by Jeffrey Lang
“Have you investigated his dwelling?”
“Not yet,” Rhea said. “I was waiting for you . . . and then I fell asleep. But I figure we can take a look later. That's about what I've accomplished in the past, what? Twenty-four hours? Doesn't seem like much. Anything new on your side?”
Data shook his head. “No, nothing.”
“What about an isolation suit? You know, the kind Starfleet personnel use to cloak themselves when conducting covert sociological studies of prewarp cultures.”
“I considered that. The suits give off a unique energy signature, which would have shown up in the full-spectrum sweep the Institute's security team conducted when they first arrived on the scene. It did not.”
“So we've yet to come up with anything to support the idea that someone else was involved in the incident.”
“Unfortunately, that is true,” Data said, “and I must confess, I am beginning to doubt my ‘instincts.’ ”
“Why?” McAdams asked.
“Because we have not yet been able to advance one plausible theory for why this incident occurred.”
“I can think of several,” McAdams said. “A personal vendetta against one of the project members, an espionage mission gone awry, technological sabotage, maybe even terrorism.”
“I have considered these possibilities as well,” Data said. “None of them explains why Maddox wrote out my name at the scene.”
“Maybe it wasn't your name,” McAdams speculated. “Maybe it meant to mean something else. ‘Data’ meant information a long time before you came along.”
“True, but given my . . . uneasy history with Commander Maddox within the context of his AI research, and his apparent condition when he wrote the word in his own blood, he must have been trying to convey something to whoever found him in the simplest, most expedient way possible.”
“All right, let's look at that, then. Why would Maddox write your name?”
“The simplest answer is that he meant to implicate me in the incident.”
“But you weren't there.”
“True. I was on my way to Atrea IV to retrieve my mother's remains when this incident occurred.”
“Can you prove that?”
“The shuttlecraft's records, the record of my time spent on Atrea IV, as well as Atrean eyewitnesses and my own memories, will verify that I traveled directly to Atrea IV after leaving the Enterprise. At the exact time of the incident, it would have been impossible for me to be anywhere near Galor IV.”
“That's all right, I've already obtained most of that exculpatory evidence,” Rhea said with a slight smile. “One of the first things I did, in fact. I'm convinced—and I suspect, so is everyone else, or you would have been detained immediately after you beamed down to the DIT—that you can be ruled out as a suspect here.” McAdams started pacing the room. “But Maddox must have written your name for a reason, and the most obvious one would be that he thought you were there. So what if someone were impersonating you?”
“Can you ascribe a motive?”
“Again, to implicate you. Maybe our hypothetical vendetta wasn't against the project scientists at all. Maybe it was an elaborate plot to discredit you.”
“Given the circumstances, I believe ‘elaborate’ would be an understatement. There would have been less problematical and more effective ways for an imposter to discredit me, if that were the goal.”
“Agreed,” said McAdams, and her pacing suddenly stopped before the cases holding the inert androids. She looked at Data. “What about Lore, then?”
Data hesitated. “As I explained earlier, that is not possible. Lore is dead.”
“Data, I don't mean to be insensitive, but this investigation demands that we challenge any assumptions. So I have to ask. . . . Are you sure about that?”
Data felt an unpleasant surge of activity in his emotion chip. He stared at her for several seconds before he replied, and it was a struggle to keep his voice even. “Yes, Rhea, I am. I deactivated Lore permanently. He will not be coming back.”
McAdams went to him, concerned. “Data, I'm sorry. I realize that must be an old wound for you, and I don't mean to reopen it, but stranger things have been known to happen.”
“Not this time,” Data said. “After Lore was deactivated, I brought him to the Enterprise-D and disconnected his positronic brain to ensure that something like what you are suggesting would never happen. I kept it in a vault in my old lab, isolated from his body, and designed the vault to self-destruct in the event it was ever tampered with.”
“What happened?”
“The Enterprise-D crashed on Veridian III. Lore's body was undamaged, but the vault containing his brain was compromised. The self-destruct system activated, and the brain was destroyed.”
McAdams sighed heavily. “I'm sorry, Data. I had no idea.”
“It is all right. You are doing your job. Your questions had to be raised. Unfortunately,” Data said, pressing on, “it leaves us no closer to knowing the truth about the incident on Galor IV than when we started. If murder was the intent, why leave Maddox alive? If there is an organized force responsible, then why have they not identified themselves? Typically, such individuals claim responsibility for crimes in order to gain recognition.”
“So what you're saying is that none of this adds up. It wasn't a personal attack, a terrorist act or an accident.”
Data shook his head and lowered himself into a nearby chair. “No. What I am saying is that I fear I am not adding up. I fear . . . I fear my emotions may have . . . may still . . . be clouding my perceptions. What I am saying is that I have begun to fear that I suspected a conspiracy because I very desperately wanted there to be a conspiracy.” He sighed again. “I have been reviewing some psychological files and found that it is often a mark of immature or unformed individuals to see conspiracies where none exist.”
Rhea walked over to him, knelt beside his chair and looked up into his lowered eyes. “Data,” she said. “I think you have a couple other problems you should worry about first. Number one: you have an astonishing lack of self-confidence for someone who is, in fact, smarter, braver and, in most every conceivable way, better than any other man I've ever met, artificial or not. Second . . .” And here she smiled . . .“For some reason, I find that amazingly attractive.”
Data looked down at Rhea and found that he could not resist the pull at the corners of his mouth. “It is,” he said, “a risk I live with every day.” And then, as if compelled by a power he did not fully comprehend, Data found he was leaning over, bringing his face closer to Rhea's. He had half-closed his eyes and could see that she had done the same, but his were open just enough for him to notice that she wore the same soft smile she had a moment before. He also noticed that she smelled faintly of cherries and sandalwood, an odd, though appealing combination of scents. He felt the faint out-welling of her breath on his lips, noted that he could almost taste the coffee on her breath, and heard some older, more distant part of himself say, This day has taken some unexpected turns . . .
. . . And then the door hissed open.
A pair of technicians guided in an antigrav gurney bearing a figure wrapped in plastic sheeting and, a moment later, Reg Barclay entered. Neither of the technicians were paying the slightest attention to Data and Rhea, but Reg looked at them curiously, obviously noting their proximity, then blushed furiously.
Rhea smiled at Data, then straightened up quickly and instructed the technicians where to settle the gurney.
When the techs had left, Barclay said, “We had trouble getting the body out from under the slab without bringing the rest of the building down on our heads.” He flinched at the thought, then reached into his tool kit and pulled out a small blade, with which he began to cut the plastic in deft, sure strokes.
“Let me help you with that,” Rhea said, stripping the sheeting away from the android's body as Barclay cut. When it was completely revealed, Data noted that the silver form looked, appropriately, as if a building h
ad fallen on it. Gently, Rhea said, “Why not just take some baseline readings first?”
“Excellent suggestion,” Data said, and then he and Barclay carefully positioned the gurney under the lab's central diagnostic array. Moving to the control console, Data brought the apparatus online and the sensors swept back and forth in a steady, rhythmic motion. He watched the datastream scroll down the screen and absorbed the readings as quickly as they were displayed. He began to nod his head quickly after the first several seconds, impatient for the array to get through with the predictable material: base composition; skeletal and muscular systems; circulatory and energy systems; sensory and motor functions.
Conscious that Barclay was looking over his shoulder, Data said, “Intriguing. There are several very interesting enhancements to my base systems here.” He hit a combination of controls and brought up a display. “This auxiliary processing unit in the chest cavity is a compelling idea. I shall have to speak to Geordi about the feasibility of incorporating it into my own system.”
Reg shrugged disparagingly, but smiled despite himself. “Most of the structural changes were Professor Vaslovik's ideas. My contribution was to the central processing center, the ‘holotronic’ brain, as Bruce dubbed it. Now that is a piece of work. . . .” He looked at the android's head and corrected himself: “Was a piece of work.”
Data nodded sympathetically, then said, “Computer, pause.” The scanners ceased to wave. “Return to grid seven-alpha-gamma-nine,” he commanded. The tip of one of the scanners repositioned itself over the android's cranium.
“Enhance,” Data requested. Barclay leaned forward to look at the display more closely.
The scanner tip glowed dull orange, then bright red and moved in small circles over the spot where the android's forehead would have been if it had still possessed an entire head. As it spun, Data and Reg leaned closer until their heads were almost side by side, noses practically pressed to the screen. Finally, Data reached over, flicked a switch, and the red tip faded to black.
Reg Barclay murmured, “Oh, my.”
Data replied, “Indeed.”
McAdams came over to get a look at the screen. “What is it?”
“The android is a fake,” Data said, twenty minutes later.
The command crew had reconvened in the observation lounge, minus Dr. Crusher, who was still planetside, and sat around the table giving Data their undivided attention. Admiral Haftel was on screen, attending the conference from his office on the surface. It was he who spoke first.
“Are you saying that Commander Maddox and his associates were engaged in some sort of hoax?”
“No!” Reg shouted, almost leaping out of his chair. “Admiral—no! It's a fake, but not our fake.” He shook his head. “I mean, we never made a fake. The android in Commander Data's quarters is . . . it could never have supported a holotronic system. The cranium was an empty shell . . . a husk . . .”
“A forgery,” Data concluded. “But Mr. Barclay is doing it an injustice when he calls it an empty husk. Most of the systems an android would need to function were present, but when we examined the cranium, we discovered that there were only enough components present to give the appearance of a holotronic processing unit. Given the complexity of such a device and the difficulty of constructing even a reasonable facsimile, the fake could not stand up to careful scrutiny.”
“Then why,” Picard asked, “has this fact escaped everyone until now?”
“Misdirection, Captain,” McAdams said. “And a perversely clever delaying tactic. Given the loss of life and level of destruction, not to mention the convenient difficulty of retrieving the prototype from the wreckage, whoever did this knew that a detailed scan of the android's brain wouldn't be an immediate priority. Why look for something that's obviously right in front of you?
“It also proves that there was a mind at work behind at least some of the events in the lab that night. Someone took the real android, for reasons still undetermined, and left evidence to make it appear as if it were merely destroyed.”
“An abduction, then,” Picard said, choosing his words deliberately. “Assuming you're correct, could the perpetrators have been responsible for the malfunctions that destroyed the lab and killed Professor Vaslovik?”
“It is certainly possible they used the storm to their advantage,” Data answered. “Investigations into the malfunctions in the climate control system and power grids have not conclusively ruled out sabotage. As for the death of Professor Vaslovik—”
“Sir,” McAdams interrupted, addressing Admiral Haftel. “The implications of this are staggering. If the project was successful, then advanced AI technology may now be in the hands of an enemy. Possibly a rival political entity, maybe even terrorists. The potential damage to the Federation—”
“I appreciate the implications, Lieutenant,” Haftel said. “Where do we go from here, Mr. Data?”
Before Data could reply, McAdams's combadge chirped.
“This might be the confirmation we were waiting for,” she said to Data. “McAdams here. Go ahead.”
“Lieutenant, this is Chief O'Neil in database administration. I have that report you asked for.”
“Proceed, Chief. I'm with the captain and Admiral Haftel and the senior staff. We were waiting for your call.”
“All right,” O'Neil replied, then cleared her throat. “I've finished checking those DIT databases you specified and it was exactly what you said to expect: the files have been wiped clean. All the directories we pulled were dummies. You try to open anything and the files vaporize. Worse, it's set up some kind of chain reaction that's scrubbing logs, directories, wiping clean operating systems, everything. Poof, gone.”
McAdams smiled grimly, her suspicions confirmed. “No backups?” she asked. “What about the Starfleet Command master files?”
“Everything pertaining to the Maddox project is gone,” O'Neil said. “Someone rewrote all the maintenance routines and copied the dummies into the Starfleet backup directories. It was . . . well, I hate to say this, but whoever did it could teach me a thing or two.” Everyone in the ready room could hear the grudging respect in the chief's voice.
“Anything else, Chief?”
“Well—I'll say this: it wasn't done on the spur of the moment. Whoever planned this was thinking ahead—way ahead. And one other thing . . . It's a little odd, so I don't know what to make of it.” She paused, obviously waiting for sanction.
“Go ahead, Chief,” Picard said.
“It's just that some of the things I found, some of the file manipulation commands—either the programmer was insanely lucky or he knew about some trapdoors that no one else has ever identified.”
Riker, who had been listening in silence, asked, “Come again? Trapdoors?”
“Trapdoor,” Data explained. “Shortcuts that programmers install in command code in order to avoid repeating procedures or, more often, circumvent security programs.”
“I'm still confused, Chief,” Haftel said. “What does this mean?”
“It's just that the Institute's system—in fact, all of Starfleet's systems—are based on the same code base. As strange as it might sound, all these codes, even the systems that have been augmented with non-Terran programming, share their origins in twenty-second- and twenty-third-century programming languages, especially the languages developed for the Daystrom duotronics systems. Whoever did this knew the code extraordinarily well. In fact, I'd say they knew things that have never been documented.”
A stony silence reigned while everyone absorbed the implications of this statement. Finally, Haftel, focusing on the most immediate problem, asked, “And is there any way we can be certain whoever did this isn't meddling with other files?”
“Certain?” O'Neil asked. “No, not certain, though now that I've pointed out the trapdoor to the DIT's systems operator, it's been plugged. Could there be other holes? Absolutely. The perpetrator is so good, you might never know until it was too late.”
“Y
ou sound,” Haftel said, “as though you almost admire this person, Chief.”
“No offense, Admiral. I understand the implications of what I'm saying, but good code is good code. Our perpetrator, whoever he or she is, had the advantage of a trapdoor, but he knew what to do once he got where he was going.”
“No offense taken, Chief. I just wanted to make sure I understood the situation.”
Picard said, “Please produce a report for the head of computing systems at Starfleet Command and send it to my priority queue, Chief. I'll authorize it and make sure it's filed today.”
“Already there, Captain.”
“Excellent. Good job, Chief.” O'Neil signed off and Picard turned to McAdams.
“Have you and Commander Data assembled a list of likely suspects?”
“There is only one logical suspect, Captain,” Data said. “And that is Professor Vaslovik.”
Barclay blinked and sputtered. “P-Professor Vaslovik? But why?”
Riker seemed to share Barclay's surprise. “I'm afraid you're going to have to make this clear to me, too, Data. If this was a conspiracy, then Vaslovik overlooked one of the prime rules: Avoid getting vaporized in your own trap.”
“But was he really vaporized, Commander?” Data asked. “That, like so much about Dr. Vaslovik, cannot be truly substantiated. DNA traces alone are not proof of a death. Vaslovik himself, as others have acknowledged, has been something of an enigma. In the course of our investigation, we found a long and detailed record of his work in neurocybernetics, but virtually nothing else about him.”
“He was a very private individual,” Barclay said, though he seemed to recognize the argument's weakness.
“One might go so far as to say obsessively private,” Data replied. “And here is another intriguing fact: Admiral Haftel, did you know that Professor Vaslovik was a guest lecturer at the Daystrom Institute approximately seventy years ago?”
The long pause eloquently answered the question before Haftel even spoke. “We have no record of that, Data. Otherwise, I'm sure it would have come out in the course of the investigation . . . or when Commander Maddox brought him onto his research team. What evidence do you have for this?”
