by Jeffrey Lang
It was time to go, Data decided, no matter what the consequences. M-5 would not last much longer. If he and Rhea were pulled down toward Odin, well, then so be it. At least they would be together.
But first he would have to get Rhea's attention. It might mean exposing himself to the heavy doses of radiation that could, he knew, permanently damage his positronic brain. Some say the world will end in fire, he remembered. Some say in ice . . . The thought almost made him smile. He would have to remember to tell Rhea later if he had the chance. He took a step forward . . .
. . . Then stopped.
The waving tendrils of plasma parted like a gauze curtain and there, in the center of the fountain, stood Rhea. Her flesh, the disguise that had made her appear so human, was gone now, stripped away, leaving behind only the unblemished silver sheath that was her true skin, reflecting every spark of energy. She had just finished tearing away another strip of hull plating and pushing it away from the ship. Then, Rhea paused in her labor and held out her hand so that the coruscating globules of energy could stream up through her fingers like bubbles in champagne. Her skin reflected and refracted the light so it looked as if a liquid rainbow danced over her hand.
And for Data, time seemed to slow down, to elongate and narrow down so that he was focused on only that single moment, that single image. And in that timeless instant, Data sensed the sum of the events of the past several days and found that he understood why Captain Picard had insisted he not deactivate his emotion chip. It is a spectrum, he realized.
On one end of the spectrum, he saw the Exo III androids: unchanged for hundreds of thousands of years, locked in a bolus of rage and stagnation, an endless and meaningless existence. Then, at the other extreme was Vaslovik, immortal and seemingly in complete control of his destiny, but unable to embrace his eternal life unless he clung to the illusion of mortality by reinventing himself whenever he felt the weight of time grow too great.
And somewhere in between, there were the Terrans, Betazoids, Klingons and half-dozen other species that formed his circle of friends. All mortals, who, against all reason, both extremes envied. Somehow, they were able to cope with their brief, chaotic spans by grasping onto a single, universal maxim:
Every moment counts.
Data held that thought before him on the tips of his fingers, studied it, then released it.
And then time started again, and he discovered he was holding Rhea's hand.
Layers of the station were curling away into the void like skin off an onion, while atmosphere leaked out in long, curling swaths. There was no more fire, no more plasma. Data began to wonder if he had been wrong; perhaps the fusion furnace had been automatically damped down before it could grow critical.
There came a white flash. No sound, of course, but the light was so bright that Data's visual receptors briefly overloaded. There was a shock wave and then he felt himself lose his grip on the android ship, but not on Rhea's hand. He flexed his arms, legs and fingers reflexively, tried to stay limber. His internal gyroscope attempted to find an orientation point, but without visual cues there was no up, down or side by side. Something struck his ankle—a piece of wreckage?—then another touch on his waist. Rhea, he decided. It must be Rhea. She squeezed his hand. Data made an attempt at a reassuring smile, but he wasn't sure if she was looking at him, or, if she was facing the right way, or even whether she could see.
His visual receptors blinked, went gray, then came back online. Before him, he saw a slowly diminishing fireball—the station reactor circled 'round by a half-dozen clouds of vapor and debris—that must have been the attacking ship. Below him—or above, since such terms had little meaning at the moment—was the only remaining attacking vessel, the one he and Rhea had clung to, now badly damaged, but still functional. It was turning, Data saw, and he followed the line of its prow to see it was heading toward the Enterprise, whose shields glowed a dull blue because of the radioactive discharge, but otherwise looked intact.
He turned his head to look back over his shoulder and was not surprised to find the great rim of Odin filled half the sky. They were caught in her gravity well now; he could feel the pull on his back, even sensed their mounting acceleration. It would be a quick death, Data decided, if nothing else. The pressure from the atmosphere would mount quickly, then their bodies would be crushed into a pair of irregular spheres, and they would become permanent members of the collection of junk that orbited the great gas giant. Perhaps as they fell, Data would even have a moment or two to analyze the puzzling silver cloud . . .
Turning back to the Enterprise, Data was surprised to find that he had never looked at his ship—his home—in this way before, hanging in space against a backdrop of stars. He had studied it in spacedock, surrounded by artificial light, yes, but never like this, in its “natural” environment. It was, he decided, lovely in a way he had never anticipated, almost organic in its silent, graceful beauty.
Rhea tightened her grip on his hand, then pointed. Data had been so absorbed in his aesthetic appreciation, he hadn't noticed the shuttlebay doors opening. Seconds later, a shuttlecraft exited the bay, then climbed up over the main hull in a tight turn. Apparently, someone had noticed them. The Enterprise's rear shield irised open and the shuttlecraft slipped through before the Exo III ship could fire. The shuttle turned wide, apparently wanting to stay as far away from the attacker as possible, then headed back toward Odin. Rhea squeezed his hand again.
The white point of light that was the shuttle grew quickly as it headed toward them and Data was slightly surprised to see it was a light civilian shuttle, not one of the well-shielded fighter craft. Perhaps the captain planned to deploy the others? Rhea pointed again and Data nodded, signaling he had already seen, but then she pushed his head farther to the right so he was staring at the Exo III ship. It was, he saw, turning.
Toward them. Very quickly. Apparently, someone else had noticed them.
But the shuttle would be there in a moment and as soon as they were beamed aboard, they could go to warp and get Rhea far away. The Enterprise would be able to handle one injured ship. Probably.
And then the shuttle flew past them, its impulse engines blazing at full power, heading directly into Odin's atmosphere.
Data blinked, puzzled.
What was the captain doing?
“How long until Sam hits the atmosphere?” Picard asked.
“Forty-two seconds,” Troi responded. She watched the small dot that represented the shuttlecraft dropping toward Odin.
“We have a lock on Data and Rhea?”
“For now,” Will said. “But it's hard to maintain. Too much interference.”
Troi sensed the captain wanted to say something, to make a suggestion to the transporter chief about how to tune the sensors, but he held his tongue. These people were the best Starfleet had to offer. His suggestions wouldn't improve Data and Rhea's chances.
“We're receiving a feed from the shuttle,” Riker announced. “Sam is hailing the android ship. Uh-oh.”
“What is it?” Picard asked.
“I think he got their attention. They're turning, heading toward the shuttle.”
Picard stood, tugged on his uniform, then slowly wiped his chin. Troi could feel his mingled relief, anxiety, and, yes, a little bit of guilt. Vaslovik's plan might work . . . but at what cost? “Did you send the message, Commander?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Troi said. “And just received acknowledgment.”
Picard glanced at Vaslovik, who was once again standing close to the monitor. As if sensing the captain's stare, Vaslovik turned toward him and nodded calmly. “It will work, Captain Picard. Everything will be fine. Just make sure we get Rhea.”
“And Data,” Picard added.
“Of course.”
Troi checked the sensors. The shuttle had just passed by Data and Rhea and the android ship was accelerating, heading for Odin at full impulse. Troi opened her perceptions and immediately winced in revulsion. Such hate, she thought. Ha
lf a million year's worth of hatred.
The android ship loomed over them and Data kept expecting the tingle of transport. The bow passed by, then the midpoint, then the stern and they were so close that Data began to fear they would be incinerated by the great impulse engines, but this didn't happen. Rhea tightened her hand in his, a reflexive gesture of anticipation and hope—maybe they hadn't been seen—when a silver mist began to swim up into his vision. Some kind of metallic, molecular dust from the androids' vessel?
Data turned around to look, slowly so as not to start them spinning, and saw the shuttle disappear into a heavy bank of the undulating silver bands that had mystified him since he had come to Odin. The android ship was moving fast and closing the gap. With its armor, the ship should be able to survive long enough in Odin's atmosphere to catch the shuttle. Though exactly why they were so intent on doing so was a mystery.
As Data watched, a silver cloud enveloped the android ship and stopped it dead. The engines flared, then died and it looked to Data—though it was getting harder and harder to see—like the hull was dissolving. The silver cloud appeared to be reacting to the hull like acid. But if it is corrosive, why are Rhea and I not affected?
Then, the ship disappeared into the glimmering fog.
Data felt pressure against his back. They were being borne upward by another swelling of the silver clouds, pushed back up toward the Enterprise. He looked at Rhea, who appeared calm, even relaxed, and then felt her tapping against his forearm. She spelled out a word in Morse code, but it wasn't necessary. Data understood now. It must have been another one of Vaslovik's liberation projects, just like the exocomps: Wesley Crusher's nanites, the microscopic robots that had inexplicably developed into a sentient colonial artificial intelligence. Shepherded here to Odin by Vaslovik, they thrived, reproducing and evolving freely in the gas giant's immense hydrogen-rich atmosphere.
Then, at last fully understanding what had just transpired, and still grasping Rhea's hand, Data opened his mouth and laughed, long and soundlessly into the void, having finally found the “more appropriate moment” he had been waiting for.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“HOW ARE YOU FEELING?” Picard asked Data several hours later.
Automatically, Data replied. “All systems are functioning within acceptable . . . ,” Data began, but then paused and started again. “I feel fine, Captain. Thank you. How are you?”
“Relieved, Data. Very relieved.” Picard was sitting on one of the half-dozen high stools that Data kept in his lab for when he was doing collaborative work. “I confess I was uncertain how this one was going to turn out. I'm still not sure if I entirely believe what Vaslovik told us.”
“About the nanite colony?” Data asked as he sealed up the back of his head. He had just unplugged himself from the diagnostic computer and was pleased to find his recent adventures had left him none the worse for wear. In fact, if the readings were correct, it appeared that Vaslovik had uploaded several new programs while he had Data under his care. His first inclination had been to simply purge the files, but after some consideration, he had let them be. It was unlikely that Vaslovik would have installed anything harmful; judging by their size and configuration, they were probably data dumps from the station's main computer. Obviously, the professor had had some premonitions about his station's demise and wanted to preserve some part of his work. Data looked forward to examining the files . . . later.
“Yes, but also about the fate of the Exo III androids. They're gone now, he claimed, but not destroyed.”
“They have become incorporated into the colony. Their memories, their distinctiveness, have been added to the whole.”
“Yes,” Picard agreed, but he seemed troubled. “And I can't help but feel that I have contributed to the assimilation of the last of the species, something that I have fought in similar situations against the Borg.”
“The Borg enslave unwilling minds, Captain. The minds of the Exo III androids were already trapped and suffering. They were liberated by the nanites, and you helped to free them. They are at peace.”
“And Sam as well,” Picard said. “It's a pity you didn't get to meet him, Data. The fellowship of artificial intelligence he spoke of—it could be the answer to every question you've ever had about your life.”
“It does sound intriguing,” Data admitted. “And perhaps someday, I will encounter others from it. Or maybe they will encounter me. For now, however, I too am at peace with who I am. If these last few days have taught me anything, it is that whether I have all the time in the world, or die before anyone expects, what matters is that I not squander a single moment.”
Picard smiled. “A lesson for mortals and immortals both?”
“So I have come to believe, sir.” Data paused, then asked the question he felt he already knew the answer to. “Are you quite certain he is gone, Captain?”
“Professor Vaslovik? Oh, yes.” Picard made a gesture like a conjurer making a coin disappear. “Gone. No shuttlecraft missing, no unauthorized transporter use. No . . . anything. In addition to all his other identities, I would be willing to believe he was Prospero, too, and had simply wished himself off the ship. It's driving Commander Riker to distraction.”
“We have seen evidence that he had more than one form of unknown technology at his disposal, Captain,” Data said as he began to dress. “I do not think Commander Riker should feel as if he has failed in any way. I believe Professor Vaslovik was quite adept at vanishing.”
“Indeed,” Picard replied. “I wonder who he will become next time?”
“I regret to say that it is unlikely we will ever know.”
“Yes,” the captain agreed, and Data thought he sounded wistful. “I was glad to have met him. He was a remarkable individual. Many remarkable individuals,” he amended. “Brahms, Leonardo, Alexander—who knows how many others? I seriously doubt the universe has seen the last of the man behind all those names.”
Their conversation was interrupted when the doors opened and Data saw Bruce Maddox and Reg Barclay standing in the doorway. “Dressed?” Reg asked, but he could already see for himself that Data was. Still, Data sensed the reason for the question and nodded. The pair stepped aside and, with some small flourishing of arms, both said, “Taa-dah.”
Rhea was standing there, smiling, newly restored, simultaneously delighted and slightly embarrassed by all the fuss. Maddox and Barclay had made excellent use of the supplies in Data's lab; she looked, to Data's eye, virtually identical to the woman he first met less than a week ago. Only a week ago, he mused. And now I have trouble imagining life without her. Even though this may be a choice I may have to make soon. Or worse, something that may happen whether I choose or not.
“Thank you, thank you all,” Rhea said, flushed and beaming. “ ‘I'd like to thank all the little people . . .’ ”
Barclay and Maddox glanced at each other, confused and slightly abashed, perhaps in part because Rhea was easily the smallest person in the room.
“You guys have no sense of humor,” Rhea said. “Or no sense of history. Which is it?”
“Humor,” Data said.
“History,” the captain said.
“I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about,” Bruce Maddox sniffed.
“Commander,” Rhea said. “I'm sorry. That was cruel when you've been so kind. I apologize. Here.” She stepped close, stretched up on her toes and pecked him on the cheek. “I think I'll call you Uncle Bruce from now on.” She took his hand between hers, then turned toward Barclay. “And you're Uncle Reg.”
“Preposterous,” Maddox replied, but he was smiling.
“I . . . I didn't get a kiss,” Barclay stammered, a complaint that Rhea addressed immediately, much to Uncle Reg's delight.
Maddox said, “I can't help but note that you chose to wear civilian clothes. Starfleet won't let you continue to serve?”
Rhea smothered a smile. “I'm lucky Starfleet didn't stick me in the brig and throw away the key. The
re are laws about impersonating an officer.”
“But under the circumstances,” Picard inserted, “Admiral Haftel felt we could waive the charges. For services rendered.”
“ ‘For helping to prevent valuable assets from falling into the hands of a potential threat to the Federation and its allies,’ ” Rhea recited brightly. “Which would be me, of course. I'm the valuable asset.”
“Don't take it the wrong way,” Maddox replied. “There had to be a record, but it was important to keep it ambiguous. But, please, understand that we understand: you are no one's property.” He looked meaningfully at Data. “We've covered this ground before and the decision was the right one.”
Data smiled in reply. “But there may have been room for some discussion, Commander. If you would like to take up the topic of your studying my brothers later . . .”
But Maddox shook his head. “It's not necessary, Data. I believe I have accomplished what I set out to do. Here she is,” he said, indicating Rhea. “My ‘niece.’ ”
Data nodded. “I understand. I believe Dr. Soong would have been impressed.”
Maddox smiled broadly at that, the first time Data could remember seeing him do so. “But now, you'll excuse us. I believe you have other matters to attend to, as do we.”
Data bowed in gratitude as Maddox and Barclay left. The captain hung back, then turned to Rhea before heading for the door himself. “Admiral Haftel asked me to tell you that your personnel files will be purged from Starfleet records. It will look like a ‘clerical error.’ ” His mouth curled into a sardonic smile. “Apparently, this isn't the first time this sort of thing has happened. In repayment, perhaps you could explain how you got those files in there in the first place?”
“Seems the least I can do,” she replied. “I'll write up something for you later. And, sir . . .” She seemed prepared to add something, but then let it drop. Picard sensed her indecision, but then felt the moment pass and so only nodded his thanks. The door closed behind him.
