Immortal Coil

by Jeffrey Lang

  And this, in turn, had fired Ruk's rage again and the rest of the half-remembered conversation was lost forever.

  He never sought out that voice again and would not have listened to it now, even if it suddenly rose up out of the depths.

  In recent years, Ruk spent most of his time sitting and grinding rocks in his hands. He would find two rocks of the same size and composition, hold one in each hand, then make a fist. One of the rocks, eventually, would crumble. To date, the score was left hand: seven hundred and fifty-two thousand, four hundred and two, and right hand: eight hundred thousand, nine hundred and twelve. His right hand had taken the lead in recent years and was showing no signs of slowing down. Ruk had been considering handicapping his right hand—removing the smallest digit would be sufficient—but was uncertain about how to handle the problem of reattaching it when he grew bored. It was a concern.

  In the end, Ruk knew, the intelligent solution would be to find something else to do. Unfortunately, intelligence was not Ruk's gift, or so someone had implied once a very long time ago.

  Wait. He loosened his grip on the rocks. Who had told him that intelligence was not his gift? A voice very much like Ruk's own screamed at him as if from some deep chasm: This is important. Knowing the answer to that question would explain . . . something. Or everything. Wouldn't it? There was a reason why he was here. He was suddenly very sure of that. A picture had formed in his mind—many tall figures much like himself, all of them standing and staring at him fixedly. They were all going somewhere, leaving him behind, telling him that he should . . .

  “Wait, Ruk,” a voice said. “Wait and watch and be patient. Patience is your gift.” The implication, Ruk now understood, was that he had no other gifts. This, at least, had penetrated his dim understanding in the intervening . . . centuries? Millennia? Ruk began to calculate, but then realized that he should not let himself be distracted from the memory.

  Who had spoken? he wondered. Watch and wait for what? And where did they all go, those others?

  Something new rose up out of the veiling mists, cloaked as if enclosed in a bubble, and then it burst on the surface of his memory: a name. Qoz.

  It was Qoz who had spoken. With a flash of insight, Ruk realized that Qoz was angry, angrier even than Ruk. Ruk admired that about Qoz. But Qoz could also think, he could plan. He could do everything except . . . What?

  Ruk sensed that this was important. It meant something. The pieces were coming together. Something was about to happen. . . . Not everything fades, Ruk thought as the image coalesced. I do not fade.

  And then Ruk heard a sound.

  This was a rare occurrence, but not unknown. This world he lived on was dying, but it was not yet dead. There were no animals, no plants, nothing sentient, but there was an atmosphere of sorts, there was some water (though not much) and, of course, there was time. A great weight of time. Time took its toll on everything, even rock and steel. Even minds.

  But he could not be distracted from . . . what? The sound. What was the sound?

  Something was . . . moving. Purposefully. It was . . . it was . . .

  Walking.

  Someone was walking toward him.

  Ruk recognized the sound of rustling cloth and respiration, the soft whoosh-swoosh of breath. Ruk opened his eyes and suddenly realized he had made a mistake. He had allowed himself to become distracted. The memory—the name—had fled.

  It was the fault of walker, this intruder. Ruk decided that he disliked the sound of respiration, that he had always disliked it. It was the sound of the Old Ones.

  He wanted to stand up (he was standing up) and glide forward (he could move very silently if he wished) and reach out (small bits of crushed stone that had been stuck to his skin dropped to the ground) and crush . . .

  He stopped.

  No. He had been waiting for something. Perhaps this is what he had been waiting for.

  Ruk walked slowly, careful not to make any noise. He knew every crack, every pebble on this path. They were encoded in his memory banks. At this level, this close to the surface, all the paths wound through narrow tunnels that periodically branched off to the left or right into chambers or more tunnels. Farther down, the paths were gouged into the cliff face, some of them perilously narrow. If Ruk was inclined to think about such things, he might have wondered why these avenues existed and where they led, but he was not. He never delved down past a certain level, never passed through a particular door, and never asked himself why. Someday it might become important, but not yet.

  The darkness was complete, but that was irrelevant; Ruk navigated by memory.

  “Hello?” a voice called. “Is someone there?” It was pitched too high, this voice. Ruk clenched his fists and the few small bits of rock that still clung there bit into his skin.

  “I . . . I'm hurt,” the voice continued. “I need help. And the others . . . I think they're . . .” The voice cracked, then resumed. “Please, our ship crashed. Is someone there?” There came a flash of light and Ruk winced. It had been a long time since he had seen light. Ruk listened carefully and decided that the intruder was not lying. He was dragging one of his legs behind him and his breath was coming in ragged gasps.

  Another flash of light. Ruk turned his head away and closed his eyes tightly. He recalled from memory the layout of this section of the city ( City? some distant voice asked) and decided that the intruder had found his way into one of the secondary tunnels that branched off the main thoroughfare from the surface tunnel. How had he gotten through the main airlock? Hadn't it been sealed? Or, wait, no . . . Hadn't Ruk left it open intentionally? Hadn't he been ordered to leave it open?

  Ruk considered several possibilities. If he turned and walked away, fled into the deepest recesses of the warren, it was likely the intruder would either tire of looking or, more likely, die, especially if he was injured. Ruk thought about the paths just a little farther down, the ones that were carved into the cliff face. There was more than one precipice. It would be simple to wait there, to see if the intruder found his way. If he did, well, then, a step forward, a shove, a scream, then silence.

  “Please,” the voice called, somewhat fainter now. “The sensors . . . they said something was down here. Something . . . Dammit.” Its steps faltered again and Ruk heard it gasp. There was something there, a tone, that made Ruk think this one did not have long to live. Perhaps a push off the cliff would be a mercy. No, he remembered. That would not be the right thing to do. Be patient. The light flickered again and he sensed that the intruder was headed in the opposite direction. Its back would be turned. Ruk did not want to approach it from behind. He would have to attract its attention.

  Ruk straightened and opened his mouth to speak, then considered for a moment. What should he say? It had been so long. What did two beings say to each other upon first meeting? He grew frustrated because he could not remember, and, worse, as he stood castigating himself, the intruder was moving farther and farther away. The light disappeared around a corner, and Ruk, his voice sounding like an avalanche, called out, “Wait!”

  The lamp turned around and shone directly into Ruk's eyes. He groaned in pain and shielded them with his hand, fighting down the twin compulsions to flee or attack. Ruk waited for the intruder to slowly shuffle back down the tunnel toward him. The intruder stopped two paces away from Ruk, then leaned against the tunnel wall. It looked, Ruk thought, strangely pleased for someone who was so badly damaged. There was a large open tear on its forehead that was leaking fluid onto its garment. Its leg was turned at an awkward angle and it held itself twisted to the side as if something inside its skeletal frame was no longer doing its job. Its left arm was missing below the elbow and there was some sort of medical device clamped onto the stump, but it was poorly fitted. Liquid dripped intermittently onto the floor. The top of its head barely went past Ruk's elbow which, for some reason, greatly annoyed Ruk. Such a fragile thing, Ruk thought. It would be so easy to crush.

  The intruder said, “Can you un
derstand me?”

  Strangely, Ruk could. He hadn't wondered about it before, but now he noticed that the intruder wore a device on a strap around his neck that seemed to be translating their speech. Ruk said, “Yes.”

  “Can you help me?”

  Ruk considered the question. Finally he asked, “What do you want?”

  Surprisingly, the creature made a croaking sound that Ruk recognized as laughter. “Good question,” it said, and then its legs slid out from under it. Without thinking, Ruk stepped forward and cradled the body with his arm before its head hit the floor. Ruk knew that heads broke open easily against floors, but could not remember where the knowledge came from. The intruder spoke again, its voice low, almost a whisper. “What I want . . . What I want is . . .” and it laughed again. “What I want is not to die. I am dying, I think. Could you help me to not die?”

  Ruk was surprised. This was an unexpectedly direct and clearly stated request. He replied, “Yes.”

  The intruder seemed gratified. “Oh,” it said. “Good. Well, I think it's going to happen soon, so whatever you're going to do, you should do it now.”

  Ruk slid his arms under the intruder's back and legs, then stood. “Yes,” he said. “I will.”

  The intruder's head lolled to the side and Ruk sensed that it was drifting off into unconsciousness. Despite this, the intruder asked, “Do you have a name?”

  “Ruk,” he replied, realizing it was the first time he had heard his own name spoken in untold millennia.

  “I'm Korby,” the intruder said. “Roger Korby.” And then his head dropped against Ruk's chest and its eyes closed.

  “Korby,” Ruk repeated and the caverns seemed to echo in sympathy. He stood and considered the flavor of the new word for several seconds, then noticed that the intruder was still leaking fluids. This form was very badly damaged. Perhaps unsalvageable.

  He decided he would have to go find one of the machines.

  The process did not go smoothly. The machine was still functioning properly, but it would not begin the replication process until Korby was stabilized. Apparently, there were problems because of the amount of fluid ( Blood, Ruk had to remind himself. It was called blood) that Korby had lost. Several internal organs were damaged and the circulatory system in the legs had collapsed. Complications from this were affecting other systems and the machine instructed Ruk to remove its legs and cauterize the wounds. This would keep Korby alive long enough to perform the replication.

  Korby had regained consciousness during the procedure. He had not reacted well. Ruk was concerned that the shock might have damaged him further, but the diagnostic subroutines said it had not.

  When the process was complete, the machine reported that some of Korby's engrams might not have transferred perfectly, but it could not say for certain whether it was because of damage to the tissue or because of Korby's alien physiology.

  Ruk didn't care.

  * * *

  Korby asked three times why he was not cold before the explanation finally sank in. He stared at his hands, examining them in excruciating detail. “This is extraordinary. I can see individual skin cells,” he said in hushed tones. “Each and every one of them. And they're all perfect.”

  Ruk waited restlessly while Korby studied his new condition. It had been his intention to begin questioning the intruder as soon as he regained consciousness, so it had come as a surprise when Korby had asked Ruk to be quiet and leave him for a moment . . . and Ruk had complied. Why? Where did this inclination come from?

  “Ruk,” Korby said at length. “I have a question.”

  Ruk said nothing, merely waited.

  Korby took a step closer, his head tilted to one side. “Can we make more?”

  Chapter Twenty

  SAM WALKED TO THE REPLICATOR and asked for some water. “Getting parched from all the talking,” he said by way of explanation. He sipped from the cup, then, seeing Picard's confusion, offered, “My body isn't quite as efficient as your Mr. Data's. I require periodic rehydration. Just like organics, not all synthetic beings are created equal.” He returned the cup to the replicator and returned to his bunk.

  “Ruk had waited half a million years for the visitation that was supposed to mean the androids' escape from the planet. But time, solitude and monotony eventually took their toll on him. After all those millennia of waiting, he no longer remembered what he was waiting for. His sanity eroded, so that by the time he met Korby, his mission was long forgotten, the data corrupted beyond recovery.

  “I think you know the next part of the story,” Sam said. “Due to the flaws Ruk allowed to creep into the duplication and transfer process, the Korby android was a bit off from the original, and that's putting it mildly, I'm afraid. Hatched a scheme to introduce androids into your Federation covertly, in a skewed attempt to give your people the ultimate medical advance: immortality. He was thwarted, of course, by one of your Starfleet predecessors.

  “And during that encounter, Ruk was destroyed,” Sam continued, “without ever remembering those who slept and waited below, recalling only that organic intelligence was a threat to himself and his kind,” Sam said with a sigh. “And that might have been the end of it . . . if it hadn't been for Noonien Soong.”

  “Data's creator?” Picard asked, genuinely confused. “What has he to do with this?”

  “He freed them, Captain. He, along with Emil Vaslovik and Ira Graves, went to Exo III and released the androids from stasis. The androids eventually found Korby's crashed ship, still buried in the ice aboveground, and spent the next few decades using it as a model to create their own starships, like the one that attacked the Enterprise. They've been secretly gathering intelligence on the Federation and Starfleet for years, and when they learned of the holotronic android project, they knew they had found the answer to their dilemma.”

  “Maddox's breakthrough,” Picard breathed. “They believe the technology that created Rhea can repair them.”

  “That's right. And now we have to find her, and Data, before they do.”

  “What of Professor Vaslovik?” Picard asked. “What is his role in all of this?”

  “Captain,” Sam said, “Emil Vaslovik is not precisely what he seems . . .”

  * * *

  The journey seemed to take an eternity, but Data knew his sense of time was badly skewed. He lapsed into a gray fog at least twice, both times awakening to the sight of Rhea's concerned face hovering over him. He was sure she spoke to him most of the time he was awake, and even though language processing was difficult, he found he enjoyed the pleasant drone of her voice. Sometime shortly after the second lapse into unconsciousness, Rhea moved him into the copilot seat and strapped him in which, initially, confused him greatly. How can she do this? I weigh at least . . . I weigh a great deal. . . . Then he remembered: she is an android and some androids have enhanced strength. He struggled mightily to retain this information. He knew that it was important and would continue to be so no matter what else happened.

  Rhea channeled power into the impulse engines and they moved smoothly toward a violet orb. As they approached, Data began to worry that his visual receptors were malfunctioning again. He could not shake the feeling that the planet was staring at him. He blinked and tried to focus his thoughts: there was a large black spot roughly where a human eye would be. “Odin,” Rhea said, and Data remembered the story of how the chief of the Norse gods had sacrificed one of his eyes in exchange for wisdom. “And there are two moons coming up over the horizon. They're Hugin and Munin, named for Odin's two ravens.”

  Hugin and Munin, Data recalled. “Thought” and “Memory.” Very poetical. He was faintly amazed that he could retrieve this information and attributed it to being linked to Rhea's systems. She is an android, he reminded himself.

  The planet, Data noticed, was banded with shimmering silver clouds, which struck him as wrong. Was this a common characteristic for gas giants? He could not recall. Then, he was distracted by another thought: Why are we here?
/>
  Data watched Rhea enter an encryption key into the pod's communications system. Moments later, they received a hail, and, in response, Rhea spoke a single word: “Valhalla.”

  Space rippled and roiled in a series of undulating concentric circles. Something immense was decloaking. Data kept expecting the ship to appear, kept waiting for the edges to stabilize, but the warbling displacement grew and grew until the effect filled his vision.

  It was difficult to judge scale against the depths of space, even with Odin as a background, but the station . . . or ship . . . or whatever it was . . . was comparable in size to an orbiting Starfleet starbase, but there the comparison ended. Where most Starfleet bases were models of streamlined, geometric efficiency, this station, this Valhalla, could claim as ancestors both Gothic cathedrals and snowflakes. Every surface was carved, sculpted with rich geometric detail. It was overwhelming in its fractal complexity.

  Without Rhea touching any controls, the pod lurched toward the station's central hull. As they passed between two of the dozen ziggurat-shaped secondary hulls, Data turned his eyes upward and strained to take in the sheer mass of the place. It was as if a god had given shape to his own mind. Data realized absently that such colorful metaphors would never have occurred to him prior to the installation of his emotion chip.

  Data spotted a tiny ring of light set into the station's underside and watched as the circle resolved into space-dock doors that parted as the pod approached. The feathery touch of a tractor beam guided them to an airlock with nary a bump or rumble. No sooner had the pod settled into its docking cradle than Rhea began to unbuckle Data's harness. They were still connected by a slim thread of optical filament, so Rhea could not move far from Data and had to remove him from the pod by lifting him up onto her shoulder and walking backward out the hatchway.

  She carried him through a doorway and into a wide hallway where she paused to adjust her hold. Data's field of vision was limited because he could not lift his head, but whenever Rhea paused to shift his weight, he got momentary glimpses of his surroundings. The floors were pink marble inlaid with veins of silver and gold. Delicate crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings and the walls were festooned with paintings, charcoals and pencil studies that—if he had the opportunity—Data would have wanted to study for hours, even days. Data knew then that his cataloging system was damaged because he kept seeing pieces by acknowledged masters—drawings by Rembrandt, watercolors by van Gogh, sculptures by T'Chan and baskets woven by Senese—that he could not find in his database.