Daniels sipped the coffee. He winced—at the taste as well as the heat. He set the new coffee inside the cup of the empty one. “We’re just powering up.”
Sage wagged his dark eyebrows up and down. “Just tell me when to push the button.” With that he clasped his long fingers together and moved to the other side of the console, peering down at Stevens and Barclay.
O’Brien pursed his lips. “So what is it you do with this? What makes this any different than just inputting the information into the regular holodeck mainframe and using it?”
Daniels set the cup on the floor. He deftly moved his fingers over the console, and the monitor in the center streamed a list. “Regular holodeck mainframes work on security clocked protocols—they’re what keep the safeties in check. But holodeck subprocessors aren’t geared to work directly with the ship’s systems—they work independently, with their own computer core so as not to slow down the speed of the mainframe.”
O’Brien nodded. “And you need the sensor information to catalog and search for specific parameters.”
“Yes. And I need the holodeck to quickly process that information and extrapolate from the database we created, which holds data from explosions all over the quadrant. What we can do from here is piggyback along the ship’s sensor sweeps, cull the information we need, identify the components, and compare the information to the database.” Daniels sipped his coffee. “And this was Travec’s idea.” He winced at O’Brien. “I’d rather just do it his way.”
“I see your point.”
Daniels touched a few panels. “I’ve also loaded in the information Sage and I found at Antwerp into the computer so as soon as the imager’s online, we can run a test and I’ll show you what I do.”
O’Brien nodded. He put a hand on the console back. “How did you do it?”
“Do what?” Daniels continued cuing up the simulation.
“Investigate the conference sight. All that destruction.” He paused. “I’m not sure I could have done that. It’s hard enough, being out here day to day with my family. Bombs—these are not so uncommon out here. But on Earth?”
Daniels turned to look at O’Brien, a fellow Irishman. What he saw in the man’s face was genuine concern. A deep hurt that something so terrible could happen on his homeworld. “It’s not something I ever thought I’d do, Chief. I work in security. I guard and protect. Detective work was a hobby of sorts. And I’ve always been fascinated with explosives—you can look at my record back home. I like to understand how they work, and then create ways to prevent as much collateral damage as possible.” He looked back at the console, away from the face of concern. “But to actually be in a blast area where so many died. It wasn’t as if there were remains to find and catalog—only pieces. Chemical indications. Nothing left, except for the memories of those left behind.”
“Daniels—”
“It was hard. And the entire time I was there all I could think about was my wife, and what would she do if this was me.” He looked back to O’Brien. “Even when we sieved through the remains we still found organic material. But there was no way to identify it, except for the Changeling key material. And so I resolved then—Sage and I both did—that we would find a way to prevent this from happening again.”
O’Brien nodded. “You will.”
“Okay,” came a voice from below. There was a noise, and Stevens popped up from behind the console. His hair was disheveled and there was excitement in his dark eyes. “Try it now.” He blinked. “Wait” He held up a hand and disappeared a second before returning with Barclay beside him. “Now try it.”
With a grin to O’Brien, Daniels keyed in the holodex sequence. Sage moved his own fingers over the console as the amphitheater dimmed. There was a flash of information on the screen in front of them, and then SYSTEM READY.
“We’re online,” Sage said. “Booyah.”
O’Brien frowned at the Fijorian. Daniels was accustomed to Sage’s strange outburts.
Stevens held up his hand to Barclay in what Daniels thought would be a “high five” gesture he’d seen several times while on Earth. Only Barclay looked at the engineer’s hand as if it were a third appendage before taking it and pumping it up and down.
Porter came to Daniels’s left. “All readings indicate we’re online with engineering. Deflector connections are steady. The protocols are keeping speed. Stellar cartography is online.”
“Then let’s try a practical application.” Daniels touched several of the illuminated panels as O’Brien moved away. “Scanning Deep Space 9.”
“Initiating imaging holodeck,” Sage said.
Everyone turned to the dimming amphitheater. Almost immediately a three-dimensional image of the station appeared. On the left a list of known mineral and organic compounds and their structural matrix appeared; to the right appeared several views of the station. Top, left, right, bottom. The list of components was color coded and their locations synchronized along the station grids.
“This is one heck of a tactical layout,” Stevens said.
“Thank you,” Sage responded.
Daniels studied the readouts on the monitor in front of him. “Same as before. Clean, except for that trace of nitrilin.”
“I’m not happy about that.”
“Not enough to be worried about, Chief,” Daniels said. He cleared out the image and looked over at Sage. “I suggest we run at least two more tests before we run the Antwerp simulation.”
“I also suggest having Captain Picard and Commander Riker present when you review it,” O’Brien said as he stood and looked over at Muñiz and Stevens, who both yawned. “You two, finish up, clean up, and then get some sleep. We’ve got a big day on the Defiant tomorrow.”
“I was supposed to have tomorrow off,” Stevens said.
But O’Brien was already moving out the door. “Don’t count on it.”
CHAPTER 3
What Dreams May Come
Once the Enterprise was under way to Starbase 375, Daniels finally ate, showered, and caught up on sleep. Refreshed and ready to begin their analysis of the debris and components found at the Antwerp site, he, Travec, and Sage met in holodeck three the next day after receiving full physicals from Dr. Beverly Crusher, the Enterprise’s chief medical officer, and undergoing a routine blood screening.
The day proved uneventful, although it was stressful for Daniels because Travec insisted on running repeated system diagnostics when the results didn’t yield what he believed they should.
Sage continued to mutter under his breath as Travec made comments about having a fine dinner of canine beef waiting for him in his quarters.
Daniels and Sage met Porter and Barclay for dinner, at which Sage continued to point out the Tellarite’s faults and how he should be pulverized and served as a poison. Porter suggested hiring the Orion Syndicate to make him disappear.
Thinking it might be better to calm the Fijorian’s nerves before bed, Daniels suggested finding the art sciences studio. Sage was a bit of a famous painter on his home planet and hadn’t been able to get his hands into any pigments since the bombing.
And that just might improve his sulky mood.
The studio was on deck ten. Daniels breathed in the smells of paint and oil, so much like his wife’s studio back home. He and Sage grabbed a couple of canvases, smocks, palettes, and paints before setting up easels close to one another, but not too close.
Daniels knew Sage liked to paint in a frenzy, sometimes slinging paint on things besides the canvas, whereas he preferred to paint with a more controlled style.
The only other occupant of the room was Data, who’d chosen a spot in the far corner of the room in front of a still life of fruits and vegetables.
Daniels glanced over at Sage, who’d decided to forgo brushes altogether and apply the paint directly with his hands.
To each his own.
After using a light charcoal pencil to sketch out the idea he had in his head, Daniels sat back and closed his eyes, imag
ining the scene he wanted to paint. He thought of Siobhan, her thick red hair and smiling green eyes. Her studio always smelled like this room. So did her hair, and often her clothes.
“Lieutenant Daniels—”
He opened his eyes and nearly fell off his stool when he saw Data standing beside him. He hadn’t even heard the android approach—and he prided himself on having a sensitive ear. Though not as sensitive as Sage’s.
I was preoccupied.
He put up a hand. “Please, call me Pádraig.”
“Patrick.
Daniels shook his head. “Actually, it’s Pah-dreek.”
Data watched Daniel’s lips and mimicked them. “Pah-dreek. And please, call me Data.”
Daniels nodded. “What can I do for you, Data?” He took up a larger brush of sable and dipped it in red pigment, then added black to deepen the color, thinking of the mulda’din berries that bloomed in the spring in his back yard. Wouldn’t it be time for them now?
Data seemed unsure of what to say. He opened his mouth several times before finally coming to a decision. “Counselor Troi wishes me to finish a project and hang it in the gallery. I need art lessons.”
Daniels glanced around. The room was approximately thirty meters square, the walls adorned with finished pieces, some framed, some displayed as plain canvas. A waist-high shelf that ran the length of the farthest wall was cluttered with jars of brushes, sculpting tools, rulers, paints, and canvases. Easels sat in two rows beside the shelf and along the left wall in front of windows that looked out at the moving stars.
Several of the easels were covered, half-completed works resting on them. Many were empty. Inviting.
“If you want art lessons, maybe you should check the schedule and sign up.”
“Yes.” Data nodded. “I know. But I would like for you to teach me how to paint again.”
Daniels pointed to himself. “Me?”
“You said your wife was an art instructor.”
“Yeah, my wife. Not me. I’m probably not any better than any average student.”
“But you paint—I have read your file. And you are human, and have emotions.” Data gave a half smile. “ also believe you are the best qualified because you do not know me. You have no preconceived ideas concerning my abilities, nor have you seen any of my previous work. You are the perfect impartial teacher.”
Daniels sighed. “I’m so glad you thought this through, but I’m not a teacher, Data. I’m a security officer.”
“I am unsure how that would disqualify you from teaching art. Do you not have hobbies outside of being a security officer?”
Sage spoke from where he was busy rubbing blue and green paint on a canvas. “He blows things up.”
“You also paint. As I said, I read your service record and personal file.” He glanced back at Sage. “I am also aware that Mr. t’Saiga is a well-known artist on his homeworld. Though—he frowned—“I do not believe I would enjoy his style of painting.”
Daniels chuckled. “It takes all kinds, Data. I’m flattered you’ve chosen me to help you, but I’m not assigned to the Enterprise. I’ll be on Starbase 375 in less than two days.”
“I do not mind.” Data grinned. “And besides, you owe me for rewriting your program.”
Daniels was surprised the ship’s sensors didn’t register a thunk from his jaw hitting the floor of the studio. He closed his mouth, but couldn’t stop the laugh that built up from spilling over.
Sage had also turned, his smock a blue, green, and yellow mess, as were his hands up to his wrists. “Damn.” He chuckled. “You learn fast.”
Daniels sighed. He couldn’t really say no. It was his habit to paint most nights, and to handwrite Siobhan a letter every night, because she said he needed the practice. His penmanship was terrible.
But—how to teach? It would be easy for his wife—she did this for a living. He set his brush down, slid from the stool, and moved to the covered canvases. Daniels lifted the covers of two of them and looked beneath. “They’re painting models.” He looked at Data. “You do that before?”
“Yes. But I am afraid my renderings no longer resemble the actual model’s contours and lines. She was—” He hesitated. “Imperfect.”
“Data.” Daniels pushed up his sleeves as he moved back to the android. “The first thing we have to do is get rid of that attitude. Art isn’t about perfection.”
“Nope,” Sage said to their left.
Data frowned. “Is art not about reproduction?”
“Noooo’” Daniels chewed on his lower lip. He ran a hand through his thick blond hair. How would Siobhan put this? “Art is about;in essence—emotion.”
This statement caused Data to perk up. “Please. Go on.”
“A machine can replicate something, making an exact copy. But that’s just a copy. Art is more the impression of something. You’ve studied Van Gogh? Monet? Michelangelo?”
Data nodded. “I have studied all of the great artists of Earth, as well as various artists on five hundred other worlds whose artistic tastes are closest to my own. I was able to integrate their styles into my neural processor.”
Daniels lowered his head, looking at Data through his brows.
Sage stopped what he was doing. “Oh no, no, no.” He grabbed a towel on his stool and wiped his hands and actually managed to get most of the paint off them. “You need to core-dump that bit of nastiness right now.”
“Now?”
Sage nodded. “Now.”
Data’s focus shifted and he froze.
Daniels thought for a second he’d broken something.
Then Data blinked and looked at Sage. “I have successfully dumped all five hundred and twenty-seven art files from my positronic matrix.”
Daniels’ eyebrows arched. “Oh. Wow.”
But Sage seemed happy. “Good. Okay. Let’s try this another way. Before you can really begin to understand art—and let’s go with painting for now—you have to understand that art is subjective, Mr. Data. Subjective. Not objective.”
A frown creased Data’s brow. He shook his head. “No. I do not understand. Almost all species appreciate art, so how can it be subjective?”
Daniels stepped in. “Subjective to the individual, Data. Like this.” He turned, motioning Data to follow him. He went to a covered canvas and gently pulled back the sheet. “Look closely at this piece and tell me if you like it or dislike it.”
Sage stepped closer. “Yow …”
Data moved to stand beside Daniels. He tilted his head to the right, then to the left, and finally shook his head. “I do not like it.”
“Good. You see, because I do like it. I like the way the artist added depth to the shadows here”—he pointed with his free hand—“and here. I also like the colors they used in creating her hair.”
“But—” Data turned a confused expression to him. “It is a rainbow. The model’s hair was brown.”
Daniels nodded. “That’s why I like it,” he lied.
“Boss,” Sage started to say from behind Data, but Daniels gave him a look he hoped said, I’m lying through my teeth.
And boy, did he continue to lie about his likes and dislikes on most of the paintings in the room. He’d decided to express an opinion that was the opposite of Data’s on most of the paintings, just so he could prove to him that art was subjective. This was a good start, or so he thought, because all the paintings were of the same subject.
After seven paintings Daniels moved to the stack of canvases, grabbed a clean one, and handed it to Data. “Okay, you said the counselor wanted you to finish a project, right? I’ll start one with you and we’ll see if that works. I already have mine sketched out.”
Data moved his stuff to the easel closest to Daniels’s, while Sage went back to his masterpiece.
Daniels already had a picture in his mind of what he’d like to paint and had started a light outline on the canvas. He leaned over to look at Data. “Something wrong?”
“I do not know what to paint.�
��
Oh great.
“Why don’t you think of something from your memory—something that makes you feel happy. A scene, or maybe a place.” Daniels had a sudden inspiration. “Or maybe a pet?”
Data’s eyes widened and he smiled at Daniels. “I can paint Spot.”
“Spot?”
“My cat.”
Daniels nodded. That’ll work. “So let’s say we paint for one hour, and then we turn in.” He stifled a yawn. “And then maybe tomorrow we can paint for another hour.”
But even after an hour of painting Data had only a few brush strokes on the canvas. Daniels had watched him with his peripheral vision. The android would dip his brush, mix colors, and lift his brush’only to pause and lower his arm.
And then he would stare at the canvas.
“Travec to Daniels.”
Daniels blinked and tapped his combadge. Why was Travec calling him this time of night? “Daniels here.”
“Why are you not in your quarters asleep? You know your particular circadian pattern requires at least seven hours of solid sleep. The computer insists you are in the art sciences studio. You are not here to experience relaxation.”
Daniels eyes widened. You have got to be kidding me.
“This guy is unreal,” Sage said, his golden eyes wide, his ears twitching back and forth.
But before he could answer, Data tapped his own combadge. “Lieutenant Commander Travec, this is Lieutenant Commander Data. Mr. Daniels is in art sciences because I requested his help with a project. He has been kind enough to assist me.”
There was a pause. “Of course, Commander. Just make sure the lieutenant reports to the holodeck at oh-nine-hundred hours. Captain Picard and Commander Riker will be viewing the Antwerp simulation.”
Daniels looked at Data. “Thanks.”
“You are welcome, but the hour is late, and I am detecting fatigue in your movements. Perhaps it is time to end the night.”
Daniels glanced the room’s chronometer. It was close to oh-one hundred hours. He cleaned his brushes, put away his palette, and covered his canvas. Coming up next to Data, he noticed a faint outline of a cat on the canvas.
The Oppressor's Wrong Page 4
