The three men had spent almost an hour going over the problem in detail. The captain sat back behind his desk, a teapot, cup, and saucer by his side, and summed up the situation.
“To reiterate the problem before us, gentlemen,” he said. “Force Commander Sawliru has claimed ownership of the Freedom—which he, incidentally, called the Conquest—and all of its contents, in the name of the Vemlan People. Including its crew. They mean to rendezvous with the ship and take it, seemingly by force, if necessary.”
“Sensor scans of the ships as they have come closer have confirmed Worf’s suspicions,” said Data. “The fleet is of an entirely military nature. Their combined power is more than a match for the Freedom’s armament, though the Vemlan androids have made extensive modifications to the original weapons systems.”
“Yes,” agreed Riker. “Captain, I have a suggestion. If we were to look at the matter from a strictly legal point of view—that is, if the ship and its crew are property, as Sawliru insists, then they could be classified as unclaimed flotsam. According to law, such flotsam is open to salvage by the first ship to make a claim.”
Picard paused in thought. “Interesting idea, Number One. But this presupposes that it is desirable or ethical to intercede on the androids’ behalf. I am not certain that it is either.”
“Captain, I do not see that such a problem exists. The Vemlan androids are refugees, and under Starfleet General Orders, refugees from wars or active combat zones are to be protected and assisted and offered aid and protection from any hostile forces. I would consider Force Commander Sawliru’s fleet as a hostile force. In addition, numerous treaty constraints, including the Magellan Treaty, the Rigellian Accords, and the Klingon-Federation Pact include specific articles devoted to the treatment of alien refugees.”
Picard frowned. Data seemed interested in a way he’d never been before.
“But according to Sawliru, they stole the Freedom,” Riker said. “That makes them pirates under the law. There is quite a bit of legislation about piracy as well as the treatment of refugees in those same treaties. If we choose to intercede, we had better be sure that we’re doing it on the right side.”
Picard took a sip of his tea. “Yes, the androids claim to be refugees. Yet the Force Commander claimed that they were malfunctioning runaways on a stolen ship. Your points are well taken, gentlemen—but before I can take any action, I need to know the facts.” He paused and finished his tea. “Any advice?”
Riker considered a moment before he spoke. “I would speak to Jared first, Captain, and tell him about your conversation with Sawliru. Maybe that will scare a little truth out of his circuits.”
Data turned in his chair and looked at Riker. “Commander, are you attempting to be derogatory in your references to Captain Jared?”
Riker had been smiling slightly, but Data’s accusation wiped that expression off his face in a hurry. “No, Data, I didn’t. What do you mean?”
“I mean that your words seem to present a biased view of the Vemlans,” Data said.
“If you mean the androids, I resent that, Data. I like to think that I treat all races fairly.”
“Yet you seem to present an innate distrust of the androids.”
Riker was growing defensive. “Data, I don’t trust anyone who’s evasive or lies to me. The androids have done both.”
There was an awkward pause. The android officer seemed to accept the logic of Riker’s statement—and a good thing, too. Dissension in his command was the last thing Picard needed at a time like this. But perhaps Data’s unique insights could be of assistance in this case. “Data, what impressions were you able to glean from the Vemlans during last night’s tour of the Enterprise?”
“I think it is very probable that they were indeed fleeing a war,” the android said calmly. “It is my opinion that they are refugees, according to Starfleet definitions.”
“Commander Riker?”
“Captain,” he began, his emotions still a little high and showing in his face, “I think that both sides are hiding something. But I don’t have Deanna’s talents or resources, and can’t be sure.”
“Yes, the counselor’s input would be most helpful right now. I’ll have a tape of my conversation with Sawliru played for her, and see what she thinks. Data, at their present speed, when will the Vemlan Fleet be in contact?”
“Six hours, nineteen minutes, 36.765 seconds.”
“That gives us a little time, then, perhaps enough to work this out before there is violence. Very well, gentlemen, return to your duties. I will contact Jared and see if he has any response to Force Commander Sawliru’s accusations. Perhaps he can shed some light how his crew came to possess the Conquest.”
“Begging the captain’s pardon, but the crew of the ship recommissioned her as the Freedom. For our purposes, either name is valid, depending upon which claim is held up as the correct one,” said Data.
“Indeed,” Picard said crossly. What to call the ship in question was the last—and least important—thing on his mind. “Commander, please have Counselor Troi report to me immediately. I need her.”
When Data had a problem whose answers did not come swiftly or easily, he did what any human would do—he brooded about it. He did not consider his behavior emotional in the human sense. He merely desired to enter a place and mode of thought that would allow his mind to go over the possibilities. He sensed that what he did was more akin to the meditation that most Vulcans and some humans engaged in to sort out internal difficulties. Nonetheless, to any outside observer, it looked as if he were brooding.
He even had a special place to brood. The shuttle bay observation lounge. It was usually unpopulated, for the view was not as spectacular as that offered in other observation areas. Today he had a very big problem indeed to consider. As soon as he was off duty, he went to his special place and stared out the window at the stars, allowing his positronic brain to work at high speed, uninterrupted by other factors.
The questions that Data usually brooded about—or meditated upon—were those that all thinking beings struggled with at one time or another, he knew. Many would have considered them philosophical, psychological or religious in nature, ruminations on the meaning of existence and one’s place in the universe. Yet some of his other problems were different; Data had a philosophical condition that humans didn’t, one uniquely his own. He knew for certain which force in the universe had created him.
He was solely a product of human imagination, and as such he had no metaphysical crutch to lean upon. In many ways this was an advantage. He knew the purposes and reasons of his creation, and doubt about the meaning of life was absent from his thoughts. On the other hand, he had an artificial limit impressed upon himself by this knowledge. He had no true “culture” or “developmental stage” to be a part of. Data had never been a child. He had sprung, like Athena, fully grown from his father’s head. There had been no other androids around for him to learn how to be an android after Data had been activated; humans were his teachers, and they taught him human things, which he greedily absorbed. Up until now it had been an acceptable philosophy.
But now everything had changed; he had discovered others of his kind. The Vemlans had provided an alternate model for him to base his actions upon, and more, to compare his past actions with. There was an entire ship of androids, and they did not act like him. In fact, they were more similar to his human companions than to him. They laughed, felt, schemed, cried, raged, and loved. They seemed to share the same weaknesses his adopted culture did. Yet they were decidedly not human in the way they thought.
A review of the history that Maran had sent him stopped mysteriously short—by three hundred years—of the time of their construction. Still, Data had been able to make inferences from the conversations with Maran and Kurta and Dren last night that allowed him to form a theoretical model of their hardware and software functions. He recognized a basic likeness here. Though there was an external similarity with humans, the goals and values
of the Vemlans were similar to those he had developed himself: a need for knowledge that if found in a human would be labeled obsessive; a desire for excellence that no human could hope to live up to; a sense of planning and patience that could be seen in some organic cultures, but rarely in individuals. Both were beings of logical thought, surpassing, perhaps on some levels, the severely logical Vulcan schools of logic. The psychology, if one could apply the term to a constructed race, was very similar. The Vemlan androids had been programmed with basic emotions, emotions Data could not understand, but he saw enough similarity in character to make the assumption that, as a group, he and the Vemlan androids were the same.
Superficially, they weren’t the same, of course. They had been designed differently, for slightly different functions. Their exterior casings were markedly different. The Vemlans looked human, while Data’s features were styled specifically to tell him apart from true humans. The mannerisms of the other androids were almost indistinguishable from those of organic creatures, for some reason. Data’s mannerisms reflected his mechanical nature in many ways. His memory was greater, he theorized, and his reasoning powers were far superior; he was designed, after all, for accumulating and relaying information. Of the two specimens, Data was structurally closer to the machine.
Yet these differences were unimportant, Data hypothesized. He considered the early Earth philosophers who rose beyond the boundaries of their cultures and geography to realize that humans were humans, no matter where they were in the world, and he began to understand what a leap that had been in Earth history. The realization that “all men are brothers” had brought Earth to peace after a long history of violent warfare, and unified it into one vibrant culture. On that basis, Data considered, these androids were his spiritual siblings. Most likely, they were capable of understanding his motivations in ways that humans had not.
Data’s brief relationship with his brother and prototype, Lore, had not felt this way, but then Lore had tried to use his self-constructed status to dominate Data, and had constructed the fiction that Data was less perfect than Lore. Kurta and Maran had not. They understood loyalty and duty and respect in ways that the self-serving Lore could not. The thought of his brother, loose somewhere in the cosmos in possession of the last legacy of his father, Noonian Soong, began to drive his thoughts in unproductive directions. Data switched tracks.
He considered his relationship with the other android he had known: his constructed daughter, Lal. Lal was still with him in a way that no human could understand. His creation and reabsorption—the entire process of her existence and development—had changed Data in ways that not even he was totally aware of. True, he had not the emotional capacity she had developed—he had been forced to edit it out of the reabsorption or risk potential destruction himself. But he now understood better what it was like to sense another being that was close to yourself.
He had experienced that same sense of understanding, though to a lesser degree, when he spoke with the Vemlan androids.
Data sighed, an artificial gesture he had picked up from humans. He knew exactly why, physiologically speaking, humans needed to sigh, but he had sensed in his research that the need was not purely physical. It felt good to sigh. It gave one something totally uninvolved to concentrate on for a moment. Data sighed again.
But he had yet to come to any conclusions, save that the androids were beings very much like himself.
“Data?”
He turned, and saw Geordi La Forge standing in the open doorway of the shuttle bay lounge.
“Mind if I come in?” he asked, casually.
Data shook his head, knowing that in this informal case, a visual rather than verbal response would suffice. Geordi walked over to the chair next to where Data was sitting and slouched against the back.
“Commander Riker said you were a little upset. What’s eating you, Data?”
“Eating me? I do not understand. There does not seem—”
“Idiom, Data! Idiom!” smiled Geordi, holding his hands up to halt the cascade of logic and query about to come forth.
Data stopped. “I see. You mean to say ‘what is bothering you?’ Correct?”
“Yes, Data. What’s bothering you?”
Data paused for a long moment, a very un-Data like thing to do. Geordi took note. Of all the crew of the Enterprise, he knew Data best, inside and out. A pause might not be significant to a passing acquaintance, but to Geordi it rang alarm bells.
“I seem to be experiencing severe doubt about my purpose and existence.”
“I see,” said Geordi, nodding. He wasn’t all that surprised—he had been expecting something like this. “And does a certain alien ship have anything to do with your troubles?”
“That is the problem, Geordi. The crew of the Freedom is not completely alien to me.”
“I see,” the blind man repeated. “Care to talk about it?”
Data returned his gaze to the viewport, and continued the discussion as he watched the stars. “The executive officer of the ship, Kurta, spoke to me about my place in Starfleet and on the Enterprise. While we were discussing the matter, I brought up the nickname Commander Riker once gave me, and explained its connotations.”
“Pinocchio. And?”
“She became upset, nearly angry. She asked me why I studied human interpersonal relationships and cultural mannerisms so intently, instead of developing my own, and then voiced doubts about my responses. Though she knows little about my situation, she spoke with great conviction, and as a similar logical being, I cannot fail to appreciate the accuracy of her findings. She made insinuations that indicated that I seem to feel inferior to humans and therefore studied and copied them only to perpetuate the illusion that I am human.”
“You do.”
“As flawed as this—What did you say?”
“I said that you do. You study humans and adopt their characteristics so that you can appear more human.”
“You agree with this assessment?”
“Data, come on, stop acting like it’s a death sentence,” Geordi urged. “I swear, sometimes you act the most human when you’re busy being an android! Look at you, defensive, insecure, even a little whiny.”
Data considered the matter. “Perhaps I seem that way. But—”
“But, nothing.” Geordi watched the stars for a moment as he talked. He didn’t like being blunt with people—he tried to be sensitive and caring whenever he could; that was his nature. But sometimes subtlety and sensitivity were the wrong tools in a friendship. Especially with Data, whose positronic “feelings,” quirky at best, had a difficult time understanding subtlety. But sometimes you had to be brutal in order to be a good friend, and Geordi knew full well that no one else on the ship could bear to bring themselves to speak harshly to the goodhearted mechanical man. I’m sorry, Data, he thought, but this is going to hurt me more than it will hurt you.
“Data, every time you don’t understand an illogical human mannerism, you study it to death, and then use it at every possible opportunity, overly concerned that you’ve been conspicuous because you lacked it before. After a while, everyone gets sick to death of you and tells you to shut up. Like the time you picked up slang for the first time, and called Deanna a ‘real nice broad’ and told the captain ‘aye, aye, Daddy-o.’ ”
“Impossible, Geordi,” Data responded. “I have been programmed to place value on my physical well-being and the well-being of my companions, but I have no internal program that allows me to feel emotions such as fear and insecurity.”
“Maybe not,” said Geordi sharply, wincing at what he felt compelled to say. “But you do try your damndest to fit into human society. Obsessively, even. And when you try that hard, you usually miss the subtleties of the situation and fail. There’s an ancient Earth expression for the way you act, sometimes—uptight.”
While Data pondered the etymology and syntax of the saying, Geordi began speaking again. “Let me tell you a story.
“When I first got
to the Academy, before I got my VISOR, I was just like you—anxious, scared I’d do the wrong thing, afraid I’d really mess up. Uptight. I was green as grass. It wasn’t just being there, it was being there and being blind. Starfleet Academy had only graduated nine blind students before me, and I was afraid I’d really blow my chances.
“My senior adviser saw how jittery I was and decided to put a stop to it. He came to my bunk early one morning to tell me about something or other, and before he left he told me I had my socks on the wrong feet, and to switch them before morning inspection.
“I was mortified. I figured that everyone had been laughing at me behind my back for weeks, too polite or embarrassed to point it out. I didn’t want to let him know that I didn’t know about it, so I thanked him and he left. I rationalized. Gloves go on a right or left hand, shoes are right and left, so socks must be the same way. I desperately wanted to ask someone about it, but I was afraid I’d make a total idiot out of myself. So I sat there and felt my socks, trying to figure out which one went on which foot. I felt them so long that I eventually figured out which was my left sock and which was my right sock.”
“But, Geordi,” said Data, confused, “there are no bisymmetrical distinguishing characteristics for socks.”
“I know, Data. My adviser knew, too. But I was so nervous about it that I asked a good friend of mine if my socks were on the right feet after inspection that morning. I guess she looked at me pretty hard, like I was going crazy. Then she asked me whose feet they should be on.”
“I do not understand,” Data said.
“It’s a joke, Data,” Geordi sighed. “But more importantly, it’s a story with a moral. I sat in my room all day that day, trying to figure out why my adviser had pulled such a cruel joke on me. I was really mad. Then I realized how foolish I’d been, trying so hard to do everything so correctly that I must have looked like an idiot all along. I found my adviser after that and thanked him. And after that I became the relaxed individual you see before you today.”
SPARTACUS Page 8
