by Diane Carey
Her face was alight with conspiracy when the sickbay door shot open. Geordi streaked in and without the slightest hesitation stabbed a finger at the isolation chamber and said, “Get him out of there. We’ve got trouble.”
“Captain? Captain? Jean-Luc, can you hear me? Jean-Luc?”
He heard her voice. Had been hearing it, in fact, for what seemed like years. He moved toward it through a terrible darkness, a spiraling tunnel with glazed walls, and after half an eternity he opened his eyes.
“Jean-Luc?” Beverly Crusher bent over him, concern etched into her features.
He felt the anger working on his face, the effort of trying to speak when his body had almost forgotten how. He felt betrayed and enraged, wanting to demand why they had left him in there so long—why they had put him through that, why they had let the phenomenon devour him and everything he held precious.
“Neurological functions approaching normal, Bev,” someone said from behind her. Another doctor. What was his name? Mitchell? Yes, the neurologist.
“Finally.” She sighed. “Jean-Luc, do you understand what I’m saying?”
He managed a nod, and his head pounded its protest. He forced it to move, discovered his neck was in no better condition, but he was now able to see Counselor Troi standing beside his bed with another expression like Beverly’s. His anger began slowly to dissipate as he began to differentiate reality from dream. As if he was emerging from a vivid nightmare, he had to pick his way through the mist, deciding point for point what was real and what was not
“My God . . . ” he rasped. His voice sounded like gravel. “How . . . how long . . . ”
“More than fourteen hours in isolation,” Crusher said, “and it’s taken us over two more to rouse you. I told you I didn’t want to do this.”
“Fourteen,” he uttered. “It felt more like . . . ”
“Hush while we stabilize you. You just relax.”
He let his head fall back on the pillow, stared at the ceiling, and whispered, “My God . . . ”
He lay still, aware of Troi’s unflagging gaze but unable to meet it yet, his mind clogged with confusion. This was like awakening from a long, distorted, unrelenting nightmare and not knowing for sure which parts were only dream. This remained with him in the pools of sweat between his fingers—his precious fingers that he’d thought were gone—and in the coldness of his feet that wouldn’t warm up. Finally he heard his own breathing. Ragged, but a joy to hear again. He concentrated so singularly upon it that when the sickbay door hissed open, he wondered why his breathing sounded that way. Only when Lieutenant Worf’s massive frame loomed over the counselor’s did Picard begin to separate truth from illusion.
“You said you would contact us when he was awake,” the Klingon boomed to Crusher.
“I said I’d call you when he was stable,” Crusher told him sternly. “He isn’t. But I will when he is, don’t worry, Lieutenant.”
But Worf didn’t leave. “Ship’s business, doctor.”
“I think it’ll have to wait.”
Picard raised a numb hand. “Lieutenant,” he struggled to say, “report.”
“Aye, sir. We had to pull you out of isolation early because we have a new emergency. Commander Data has taken a shuttlecraft and gone out into the sector to attempt contact with the entity, and Commander Riker has gone after him in a research dinghy.”
“Wha—” Picard came halfway off the bed and was bodily attacked by the doctor, the neurologist, and two interns who actually managed to knock Worf out of the way. “What? When?”
“Two hours ago for Mr. Riker, sir. We’re in contact with him, but he hasn’t found Data. We’re keeping communication to a minimum, of course.”
“What kind of absurd—get me up.”
Crusher tossed her head and called, “Stimulant.”
Picard watched incredulously as she pressed the hypo against his arm. The situation must be even trickier than his foggy mind was putting together.
“Just don’t make any fast moves for an hour or so,” she told him as the two interns helped him find his balance.
“I’m afraid all we may have left,” he said, “are fast moves.” As he experimented with his newfound legs, his gaze fell on Troi as she watched expectantly a few paces away, her expression taut and hopeful now, wanting to know what he had experienced, what he had decided, yet frightened of asking. Or perhaps she was sensitive enough to know she didn’t have to ask; he would tell her when he was ready. Yes, that was it. He saw that now as he looked at her large exotic eyes.
He reached for her hand and firmly said, “Counselor, would you like to escort me to the bridge? This situation has gone far enough.”
“Riker to Data. Riker to Data. I know you’re out there. Talk to me. Don’t make me boost my gain. I’m picking you up faintly on tight sensors, but if you make me expand the sensor cone, that thing’ll home in on it and we’ll both be finished. Do you copy?”
It was the fourth time he’d made that threat, and the fourth time he’d failed. He was bluffing; he didn’t have Data’s shuttlecraft on his readouts at all. But if Data thought he did . . . well, that was the game. He was halfway to the solar system, traveling at half sublight. On his aft monitor, Enterprise hung against black space, regally composed amid these devilish odds, her opalescent hulls and nacelles seeming quite open to attack right now. Even from here he saw how low her energies were running. Her impulse and warp sections normally glowed brightly and were now simply brushed with pale color. The string of lights that shone from her rectangular windows were dim slits now, and there were fewer of them than he cared to see. This was a disturbing picture of the starship for Riker, this muted version of a ship otherwise unafraid to show her power. Today she dared not, at least not yet. Not until they could fight what they were up against.
“Come on, Data, come on, put me out of my misery,” he grumbled, adjusting the array of sensory equipment on his helm board, This research dinghy was sensor-heavy, virtually all sensors from bow to stern, including most of its outer skin. It was shaped like a boat, its underbelly designed to skim atmospheres, its two lateral sensory pods designed to pick up readings of astonishing detail, right down to wind shifts, storm patterns, and even microorganisms. Ordinarily it would never be used for anything other than research, but today it was the best bet for finding Data. It was smaller and slightly faster than a shuttlecraft, and its pincer-fine sensors could put out a finer beam and draw in cleaner information on less power than any other vessel at his disposal, including cutting through Data’s makeshift cloaking device. First rule of tactics: get a better horse.
Of course, he was ignoring the obvious—that he could be heading in completely the wrong direction and Data could be a million miles the other way. But if any part of Data was human enough to run on instinct alone, that instinct said to head toward a star system, where life originated, where it belonged. Where the thing might be.
And so the swirling gas giant was once again Riker’s companion in space, the gas giant, the asteroid belt with its obliterated portion, now just so much chips and dust after the starship’s antimatter dump. Funny—in the Enterprise this distance didn’t seem so big. Without the mass of the starship around him, Riker felt the whole perspective acutely, and even if it took the same amount of time, his search exaggerated the distance he was covering. His dinghy seemed small against the black panorama—seemed, hell, it was small.
“Data, come in, please,” he attempted again, tightening his communications beam and managing to lengthen it a few more miles. That would take a wider sweep—everything was compromise. Working the controls so delicately he could barely perceive the change on the displays, he licked his lips and murmured, “Come on, Data, don’t make me live with this.”
“This is Commander Data. Mr. Riker, please turn back, sir.”
Riker flinched and gawked at the console for a moment, then pounced on it. “Data? Do you copy me?”
“I copy, sir. Your pursuit is ill-advis
ed.”
Riker opened his mouth to, snap an insult or an order, but caught his breath and changed gears on the spot. Working as fast as his fingers would go, he tried to force the minimal sensors to draw in on Data’s location without putting out enough energy to attract the entity. He paused, took a breath, counted to one, and slowly said, “Data, I know what you’re trying to do. Geordi told me. I know this is because of those things I said, and I want to tell you . . . I was wrong. I had no right to say those things.”
“Appreciated, sir. That does not change the accuracy of your statements. You did help me to perceive myself, and for that I am grateful. I’m receiving erratic readings on the phenomenon, sir. It seems to be fading in and out of contact. If it probes me again, I may be near enough to it to transmit as well as receive.”
“That may kill you. Don’t try it. We’ve got other ways to fight this thing.”
“Fighting it is impractical at this time, Mr. Riker. It uses our own energy against us.”
“Worf may have found a way around that,” Riker told him, hedging his bets, “but we need you to help us lock down the theory. Turn around and let’s go back while we can.”
There was a pause, long enough to make Riker nervous. Finally he tampered with his equipment and said, “Data? I’m switching to visual.”
As he said it, the screen to his right flickered and focused, supplying him with a reassuring picture of Data’s face, a little staticky because of the reduced power output.
“Data, listen to me. I want you to come back with me. You’re too valuable a crewman to lose on this wild scheme to communicate with that thing. Be reasonable.”
Data’s expression was one of regret but resolution as he thoughtfully said, “Even if I could not find a way to communicate with it, sir, I must continue my search.”
Even though he knew what was coming and hated himself for sparking it, Riker asked the question he had been steered into. “Why?”
“I must find out if there is anything in me that the phenomenon recognizes as a life essence. I must know if there is enough humanity in me,” Data said slowly, “to be destroyed.”
Riker squinted into the brightness of the screen. “Data, think about that. It’s not very logical, is it?”
“No, sir. But this may be my only chance to discover whether I am even alive, much less human. And if the entity fails to absorb me,” he said, his impassivity more than disturbing, “I shall have my answer. I will know my place.”
“Your place is with us,” Riker told him. “I know that now. You’re doing something no machine would do. That’s enough for me.”
Then the remarkable happened. Data smiled at him. It was a simple, spontaneous smile, childlike and heartwarming, and it didn’t seem he was even aware of it. The android’s sulfurous eyes sparkled with a lively quality that Riker had never noticed when he was standing in the room with him, but it was also the kind of smile that was laced with regret. Riker could tell—he’d seen enough smiles—what it meant.
“Picard to Riker. Do you read?”
He flinched again, startled by the completely different voice that suddenly pelted through his com system, and tapped the right pressure points. “Data, stand by.” The screen winked off, and he hit another link. “Enterprise, this is Riker.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing out there, Number One?”
“I’m zeroing in on Data, Captain. I’ve almost got a transporter triangulation on him.”
“Have you got a lock on him? He’s out of low-power communication range with us.”
“Yes, sir I’m talking to him right now. At least I’m trying to.”
“Is he having any success with his hypothesis? He’s very likely the only being the entity’s happened upon who’s walking the line between living being and machine. He may be our only chance to communicate.”
“That’s true, sir, but I really think there’s more risk in that than profit, especially for Data.”
“Then don’t dally out there. Get a triangulation on him and we’ll beam you both in. I can’t afford to lose both of you. We’ll have a talk later about those two vessels you appropriated. You can wager on that.”
“Yes, sir, I underst—Data! Stop it!”
“Riker, what is it! Report!”
“He’s arming the shuttlecraft’s weapons, Captain, he’s going to fire blind to attract that thing. Data, kill those weapons. That’s an order.”
“Sorry, Mr. Riker,” Data said calmly, “but I must draw its attack before you come near enough to be caught also. I do not believe the dinghy puts out sufficient energy to draw its attention while you’re still at this—”
“Riker!” Picard’s voice shot through the system.
“We’re picking up massive energy readings. It’s got to be right on top of him out there! Do you see it?”
“Switching,” Riker snapped. Perspiration rolled down his forehead, and became a sheet of moisture when the viewscreen cleared.
In space in front of him, the shuttlecraft’s blocky form was dwarfed by the all-too-familiar and too hideous spectral image that had become his nightmare. It closed on Data’s shuttlecraft with lightning speed and swallowed it whole while Riker watched helplessly, and it took up half his visible space in the process. As it devoured Data’s ship, it reached a long electrical arm through space toward Riker.
A chill streaking down his arms, he smashed his fist on the comlink. “Enterprise! Beam us up now! Now!”
The nauseating sensation of beaming began almost instantly. The captain must have been ready for this, must have anticipated it. Riker gave himself to it, as though that would help, and stared into the viewscreen as he felt himself dematerializing. But he was still able to see the viewer clearly enough when the shuttlecraft was torn to bits, its tiny impulse engine blasting outward in a dynamic explosion.
Agonizing seconds later the interior of the research dinghy was gone and the transporter room’s dark gray textured walls were forming around him. Above him the soft lighting, below him the glowing platform—beside him . . . another form materializing.
He reached out as soon as he could, but instinctively recoiled from the crackling electrical sheath that enveloped Data once again. This time it seemed to have a sense of purpose—or was he imagining it?
“Data!” he shouted without thinking.
The electricity snapped a few more times, then faded. Riker stepped toward Data instantly. Just in time to catch him.
The platform thumped as Captain Picard and Geordi LaForge appeared out of nowhere and knelt beside Riker and the collapsed form of Data. His android eyes stared up at nothing. His heart still beat dutifully. His pulse still made a steady drum in his wrists. Biomechanics still worked the shell he had called his body. But the essence of life that had possessed a courage no machine could duplicate—
Was gone.
Chapter Twelve
DATA LAY IN a wedge of bright, tight surgical beams in the dimmed main sickbay lab. Physicians, neurologists, microengineering specialists, robotics experts hovered over him, but no one could shake the poisoned apple from his throat. He lay there on the table, his face less placid than a corpse’s might have been, his expression caught in a moment of surprise, perhaps even revelation.
To Picard, the elemental darkness rested in the room was like a Poe stanza. He paced around the small group and looked again into Data’s opalescent eyes, and longed again to understand what the android had seen at that last moment. The chamber experience was still with him, making him feel somehow separate from these people who hadn’t been through it. He thought he knew now what resurrection could be like, what it would be like to be caught by that thing—only to reawaken with new knowledge and be able to use that knowledge. He had reawakened to a monumental difference in his own perceptions. Colors seemed brighter, smells nicer, shapes crisper. There was a sudden wonder to being so consummately alive.
Over on that table, Data’s face had that kind of wonder on it, but he had
n’t come back.
When Beverly Crusher finally backed away from the table, her face limned with frustration, even anguish, and her willowy body had lost some of its grace. She moved slowly toward the corner where Riker and Geordi were impatiently standing, not too near each other, and Picard turned to meet her there. He lowered his voice.
“No hope?”
The doctor sighed. “Not from us. As far as we can deduce, Data’s android brain is still operating all the complexities of his body. But there’s no consciousness anymore. We just don’t know what else to do.”
Geordi turned toward them from where he had been facing the wall. “How’d it get him?” he demanded, his throat tight. For the first time he allowed himself the realization that Data might truly be lost to them, even if his heart still beat. “How could it take part of him and leave . . . that?”
Riker folded his arms and pressed one shoulder into the bulkhead. As he gazed at the floor with a pall of regret over him, new lines cut themselves into his face. “Probably the thing didn’t distinguish between Data’s body and the shuttlecraft. If he’d been fully organic, his body might’ve gone up in smoke or whatever that thing does to organic. I guess it recognized something in him,” he added, rather mournfully, “that it . . . wanted.”
Picard looked at his first officer. He’d never seen Riker so depressed, never heard this stony tone. Vexed that he didn’t completely know what was going on between his command officers, he peered now at the engineers and doctors who became more helpless by the moment, who were now beginning to stand back one by one and shake their heads over Data’s quiet form.
“For better or worse,” the captain said thoughtfully, “Data may have found his answer.”
Anger began to burn low in his mind, a layer of heat beneath all other thoughts, making them sizzle and jump. There would be no diminishment of the self on this ship. Rage built within him as he imagined Data forever trapped inside that phenomenon, forever to endure what Picard himself had barely touched in fourteen hours of hell.