple cart. But in the past, whenever a storm system large enough to overwhelm the grid came along, the Environmental Control Center alerted all the labs so that they could take steps to ensure experiments were shielded.

  But, Maddox realized, sooner or later something was bound to get through. Out loud he said, “Well, this is inconvenient.”

  Vaslovik shrugged and said, “But we weren't too far along. We can shut down now and resume when the storm has passed.”

  Maddox set his tricorder down on the windowsill and sighed, “I suppose you're right, but I was hoping we would be able to complete the tests tonight.”

  Suddenly, a bolt of lightning seared across the sky. Vaslovik stumbled back away from the window, but Maddox caught the old man before he could fall. “Sorry,” Vaslovik said. “That caught me off guard.” A moment later, a rumble of thunder set the window to vibrating. Another flash of lightning gave Maddox a momentary glimpse of the wind stripping the leaves from a nearby tree. Something crashed against the window, bounced off, and rolled away into the darkness.

  “Haven't seen one like this before, have you, Bruce?” Vaslovik asked.

  “No, I haven't—” Maddox began to reply, but then watched in stunned amazement as a blue-white bolt of lightning shivered down from the sky and slashed into the ground not ten meters from the lab. Maddox swore he could feel the ionized oxygen molecules prickling his skin as they swirled away, then rushed back in. A clap of thunder shattered the air and left Maddox momentarily breathless. Then, a second, even fiercer explosion tore through the courtyard and Maddox saw a sickening greenish flame leap up from the ground. He turned his head away and covered his eyes from the intense glare.

  When he opened his eyes again, Maddox could see nothing except a red smear, a ghost image on his retina from the bright flash. “The power's gone out,” he said. “That lightning bolt must have hit the main grid.” He looked down and saw the tiny lights of the tricorder's control surface. Maddox picked it up, comforted by its familiarity. The instrument had been programmed to look for surges in microvoltage, the kind you find with poorly aligned isolinear chips, but the electromagnetic burst from the lightning bolt had caused it to reset. Maddox tapped the control to run a diagnostic function and, by the light from the display, saw that Vaslovik had silently moved away from the window toward the center of the lab.

  “How did you do that?” Maddox asked.

  “Do what?” Vaslovik asked.

  “You walked all the way over there without running into anything. I didn't even hear you move.”

  “Counted my steps,” Vaslovik said calmly. “Twelve steps from the window to the control console. Six steps to the experiment chamber. Five steps from there to the door.”

  “And how did you know that?”

  “I always do that. An old habit.”

  Maddox thought, What an eccentric old man, but said, “If that was the substation over by the xenolab, then power across the quad will be out. We shouldn't expect help anytime soon. Do you think we should put the experiment back into the prep room?” Maddox heard Vaslovik grunt in agreement, then small sounds of tinkering. Switches being thrown, latches unlatching.

  Vaslovik was working at something very quickly, probably making sure the experiment was fastened down before they tried to move it. He had been pretty shy about letting anyone see their work before it was ready, though how the guards were going to make out anything in the dark lab was another question entirely.

  Maddox worried about the old man hurting himself wandering around in the dark, but then decided he should probably be more concerned about himself. He probably knows how many steps it is to the prep room, he decided darkly. I'm the one who's going to trip and kill himself.

  Maddox started to reply when another lightning flash cut through the dark, and the world suddenly seemed to come crashing in around him.

  Or something very near it. Something beneath the floor of the lab exploded, taking out the entire corner of the building and sending debris everywhere. Maddox was thrown across the room, and felt his head slam against something hard. He almost didn't notice the shooting pain in his arm, and the warm wet feeling that was blossoming over it.

  Maddox tried to see, but the gloom seemed absolute. His ears rang, and he could taste blood in his mouth. He called out to Vaslovik, but couldn't even hear his own voice.

  After a time, his eyes adjusted to the dark, and then, finally, he heard something: a dull creaking that rose quickly to a roar, the sound of a building collapse in the offing. Maddox tried to move, but knew he was losing it. Everything was going black again, though it was an odd kind of black this time, a black shot through with silver.

  Chapter Two

  Captain's Log, Stardate 51405.9: The Enterprise has completed its diplomatic assignment to Tzenketh, in which I believe I have convinced the Autarch to join the Allied effort against the Dominion. Before we proceed to our next assignment, we are awaiting the return of Lieutenant Commander Data, who left the ship twelve days ago to undertake a painful personal duty.

  CAPTAIN JEAN-LUC PICARD looked up from his log, checked the chronometer and decided that he had spent enough time in his ready room for one day. Time to get up and walk about a bit, get the feel of the ship under his feet. A crew had moods and the only way to find out what they are is to go out and tread the deck. Of course, he could just call in either Riker or Troi and put the question to them—How is the crew feeling? —and from their different perspectives form a clear and reliable picture. Over the years, Picard had learned that this method omitted an essential component. If he stayed in his ready room and waited for subordinates to bring him answers, the crew wouldn't know how Picard was feeling, or, at least, how Picard wanted them to think he was feeling.

  As soon as Picard walked onto the bridge, Commander Heyes, the current beta shift commander, hopped to her feet and start
ed to call out, “Captain on the bridge,” but Picard waved her back into the center seat. Beta shift had just come on duty, some of alpha shift still lingering, passing on notes about unresolved problems or procedures, so there were quite a few people there. Picard enjoyed being on the bridge at shift change, especially when things were going well, because it showed that the Enterprise-E was not just a workplace, but a community. After the essential business of communicating the ship's condition was addressed, he knew that crewmembers would stop to chat, exchange information about families or make arrangements for social gatherings and recreation later in the day.

  Picard nodded to various officers and crewmen, checked the conn officer's heading, then took a few moments to study the astrometric display currently on the viewscreen, making it clear to Heyes that he only intended to stay long enough to take the chill off the cushion and make his presence felt. He moved briefly to vacant XO's console and pulled up the shift logs, reviewed the entries for high-priority items and, finding none, transferred the rest to his workstation for more careful scrutiny later. Looking up, he said, “I'll be heading down to the shuttlebay if you need me, Commander.”

  Heyes nodded and said, “Aye, Captain. Commander Data's shuttle is due in seventeen minutes.” She smiled. “Have a pleasant stroll, sir.”

  “Thank you, Commander.” The turbolift doors closed and Picard had to smile to himself. Obviously, even in her short time aboard the Enterprise, Heyes had learned about her captain's habit of wandering the decks between shifts. She was a good officer, one of the best shift commanders to come aboard during their last crew rotation. He knew Heyes was more interested in being on the command track for a science or exploration vessel, but Picard had asked Riker to try to retain her services for another rotation, dangling the carrot of some first contact work before her. He would have to have a conversation with her and remind her that, sometimes, commanders on a larger vessel actually have more time for science than the captain of a science vessel. On the other hand, Picard understood the allure of the center seat. We shall see what we shall see, he decided. “Deck four,” he said.

  The turbolift stopped at deck three for two crewmen who were so caught up in a discussion about the mathematics of a multidimensional time/space fold that Picard's presence had barely registered on them before he stepped off the turbolift on deck four. Acknowledging the nods, Picard moved aft along the corridor, stopping briefly to speak with Lieutenant Commander Keru about a report he had sent concerning the holographic diodes in stellar cartography. It was nothing serious yet, Keru assured the captain, but some of the diodes were past their recommended service date and were losing efficiency. Picard stayed just long enough to assure Keru he was aware of the situation and that something would be done soon.

  Reaching the end of the corridor, Picard stepped into a narrow maintenance lift and dropped down into the control room that overlooked the primary shuttlebay. The two crewmen on duty looked up at Picard and nodded, but didn't rise since they currently had a shuttle on the beam and were guiding it in. In the bay, Picard could see four figures: his first officer, Commander William Riker; the ship's counselor, Commander Deanna Troi; the chief engineer, Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge; and the Enterprise's new security chief, Lieutenant Rhea McAdams.

  Now there, Picard reflected, is someone I will probably not have to remind Number One to speak to about staying with the Enterprise. During the two social encounters Picard had enjoyed with McAdams while Riker was present, it had been quite obvious that his first officer was quite taken with the lieutenant.

  Like Heyes and several other recent additions, the pretty, deceptively petite McAdams had joined the ship just ten days ago during the crew rotation at Starbase 105. The lieutenant was the third security officer who had rotated onto the Enterprise-E since the ship had left the San Francisco Yards two years earlier. The first, Daniels, was currently on indefinite paternity leave. The second, Rowan, had been a fine officer, but, somehow, had not jelled with the rest of the command crew. It might have been, Picard decided, that he had been too much like Worf, who had been part of his senior staff for seven years on the Enterprise-D. The similarities in style had thrown everyone off-balance. Rhea McAdams was about as unlike Picard's former security chief as it was possible for an entity with two arms, two legs and a head to be. Where Worf would have growled, McAdams grinned.

  Picard had first realized that he might have found the right fit when, during her first week on duty, the Enterprise had encountered a Breen destroyer whose commander was spoiling for a fight. Where Worf would have had his finger on the quantum torpedo launcher from the first second, McAdams had opted to explain to the Breen commander, one Thot Vog, the relative strengths and weaknesses of the Sovereign-class starship and the Breen destroyer, paying particular attention to how much damage a brace of quantum torpedoes could do. In the end, the Breen had backed off.

  Picard stayed in the control room long enough to be sure that all was well with Data's shuttle, then exited and walked down the stairway to the flight deck. La Forge spotted him first and called out, “Captain, hello.” Troi, in the midst of a conversation with McAdams, smiled brightly. Deanna looked, Picard thought, uncharacteristically bleary, probably because she was currently pulling duty as officer of the watch on gamma shift. Riker stood slightly apart from the group, staring out at the field of stars shimmering faintly through the hangar's force field. Picard noted that Riker had his head tilted slightly toward Troi and McAdams, just enough to hear if his name came up in the course of their conversation.

  Riker nodded to Picard as the captain approached, and Picard noticed a small bandage on the left side of Riker's forehead. “Number One,” Picard asked, frowning as he peered at the bandage. “What have you done to yourself this time?”

  Riker's eyes shot up and his hand rose to his temple, almost as if he had forgotten the wound and only this moment remembered it. “Oh . . . this? It's nothing, Captain.”

  “Let me guess: some sort of bar brawl?”

  “Captain!” Riker replied in mock indignation.

  “Then, what? Anbo-jytsu? Karate?”

  “Mok'bara, by any chance?” Lieutenant McAdams asked. Grinning, she stepped toward Commander Riker and took his arm, a movement that Picard initially interpreted as a sign of affection, but then he saw that McAdams was applying a slight pressure to Riker's elbow so he would have to bend forward. Standing on her toes, McAdams carefully inspected Riker's forehead with all the concern of a worried mother checking a child's skinned knee. “Are you feeling better, Commander?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Riker said resignedly. “Much better, thanks.”

  “Ah, yes. Now I remember,” Picard recalled. “Dr. Crusher mentioned this at breakfast. Something about a small scar reminding you not to underestimate your opponent because of size, I believe.”

  McAdams released Riker's elbow and the first officer straightened. “Dr. Crusher has a strange sense of humor sometimes,” he said.

  “And a well-honed sense of justice,” Troi added.

  “Malpractice, I'd call it,” Riker muttered as he turned his attention back to the bay threshold.

  “So, Lieutenant,” Picard said, turning to McAdams. “You've studied mok'bara? I hope you'll someday have the opportunity to meet Commander Worf. He won several tournaments, both on the Enterprise and in formal competition.”

  “So Deanna was telling me,” McAdams replied, smiling innocently. “And Commander Riker mentioned him, too, while I was helping him to sickbay.”

  Riker opened his mouth to respond, but stopped when Picard's combadge trilled. “Shuttlebay control to Captain Picard.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Captain, Commander Data's shuttle is on its final approach.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Picard replied, shifting his attention to the view beyond the shuttlebay force field. Riker activated his badge and spoke into it softly, asking to listen in on the channel between the control deck and the shuttle. As prescri
bed, the shuttlebay control officer formally requested, “Shuttlecraft Turing, this is the Enterprise. I have you on the beam. Are you satisfied with your vector?”

  Data was overheard to say, “Enterprise, this is Turing. Approach vector is satisfactory. I am turning over control to you.” The shuttle made a minor course correction, then reduced speed as the Enterprise's automated systems took over. Picard knew that Data would be sitting back now, hands only lightly touching the control panel, monitoring the approach in case he had to quickly switch over to manual. Odd, Picard thought, that we trust one machine to bring the shuttle in safely while a different machine—one infinitely more sophisticated—is holding himself in check. Then, he realized what he was thinking and chided himself for his lack of consideration. Data was much more than a machine, as Picard himself had proclaimed on countless occasions. I even went to court to prove it.

  The telltales above and below the shuttlebay door changed from green to yellow as a klaxon sounded, indicating that the field density was changing to allow the Turing to enter. The shuttle's passage through the invisible membrane was nearly silent, the impulse engines having been shut down just before landing, so the only sounds were the pings and pops of the hull adjusting to the temperature and pressure of the shuttlebay. Even as the Turing settled onto the turntable and rotated, the craft's aft hatch slowly opened.

  When he saw Data's face, Picard was alarmed, but he could not say precisely why. The android wore his usual neutral, relaxed expression, but there was something slightly off about it, as Data had been forced to think about how he should look rather than just looking that way. He filed the thought away for later consideration. “Welcome home, Mr. Data,” Picard said. “It's good to have you back.”