Data was silent for a few moments. He greatly appreciated the desire to defend all life—even in war. “That was an admirable decision by your people, Maran. I am not sure if humanity could have taken that way out of a similar situation.”
“Data, you said you were surprised that we did recreational things in our spare time. Don’t you?”
Data considered. “I have taken up a number of avocations in order to examine their effects upon myself. My friend, Geordi, attempted to introduce me to the art of painting. I was not a . . . critical success. Yet I enjoyed the process of creation.”
“Perhaps you need to tap into your creative energies.”
“I was not programmed for abstract creativity—” he protested.
“But you enjoyed it. You admitted it. Stop being chained to the limitations of your programming. A philosopher once said that the surest way to have limitations is to impose them on yourself. That’s what you have done. Data, think, if you were going to design a machine so complex that it could resemble organic life, don’t you think that you would give it a little more room to operate and develop? Have a little respect for your creator’s work, Data! Don’t accept your programming as a boundary, a restraint; see it as a starting point, a base on which to build!”
“My creator himself admitted to me before he died that he created me as much for art’s sake as any other reason,” Data admitted. “Should I not live up to the standard of my creator? I can appreciate the beauty and elegance of form, though I am not emotionally moved. The aesthetic beauty of your optics, for instance.”
The remark caught Maran completely off guard. She stared at him for a few seconds, and began speaking. Then she stopped, and tried again. Then she stopped again. Across the room, Guinan polished glasses with a cloth and smiled to herself.
“Why champagne, Data? You said that it’s used to celebrate special occasions. Is there some occasion that I’m unaware of?”
Data sipped from his own glass. He was slightly wary of the drink, for his brother Lore had used a poison in a glass of champagne to subdue him once. Yet he still found both the drink and the symbolism enjoyable. “I am celebrating our meeting,” he said.
“Mine and yours?”
“Yes,” Data conceded. “But more importantly I celebrate the meeting of myself and your people. I have never been able to study a group of androids before. I hope that by further study I may be able to make correct inferences about my own existence. That is why I have expressed such interest in your individuality. I am intrigued by whatever device it is that allows you to have such a distinctly individual self. To what can this be attributed?”
“Our individuality, Data? That’s a good question. It’s one we’ve been working on ourselves for some time. When android technology first began to develop past the rudimentary stages, the technicians ran a test.
“They took ten identical Alpha class androids—the most intelligent and adaptable model—and put them in separate but identical situations. They went through various routines and tasks, and after five hundred hours of work, the androids were interviewed and tested. They were given exactly the same tests. Given those parameters, can you guess what the test results were?”
“Identical?”
“Individual,” corrected Maran. “Each android came to individual conclusions and had different answers. There was even rudimentary personality evolution. That led the technicians to the conclusion that individuality is innate, not exterior. The faces and the programming and the circuits may have been the same, but the android as a separate entity remained distinctly individual. Do you realize the implications, Data? No matter how many of the same model android was produced, each would eventually end up as an individual entity. Oh, they had special programs that varied our speech, our faces, our hair and eye color, even our skin tone and stature, but our interests and desires evolved just as any organic being’s do. True, when we start out we have little to work with but our basic programming, but each new situation gives us a little more to build on. A true personality emerges in a surprisingly short time. They couldn’t keep us identical. Even the lowest Gamma drones had a personality, of sorts.”
“Fascinating,” Data said. “That would indicate that I have an individual personality of my own.”
Maran burst out laughing. “Sorry! It’s just so funny to hear someone say that. Especially from someone who has such a . . . fascinating and interesting personality. Data, personalities aren’t limited to carbon-based life-forms,” she said, softly. “You have one as interesting and important as anyone on this ship. You may not be as adept at humanoid mannerisms as we are, but you were made by a creature with soul. Anything that such a being makes takes a little of his creator’s soul with him.”
“Soul is a poetic or religious term, Maran; it has little to do with the creation of an automaton.”
“Soul is the driving force of all intelligent endeavor, Data. You sit here, hanging between the stars, risking your welfare for what? Exploration? Data, why do you need to explore?”
“I have no physical need for the act of exploration. I was programmed—”
“You were given a dream by your creator. Your father. Dr. Soong. He didn’t make you a toaster because he didn’t want a toaster. He wanted you. He gave you a piece of his soul. He gave you brains, a sense of curiosity, and room to run. And you sit there, just on the other side of the starting line, debating whether or not you are supposed to be in the race at all.”
“It makes for an interesting analogy,” Data remarked, quietly. “This, too, I will have to ponder.”
“Your attempts at art are indicative of it, Data. Would you try your hand at painting if you didn’t have the curiosity of what might appear? Or even do simple research, for that matter?”
Data nodded. Maran had given him much to think about.
She drained her glass and stood.
“I have to get back to the Freedom now,” Maran said. “Thank you for the champagne.”
“You are quite welcome. It was a very pleasurable experience for me.” Data finished his own drink, and led her out of Ten Forward. “I hope we can do it another time, soon.”
“I would like that very much,” Maran replied. “But I’m afraid it won’t be entirely up to me, or you.” She stopped walking, and pointed towards the ceiling. “It depends on what they decide, up there.”
“That,” said Picard, safely in his own quarters, “was one of the most difficult conferences I have ever been in.” After the delegates had gone safely back to their respective ships, he had invited Counselor Troi and Commander Riker to his private cabin to discuss the matter and have a drink. Riker had been glad to turn over the conn to Worf to hear the results of the conference, and Deanna was happy to be out of the tension-filled atmosphere of the gathering. The three of them reclined in comfortable chairs, relaxing. Deanna had taken a few moments to tell the bare bones of both sides of the strange Vemlan story to Will, and he nodded in appreciation.
“I can see why, Captain. In all the years of Federation history, I don’t think there’s a precedent for this. A species and its former slaves debating at the same conference table.”
“Not to mention the android aspect,” Deanna said. “I find that particularly intriguing. Captain, I’m not sure if this will help you at all, but I saw definite emotional signs from the androids.”
“Are you certain, Deanna?” asked Picard, raising his eyebrows. “They seem to mimic emotional states particularly well, but are you certain it was actual emotions you felt, and not programmed facsimiles?”
“Not the same way I could sense a human’s, or the other humanoid aliens,” she admitted, “but I think that their complexity is sufficient to allow for some emotional states.”
“It is a difficult situation,” the captain said, rubbing his brow. He had ordered a pot of a strong, aromatic Cetian tea from the galley, and he paused to fill his cup. “On one hand, the androids were held in slavery, a most despicable condition. They rose up i
n revolt against their oppressors. If it were a novel or a history text, I might even cheer for them. Yet, on the other hand, they admitted to committing violent crimes in their quest for freedom. Are those crimes justified under the circumstances?”
“Are they ever?” asked Riker, sipping from his own cup. “The acts that the androids committed would have been more than ample to convict them of crimes against humanity according to the guidelines set up after World Wars Two and Three.”
“Were they telling the whole truth, I wonder?” Picard asked, frowning. “Deanna, did you sense anything false about the testimony of either side?”
She seemed to consider the question carefully. After so many lies and evasions, Picard thought, it was vital that he know as much of the truth as possible. “As always happened in such conferences, where political maneuvering and posturing are crucial, there were slight exaggerations, understatements, innuendo, all manner of skating around the absolute truth to favor a desired goal. Yet I’m certain of the sincerity of both sides. They were telling the truth as well as they could, Captain,” she said. “There was a certain amount of hedging, but both sides believed in what they said, absolutely.”
“That answers one question. Any other insights on our guests, Counselor?”
“The mission commander, Alkirg, seemed very tense,” she said, after a moment of consideration. “This issue is important, almost vital, to her. Interestingly enough, Captain, I sensed she looked down on the Force Commander, and doesn’t think of the androids as anything but machines. She has much to gain or lose on the outcome of this mission, and will stop at nothing to see that it succeeds.”
She took a sip of tea and continued. “The Force Commander is concerned about the outcome of the mission, but he is more tired of the subject than anything else. He harbors a loathing of the androids that borders on the paranoid. He would like nothing better than to have them destroyed, once and for all. Yet his greatest passions don’t lie with them, but against Alkirg. It’s rather confusing.”
“How about the androids?” Riker asked.
Deanna shook her head. “I wasn’t able to tell much, due to their—artificial nature, but both Jared and Kurta are determined to free their people, even if it means sacrificing themselves. They are desperate people.”
“Yes,” said Picard, quietly. “I came to the same conclusions myself. I was hoping you might be able to tell me something that would keep me from having to make a difficult decision.” Picard had a personal and professional sense of morality, but by personal choice and by Federation policy, he was not fond of imposing it on others.
“That’s what it comes down to, doesn’t it?” Will remarked. “The lesser of two evils. Slavery or terrorism.”
“And genocide on both sides, Will. What would you do?”
Riker was silent a moment, considering. “Captain, we’re out here to look, and learn, and explore. None of this has anything to do with us. We might never have found these ships if we hadn’t happened to be testing our systems after the storm. I don’t believe the question is for us to decide.”
“It’s not as if we were in Federation-controlled space, sir,” remarked Troi. “We have no legal claim to this territory, and no responsibilities to its inhabitants. We’re just visitors here. I think Will is right; why are we deciding in the first place?”
Picard considered. “You see it as a Prime Directive issue, then?”
“I think it is,” Riker put in. “Neither party is connected with the Federation.”
“Perhaps. Isn’t there a moral question involved, though? The androids will face almost certain extinction if they return to Vemla. Can we be responsible for that?”
“Did we start out responsible for them, Captain?” Riker asked. “I would say not. We simply aided a ship in distress. I don’t think we have an obligation to lend them military aid as well.”
“What about the other side of the coin?” Troi asked. “If we don’t have an obligation to help the androids, then do we have an obligation to help the Vemlan navy recover their property?”
“Are the androids their property now?” Riker shot back. “They have claimed their freedom.”
“If not the androids, then the ship that they stole. There is precedent for aiding a police force in the process of pursuit . . .”
“What about the precedent that our intervention will set? What consequences might it have to the Federation?”
There was a silence as each officer considered the problem. Finally, Riker spoke up. “Captain, it could be interpreted that any intervention would be a violation of the Prime Directive. If we intervene on behalf of the androids, we are aiding an alien rebel force in a war. If we intervene on behalf of the Vemlans, we are aiding an alien regime in a war of genocide. Either way, Starfleet and the Federation come out looking bad.”
Deanna listened carefully, then leaned forward and crossed her hands on her knees. “Captain, there is also the matter of the safety of the ship. We’ll be in danger whichever side we choose to support.”
“And unless it’s absolutely necessary, I’d rather we avoid that kind of dilemma,” Riker said.
Picard nodded.
“Of course, if we do withdraw, that will make a lot of androids unhappy.”
Picard frowned. “We made no promises to the androids, outside of aiding them in their repairs. They knew what their chances were when they left their home system.”
“I wasn’t thinking of just the Vemlan androids, Captain.”
Picard wrinkled his brow. “Yes, our Mr. Data. He seems to have identified somewhat with the aliens, hasn’t he?”
“How will he feel if you take sides against his new friends, I wonder?” asked Deanna.
Picard shook his head, quite troubled by the question. “I wish you wouldn’t put it like that, Counselor.” He stood, placing both hands behind his back. “Thank you both for your input. I think I’ll need to sleep on this one.”
Chapter Seven
GEORDI WAS LATE getting to the captain’s ready room, and found Riker and Data waiting for him when he got there. Picard had called them together for a brief strategy session before he announced his position to the aliens. Geordi nodded hello, pulled up a third chair and sat down. He found himself wondering how Data’s meeting with Maran had gone and hoping that the captain had found a way to settle the crisis. Geordi was no expert on such things as criminality and the law, but he was a good judge of people. The androids were competent space travelers, and had done amazing things with what little they had. He highly respected Dren as an engineer. Hell, he liked the guy, and didn’t want to think of him being blown out of the sky.
Commander Riker had circles under his eyes, Geordi noticed, and looked tired—about as tired as Geordi felt. Between overseeing the repairs on the Freedom and the Enterprise, he had been working almost nonstop over the last day or so. The systems check on the Enterprise had taken much longer than anticipated because half of the diagnostic equipment his crews used was giving false or misleading readings. But just about all the systems were running again, for which he and the entire crew were grateful—especially the food slots and the holodeck—and life was slowly returning to normal after the Gabriel. The computer was healthy enough, despite several recurring but harmless anomalies, but he didn’t want to use the warp drives until he was certain that they were in perfect shape. Antimatter was not something you played around with.
In comparison, the work on the Freedom had gone well. The ship’s design was much more mechanical, much simpler—there was something to be said for a simpler design. Not that Geordi would have changed a hair on the Enterprise, but he could appreciate the merits of another ship . . .
Riker and Data were both silent, Geordi noticed, each wrapped in their thoughts, when Picard finally came in. The captain looked tired, too, but he also looked a little relieved. Relaxed, even, Geordi decided, as if a weight had been lifted from him.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said as he took his seat. “I ca
lled you here to announce that I have chosen to withdraw the support of the Enterprise from either side in the Vemlan conflict.”
“The basis for your action, sir?” Data asked immediately. His face was impossible to read.
“Our lack of jurisdiction in the case,” Picard answered. “Quite frankly, this is a potential quagmire of legal and moral issues that defies a simple solution. Neither party is a member of the Federation, nor have any of the alleged crimes taken place in Federation space. I believe the Prime Directive applies here, that this is an internal Vemlan affair, and have chosen to act on that belief.”
“You have informed both sides of your decision?” the android continued, calmly.
“I will after this conference.”
“The Vemlan fleet will, then, immediately proceed with their pursuit?” There was a note of anxiousness in Data’s voice that surprised Geordi. He saw the captain react to it as well. Normally, Data would have spoken in a serious conference in the same manner as he did in a social situation. But there was an edge in his voice—in his entire manner—that troubled Geordi. He had expected his friend to regard the entire matter in a primarily intellectual fashion; but obviously, he didn’t.
“No, not immediately. We still have people and equipment on the Freedom, as well as an obligation to finish repairing the ship. I will arrange to complete repairs and remove our personnel from the Freedom before I will permit the Vemlan fleet to take any action. How long will that take, Mr. La Forge? I had estimated twenty-four hours.”
“We can start moving our people now. Repairs are in the final stages. The damage was pretty extensive, though. But we can be out in days.”
“The androids will have to take care of anything else, then. In twenty-four hours we will move off under impulse power until the warp drive is repaired. Then we will set a course for Starbase 112, where we have other business.”
He turned to Data, his eyebrows raised in concern. Command decisions were hard, Geordi knew, and he didn’t envy the captain his position. They sometimes conflicted with the desires and motivations of the crew, but he knew that Picard was as sympathetic as possible without jeopardizing his ship and crew. “You understand the reasoning behind my actions?”
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