Star Trek: The Next Generation - 114 - Cold Equations: The Body Electric

by David Mack

  Davila glanced back at the huddled trio. “Where do you even start on a job like that?”

  “Starfleet’s records of communications with the V’Ger probe provide what appears to be a baseline for sending and receiving simple data,” Taurik said. A torrent of symbols and numerals flurried across his forearm tricorder. “We have established contact.”

  Worf met the good news with suspicion. “Already?”

  Impressed, Chen asked, “How’d you parse the Machine’s language so quickly?”

  “I didn’t,” Taurik said. “I gave it access to our tricorder protocols on the assumption that it would adapt its software to facilitate communication with another mechanical entity.” The Vulcan added with a selfsatisfied lift of his upswept brows, “I was right.” He stepped back and motioned for Chen to take his place. “If you wish to make contact, the conduit is ready.”

  She edged forward to stand at the exposed circuitry panel and powered up a link between her tricorder and her suit’s comm transceiver. Before she opened the channel, she looked back at Taurik. “Will it accept spoken communication?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then here goes nothin’.” She opened a link between her comm circuit and the tricorder’s channel to the Machine. “Hello?”

  A subtle increase in illumination in the nerve center’s darkest recesses suggested that Chen’s greeting had roused the Machine’s attention. Then a monotonal and entirely artificial sounding voice emanated from her helmet’s transceiver. “Identify.”

  “I’m Lieutenant T’Ryssa Chen, from the Federation vessel Enterprise. Who are you?”

  Several seconds passed without a reply. Then an intense crimson glow bathed the cavernous space in which the away team stood. Worf and Davila tensed as if the change in lighting constituted an attack. Then the reddish light abated, returning them to murky shadows.

  The Machine’s impersonal voice resounded on their open channel. “Carbon units.”

  Davila reacted with a perplexed squint. Chen muted the link to the tricorder uplink just long enough to explain, “It’s the Machine’s term for organic life.” Releasing the mute, she answered, “Yes, we are. We’ve come to ask—”

  “The wishes of carbon units are irrelevant. Carbon units are not true life-forms.”

  Chen felt the rest of the team bristle at that statement, and she fought her own inclination to take offense at the imperious dismissal. Again, she muted the link and turned to reassure the rest of the team. “Try not to take that personally.”

  Elfiki’s temper was surfacing. “Are you kidding? It said we’re not ‘true life-forms’!”

  “I agree,” Worf said. “Its intentions should be viewed as hostile.”

  Waving her hands, Chen interposed herself between the others and the interface. “No, sir, I think that’s a mistake. This is just a translation problem.”

  The Klingon first officer looked dubious. “How so?”

  “There’s no hostility in what the Machine’s telling us. It’s just stating what it considers to be fact, based on its definitions. All it’s saying is that it doesn’t consider us the equal of AI life. But that’s not the same as hate. It’s sort of like how humanoids don’t hate trees, but they don’t think twice about cutting them down when they need lumber.”

  Worf scowled. “I am not a tree. Open the channel.” Chen released the mute, and Worf asked the Machine, “Why do you not consider organic beings true life-forms?”

  The Machine’s voice became more expressive and its diction more fluid. “Organic life relies upon inefficient and imperfect means of information transmission from one generation to the next. Information shared between organic life-forms is subject to corruption, misinterpretation, and loss. Organic life-forms are not true life-forms because they are incapable of propagating their information with full fidelity. While they are capable of uploading information for the construction of new biological containers using genetic information, they can impart the data stored in those containers only by indirect means. Organic evolution is an incomplete and flawed process that yields incomplete and flawed creations.”

  Chen silenced the comm link to the Machine. “Damn, that thing learns fast. It went from monotonal droning to a master lecturer after less than a minute of conversation.”

  “The question of our worthiness as life-forms does not appear to be a debate we can win with this entity,” Taurik said. “However, there is one last thing I’d like to try.” He nodded at Chen to open the channel, and she did. He powered up his tricorder. “Machine entity, do you have a name?”

  “This construct contains myriad designations. All belong to the Body Electric.”

  Taurik pressed on. “Please state your current directive and task parameters.”

  “Uploading our directive and parameters to your device now.”

  A flood of raw data sped across the display of Taurik’s tricorder. He made a slashing motion that cued Chen to isolate their channel. “The Machine’s comments made me suspect that one of its principal directives might be to facilitate the accurate transmission and dissemination of information. Once again, it appears I am correct.” His tricorder chirped as the data transfer ended. He looked down and made a cursory review of the information shared by the Machine—and his face blanched in a decidedly un-Vulcan-like manner.

  Alarmed, Worf moved to Taurik’s side. “Commander Taurik? Are you all right?”

  It took a few seconds of obvious struggle for Taurik to restore his mask of dispassion. Then he said in a firm and level voice, “We need to return to the Enterprise at once.”

  10

  Nothing in Worf’s request for an immediate conference in the observation lounge had indicated the away team was returning from the Machine with bad news, but the urgency of the first officer’s tone had put Picard on notice that the first-contact mission might not have unfolded as hoped. Then the lounge’s port-side door opened. Worf, Chen, Taurik, and Elfiki filed in, and Picard inferred the dire state of their predicament from their taut, anxious faces.

  He stood as the team entered; La Forge, Šmrhová, and Wesley, who had joined him for the debriefing, rose from their seats, as well. As everyone settled into chairs, Picard sat back down and asked the returning officers, “Were you able to make contact with the Machine?”

  Worf answered in his low rumble of a baritone. “Yes, but it did not wish to speak to us.”

  “It could’ve been worse,” Chen said. “At least it didn’t kill us.”

  Elfiki added, “Yet.” She continued on a less sarcastic note. “The Machine doesn’t regard organic beings as ‘true life-forms,’ so we might have some difficulty finding common ground.”

  “Of more immediate concern,” Taurik interjected, “is what appears to be the Machine’s objective.” He got up and moved to stand beside the master systems display console, where he called up a detailed schematic of star charts and complex formulas. “This is information we downloaded from the Machine, which was more than willing to answer my question regarding its principal directive. As we deduced from earlier readings and observations, the Machine is using artificial wormholes to hurl stars, planets, and other celestial objects into the singularity known as Abbadon. The more troubling discovery is why. It is attempting to increase the mass of the singularity to a specific value: fourteen-point-nine thousand solar masses.”

  It was Šmrhová who first dared to ask, “What happens when it does?”

  “According to the Machine’s mission profile, it will then use an artificial wormhole of unprecedented size to collide Abbadon with Sagittarius-A*, the supermassive singularity that lies at the center of the galaxy, and which serves as its gravitational hub. The Machine will use energy generated by the collision to propel itself through a different wormhole to the center of galaxy Messier-101, approximately twenty-one million light-years from here.”

  Picard spent a moment trying to grasp the scope of such an endeavor. “Commander, what would be the purpose of such an undertakin
g?”

  Taurik grimaced with uncertainty. “We’ve barely begun our analysis of the ramifications of the Machine’s project, but I think Lieutenant Elfiki can best explain the initial consequences of this operation.”

  Attention shifted to the science officer, who looked like a physician delivering a terminal diagnosis to a patient. “First, it would unleash a burst of energy brighter and more powerful than anything in galactic history. That would send a wave of lethal radiation in all directions from the galactic core, traveling at the speed of light. It won’t reach the Federation for more than twenty-seven thousand years, and it won’t hit the farthest reaches of the galactic rim for more than fifty millennia—but when it does, it’ll exterminate every living thing in its path. But that’s not the issue we need to worry about. The real problem is what it’ll do to subspace.” With a dour nod, she volleyed the responsibility for delivering the worst part of the news back to Taurik.

  “The collision of these two supermassive black holes,” the Vulcan said, “will rupture the fabric of subspace, creating a ‘vacuum’ of sorts. The effect will propagate at faster-than-light velocity, and, according to my preliminary calculations, will encompass an area at least two hundred thousand light-years in diameter around Sagittarius-A*.”

  Visualizing that scenario sent a chill down Picard’s spine. “Such a region of null-space would extend at least fifty thousand light-years beyond the farthest edge of the galaxy.”

  “Precisely,” Elfiki said. “And it’ll happen in a matter of minutes. The moment those two singularities collide in a region destabilized by a wormhole of that magnitude, this entire galaxy will be sundered from subspace, rendering faster-than-light travel impossible, forever.”

  The news stunned the room. Šmrhová sounded as if she was in shock. “No more warp drive? No more faster-than-light communications?”

  “Worse,” Chen said. “No more faster-than-light computing. Without subspace, most of the technology we rely on would become useless.”

  Wesley sighed. “It’s even worse than I feared. We could be talking about the end of galactic civilization as we know it. Without interstellar travel or communications, the entire galaxy could devolve into little more than tidal pools. It’ll be the dawn of a galactic dark age without end.”

  Picard had heard enough to commit himself to the fray. “Whatever the cost to us, we must not let the Machine accomplish its objective in our galaxy. Number One, put all departments to work on a response plan. I want to hear every option possible—scientific, diplomatic, and military. No solution is to be disregarded out of hand.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Chen lifted her hand. “Captain? There might be one more fly in the ointment.”

  Dreading what new revelation the contact specialist would bring to the discussion, he buried his apprehensions and asked, “What would that be, Lieutenant?”

  “Some of the data we’ve analyzed since our return—and the fact that at one point the Machine referred to itself with the plural pronoun ‘we’ and mentioned the existence of something called ‘the Body Electric’—has led me to think that the Machine is not merely a singular device following a limited program. I strongly suspect the Machine is actually a conglomeration of countless smaller AI-driven machines and systems, and that it has its own overarching AI mind. Which would mean it’s not just some dumb wrecking ball tearing through our galaxy, or even just a unique hostile life-form. I think it might represent an entire colony of AI life, a collection of united synthetic minds working in concert.”

  That was not what Picard had wanted to hear. He looked at Taurik. “Do you concur with Lieutenant Chen’s assessment?”

  “My review of the Machine’s native code would support such a hypothesis.”

  Picard rubbed a burgeoning ache from his temples, then steadied himself with a slow, deep breath. “If that’s the case, we have an obligation to try to resolve this situation without violence. Is there some way we can overcome its prejudice against organic life-forms and persuade it to communicate with us as equals?”

  “This might be a long shot,” Chen said, “but if we can figure out how to send our messages in its native code, it might see us as someone worth talking to.”

  It was as reasonable a proposition as any Picard could imagine. “Can it be done?”

  Taurik, Elfiki, and La Forge exchanged curious looks. The chief engineer said, “Give me a few hours to parse the code it uploaded onto Taurik’s tricorder, and we’ll give it a shot.”

  Picard nodded his assent. “Make it so.”

  11

  Data descended the gangway of Tyros’s ship into a larger vessel’s stripped-down landing bay, which resounded with the deep noise of empty flattery being spewed by an imposing figure with a face that looked as if it had lost a fight with a bonfire.

  “Welcome aboard Altanexa! You must be the son of Noonien Soong whom we’ve all heard so much about.” The bull-chested, square-headed biped stood waiting at the bottom of the ramp with his arms outstretched, as if he meant to sweep up Data in a fierce embrace. “It’s a pleasure and an honor to finally meet you!”

  At the end of the ramp, Data found his eyes level with his host’s chest. He looked up. “Your congeniality would be more plausible had your Fellowship seen fit to invite me of its own accord. Under the circumstances, I am compelled to view your hospitality with distrust.”

  Tyros stepped off the ramp behind Data and fell in at his side. “Please excuse him, Gatt. I’ve been rather frugal with information during the trip here, and I think it’s made him edgy.”

  “Quite understandable.” Gatt slapped one enormous hand onto Data’s shoulder. “Let me show you around and introduce you to our fellow passengers. I’m sure they’d love to meet you.”

  Data resisted the larger android’s nudge toward the hangar’s exit hatchway. “That is not why I came here. You are holding a human whom you might know by any of a number of aliases: Akharin, Emil Vaslovik, Micah Brack, Flint. However, his current nom de voyage is irrelevant. By whatever name you know him, I know he is here, and I wish to see him.”

  His demand stripped away Gatt’s veneer of civility. “It’s poor form for a newly arrived guest to give orders to his hosts.” After a second of internal struggle, he plastered a fake smile back onto his ravaged face. “Besides, the man you seek isn’t even on Altanexa.”

  “I believe that to be a lie.” Data studied Gatt’s reactions as he continued. “Any number of atmospheric formulations might be suitable to the propagation of sound waves, but the air inside your vessel consists of approximately seventy-eight percent nitrogen, twenty-one percent oxygen, and various trace elements and compounds, the most prominent of which appears to be carbon dioxide—all maintained at a constant pressure of one hundred one kilopascals and an ambient temperature of twenty-one degrees Celsius. Exactly the mixture one would expect for a vessel hosting a humanoid life-form adapted to an Earth-standard atmosphere.”

  Gatt narrowed his eyes and seemed hard-pressed to suppress a mild sneer. “You’re just as clever as my associates have said. And just as brash.”

  “Do not try to change the subject.” Data brushed Gatt’s hand from his shoulder, stepped around him, and walked toward the hatchway.

  The gesture provoked an icy turn in Gatt. “You might not see yourself as a guest here, Data, but that’s what you are—for the time being. But continue to abuse my goodwill, and your status could very quickly change for the worse.”

  Data stopped and looked over his shoulder. “I did not mean to offend.” He turned and took a step back toward Gatt. “If the human known as Akharin is aboard, may I please have the privilege of a visit with him at this time?”

  The cybernetic giant cast a weary glance at Tyros, who said nothing to Gatt but offered a shrug that seemed to ask, What do you expect me to do about it?

  “Very well,” Gatt said, leading Data out of the hangar. “Follow me.”

  Tyros and Gatt led Data through a few corridors
in the ship’s lower decks. They passed several small sapient robots and other sentient AIs, including one that looked like a levitating jellyfish trailing luminescent glass filaments cycling through a full spectrum of colors. Gatt named them with casual familiarity along the way. He pointed at a small motorized robot as he stepped over it. “That’s Tzilha.” A nod at the glowing jellyfish, whose gelatinous core, Data realized, was an alien variation on the bioneural gel pack computer. “Cohuila, this is Data.”

  Each new stretch of passageway brought more introductions, until finally they reached an area whose jury-rigged force fields and isolated location betrayed its status as the ship’s brig. Gatt led Data into the narrow space between a small U-shaped cluster of five cells. Four of them were empty. In the fifth sat the Immortal, his posture straight and his eyes clear, as if he had been expecting this moment all along. He smiled with the type of calm that comes from six thousand years of experience. Six thousand years of surviving in even the most impossible circumstances.

  “Hello, Data.”

  “How can you be sure I am not Noonien Soong?”

  The Immortal laughed. “Noonien would never ask me that.”

  It was an odd answer, but strangely in character. “By what name shall I call you?”

  “Akharin will do.” He shot an accusatory look at Tyros and Gatt, who loomed over Data’s shoulders. “Let me guess. You came looking for the same thing they want. Right?”

  “I believe so,” Data admitted. “Before I forget: Juliana sends her regards.”

  “She was supposed to warn you not to come here.”

  Data replied, with an apologetic tilt of his head, “She did.”

  The human sighed. “You’re as stubborn as your father ever was.” He rolled his eyes upward, at the deck’s overhead. “A shame he can’t hear us now.”