by Diane Carey
“I have some new information, sir,” Data said, “though not all clear.”
“I’m listening. Make it concise.”
Data nodded once, then thought about the right words.
“The phenomenon,” he began slowly, “is like me.”
“Like you? Some form of—” Riker stopped himself and was embarrassed when Data filled in the blank.
“A mechanism,” the android said. “Crafted by someone else. A living tool, fabricated at so high a level of engineering that it may or may not be a life-form.”
“Were you speaking to it, then?”
“I was in contact. I dare not say there was a conversation, however. It took from me what it pleased and gave me only what it chose. I was receiving, but I was unable to transmit. Perhaps I was too far away from the source. Or perhaps I was simply not built to be a transmitter . . . as I hoped I would be.”
“Data, we don’t expect you—”
“Perhaps if I go out alone in a shuttlecraft, I could gain more intimate contact.”
“Don’t be crazy,” Riker blurted. “Nobody’s going out in anything, not even you.”
Until it came out, Riker didn’t think about the callous implication of that sentence, but now he held his breath and hoped Data bleeped over it.
“This mechanism is dangerous to us, sir. I am no longer in doubt of that,” the android went on. The dim lighting of the battle bridge caught the starkness of his coloring as he stood there on the upper deck. “It must only be a matter of limited time before it learns to differentiate between general matter in this area of space or that nearby solar system and the construction of the Enterprise. It will demolish the ship, just as it demolished the Gorshkov three centuries ago.”
“Now wait a minute,” Riker said, holding up his hand. “We aren’t sure that’s what happened to the Gorshkov.”
“I am sure. It will destroy us in a singularly violent manner as soon as it can. It intends to destroy us as soon as it can find us again.”
And he was absolutely sure, if that could be gleaned from his expression. He was even more impassive than usual, and Riker had to look hard to see any flickers of emotion. Data might be an android, but his face was usually pleasantly animated, and the blankness bothered Riker. Data’s habitual demeanor would have reassured him a little.
Slowly he asked, “Did you get any clues as to its nature?”
“It was built eons ago, and it contains the destructive power of several starships,” Data said flatly. “Most disturbingly, though, sir, it is encoded with what it believes is permission to use that power at its own discretion.”
“Oh, great,” Riker moaned. “I’ve seen bulldozers with more discretion than that thing.”
Data paused, and if he could be in a mood, he wasn’t in one for chitchat. The pause was long enough to make Riker uncomfortable, enough to make him look up.
“Go on,” Riker said with a touch of weariness.
“As I said, it may be a level of machine evolution so high that it is virtually alive.”
An ugly prospect, Riker thought, but luckily he didn’t say that. “And?”
“And . . . it destroys mechanical vessels which contain energies it recognizes, while preserving the life forces of the living beings involved.”
“But why? Why would it roam the galaxy sucking up life essences? Who would build a machine to destroy ships but preserve the stuff of living consciousness? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Unknown, sir. But it does make sense from a defensive point of view. We do not as yet know if it has the same reaction to whole planets as it does to vessels. If so, it may be a weapon of defense that turned on its own creators.”
“Is that a real possibility?”
“No, sir, it is only a guess.”
“But it unconditionally preserves the life—what?—life forces? Of the beings it absorbs?”
“Not only that, sir, but the entire consciousness. Memories, desires, everything. They are, in effect, still alive in there.”
Folding his arms, Riker leaned forward on the bridge rail and pondered the idea. “Imagine not being enslaved by time. Mankind’s been looking for that kind of Utopia for eons. Absence of want, hunger, fear, pain, death . . . I wonder what it looks like from inside.” For several seconds he simply gazed at the idea. It sounded idyllic, even Biblical. How many people looked up toward space when they thought of heaven? He pushed himself off the rail and held up a finger. “There are two things going on here,” he postulated. “Correct me if I’m wrong—”
“I will, sir.”
“Uh . . . yes. Are we witnessing two kinds of contact here? You with the mechanism or whatever it is, and Troi with the life essences trapped by it?”
Data’s birdlike eyes darted sideways for a moment in a disturbingly computerish look of calculation. He stood completely still for a few seconds, then canted his brows and said, “That does seem to describe the evidence, sir. Counselor Troi seems to be the path of least resistance for the life essences in their attempt to contact us. They do seem to be separate from the entity which buoys them. I should have thought of it myself.”
“You’re doing enough,” Riker said, trying to ease the stiffness he sensed under Data’s tone even now.
Then the android said, “No, sir . . . not enough. I may have technologies within myself that even I do not know about and do not know how to use yet. Somehow, the mechanism and I have congruous responses to each other. I believe—” And he paused again, this time even more movingly. He didn’t look at Riker, but rather fixed his eyes on the forward screen, now a grainy gray wall. “On impulse-idle with only flight shields up, the mechanism did not home in on us. I believe it fixed on me and was then able to focus on the ship—”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Riker interrupted. “It found Troi first and me next. You’re third on its taste test, so don’t start blaming yourself. It’s too . . . human.”
The proffered lightness didn’t come off. Rather the contrary. Data’s sudden silence was ponderous.
Riker rubbed his hands together and made a second attempt. “Look, Data, about before . . . ”
“If I may say, sir,” Data said quickly, “your sense regarding my nature is correct. It seems I . . . have been deluding myself. I am . . . apparently more mechanical than living.”
Riker moved across the small space between them and tried not to look like a superior officer circling an underling. When it did start to look like that, he stopped and simply faced Data. “Now, listen. I want us to understand each other.”
“Yes, sir,” the android said clearly. “It is not your fault that . . . while I cannot be alive, I am apparently programmed to be self-deluding about it.”
The statement rang in the empty battle bridge. Several seconds ticked by, accentuating the fact that there was no real answer.
Data straightened then, as though to slough off the discomfort of those seconds. “Whoever built the entity out there knew what it is to be alive. It knew life and knew how to preserve life even when the body is gone. And it clearly recognizes machines for what they are.”
Shaking his head, Riker sighed. “You’re not making this easy on either of us.”
All at once Data fidgeted, actually changed the position of his feet.
Riker held out a palm and said, “At ease, will you?”
Data glanced at him. After a beat he crossed his wrists behind his back and looked at the floor. “It seems that I too am a mechanism,” he said introspectively. “A utensil. Not a creature. Not only may I not be human, but I may not even qualify as a life-form. I may be less alive than the first protozoan that murmured through Earth’s primordial muck.”
With a sympathetic frown, Riker fought to digest the concept as Data perceived it. He felt suddenly crushed by his own mistake, and by his own inadequacy to ford this crossing.
“I am a versatile device,” Data went on, still gazing at the floor. His voice was completely without the emotional rasp that
would have entered a human voice by now, and yet there was a heaviness in his tone that lent meaning to his confession. The harsh but meager lighting on the battle bridge played poorly upon the soft and pale contours of his brows and jawline. “I am an instrument. No real human can do the things I can do. That alone should have been proof to me long before this.”
“Part of being human,” Riker attempted, latching on to a tiny hope, “is accepting your talents as well as your faults. That’s one equation no machine can compute.”
“Please, sir,” the android said, looking up now, a move that went through Riker like a wooden stake. “If indeed I am nothing but a machine, then I cannot have a sense of self and consciousness, but only programming that includes an illusion of self. Those are facts I may have to accept. I have been soundly reminded by my contact with the alien mechanism that I am . . . a fake.”
Riker winced. This was a sample of what Captain Picard must already know. Riker had noticed the captain holding back from comments that might have been bold, rude, or comforting on several occasions, and he’d often wondered about the captain’s choice of silence in those moments. But perhaps Picard had learned the hard way: keep your outbursts in check. A senior officer gets listened to, and everything he says gets remembered. Nothing can be casual, nothing can be emotional without the risk of hurt. It was the price of high rank. And it wasn’t going to go away. When it came right down to it, he didn’t know if Data was alive or not and he shouldn’t have opened his big mouth. He never really thought Data would take his comments so much to heart—but perhaps that was the android in him too.
He saw in Data’s eyes, in his expression, an intense need to define himself and discover his true nature. And here I am, at the heart of his struggle. Part of that struggle may be to admit a truth that isn’t very pleasant.
“I don’t know what you are, I admit that,” he told Data with a vocal shrug. “I’m not qualified to say. But Starfleet checked you out and you tested out alive. That’s good enough for—”
“By machines, sir,” Data reminded painfully. “Machines will report whatever they are told to report. No human looks at me and thinks I am human too. And you, more than anyone, still treat me like a machine.”
Until his chest started hurting, Riker didn’t even inhale. What had he been thinking about, admitting the truth? What happens when it slams you across the face and insists you look?
“Sir,” Data began, solemn again, “if I may go now . . . ”
Sadly Riker leaned on the command chair and nodded.
“Dismissed.”
From behind him—he didn’t watch—he heard the hiss of the turbolift door and the soft sucking noise behind the wall as the lift shot away through the ship. Riker found himself staring at the spot where Data’s boots had left a faint impression on the carpet. Now he breathed deeply, though it gave him no comfort, and listened to the thickness of his own voice.
“The tin man wants a heart.”
“You wanted privacy. You have it. All I ask is that you make good use of it, Counselor.”
Her delicate white hands were trembling, and nothing, nothing would make them stop. She didn’t blame herself for the lack of control—in fact she didn’t even do much to stop it. Burying what she was feeling and experiencing would only do her damage. But the captain was here and he was ready to listen to a confession, a confession that would take a single trouble and multiply it. She had thought having the answers would help her, ease her burden, but no. She knew many more things than she had an hour ago, and nothing was easier. Clarity in this case was more painful than obscurity.
Her head and neck ached as though someone had been sitting on her shoulders and twisting her skull.
“I’ve never experienced anything like this before, Captain,” she said, easing into it. “I’ve had to block thoughts before, but these simply crash through my barriers. These people are so desperate that they’re forcing their way into my mind, no matter how I try to close them off. I don’t understand the science, but there are definitely living, conscious life essences inside the phenomenon. Not memories, not residues, but the actual living essences of individuals. Somehow this thing preserves the consciousness and discards the physical body. And they do have a clear sense of self, Captain.”
“All humans?”
“I’m not sure, sir. I receive impressions of others, but it may be that only the humans can empathize closely enough with me to communicate. But . . . I know who they are now.”
Picard sat behind his glossy black desk and nodded. He tried, tried hard, not to appear impatient, and though there was no fooling her, at least she might appreciate the effort. But there was a definite “I’m waiting” in his posture. “Arkady Reykov and the members of his crew,” he said, quite flatly and with a touch of anticlimax.
Troi blinked. “How did you know?”
Picard flopped his hand on the desktop and casually said, “One needn’t be telepathic.”
She faltered, frowning into the black shine of his desk, and said, “Yes, I suppose it is obvious. But there’s more, sir. Or shall I say, there are more. Many more. Millions more, in fact. Their level of communication is much higher than anything verbal, as though they’ve forgotten over the years how to use simple words and pictures. We may be the first outside contact they’ve had—”
“Since 1995,” she supplied steadily.
“Yes,” she murmured. “For a while, what they wanted was very confusing. There were so many minds shouting at me, some rational, some not . . . only the strongest of those can still maintain a single self-image, but only for limited amounts of time.”
“Like the appearance Riker witnessed in the corridor.”
“I believe so,” she told him, not ready to commit herself to that with a blind yes.
“And now it’s clearer?” Picard prompted. “What they want? You have some idea?”
Troi bent her elegant head, lashes like black whisk brooms dropping to shade her eyes. Then she looked up. “Captain, I haven’t told you everything.”
Jean-Luc Picard leaned forward, his elbows rubbing across the desk’s smooth surface and reflected that she of all people was not one whom he counted on for courteous lies. Courteous silence, perhaps. But deception, no. The first reaction was anger, but that flared and died more quickly than a match in wind. Yet such confessions on a starship could cost lives, and always provoked him.
But something had driven her to this, and Picard’s curiosity was plenty bigger than his ego at this point.
“Then tell me everything now,” he said.
Troi raised her chin as though to walk into the word. “About the confusion. It’s true that there are millions of minds pressing upon me, but there is . . . an absolute unanimity in what they want—”
The door buzzed.
“Yes, who is it?” Picard barked impatiently.
“Riker reporting, Captain.”
Picard started to admit him, but Troi grasped the rim of his desk and pulled forward in her chair. “No, sir, please don’t. Don’t let him in.”
The curiosity burned. “Not even Riker?” Picard said.
“Please, sir . . . ”
He gazed at her for a moment, then spoke aloud to the intercom. “Just a few more minutes, Mr. Riker.”
There was a thunderous pause. Picard could imagine the glances running the main bridge.
“Yes, sir . . . I’ll be out here.”
Picard indulged in a little grunt and muttered, “Sounds a bit wounded, doesn’t he? Now, what’s this all about, Counselor? These people want us to do something for them?”
“You have a decision to make that no single person should have to make. I thought you shouldn’t also have to live with the opinions of the entire crew. That’s why I’m speaking to you privately.”
“I appreciate that, but please—”
“Most religions describe a kind of hell, Captain,” she said carefully. Her shoulders shuddered with the effort. “Now . . . I know what that
is.”
“No doubt, but what’s that got to do with these beings?”
Troi’s lovely eyes took on a bitter anger. “I can’t make it clear enough, sir, that these people are still alive. They’re not supernatural. They’re living creatures, many of whom are—or were—human as much as you are human. They have truly achieved immortality. They are still conscious and self-aware.”
“All right,” Picard told her, “I understand that. What do they want?”
She clamped her hands into two tight balls, the skin thinning over her knuckles and turning icy white. “They want you to help them die.”
* * *
“Quit saying that. You’re not a machine. I can tell that by just looking at you.”
Geordi LaForge gave Data a playful push as they entered the dark corridor that led to the warp reserve. It took clearance through three doors, each marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY before they were admitted to the especially heavy door marked
RESTRICTED AREA
ANTIMATTER RESERVE CONTAINMENT CENTER
NO ENTRY WITHOUT LEVEL 5 CLEARANCE
The room was very dark, lit only by two tiny pink utility lights on either side. Data’s flashlight cut a clean white path before them. Though the darkness still pressed around them, Geordi could see quite well by that small brightness, and he led the way through stacked storage crates and high-clearance mechanical and computer panels.
“I expected a lot of problems to come my way on space duty,” Geordi said, “but I didn’t expect one of them to be trying to find a definition for life itself.”
“That is indeed the captain’s dilemma now,” Data said, “because of me.”
“It’s not because of you. Cut it out. Boy, after all this trying to act human, you sure found an annoying way to actually do it.”
Data looked up into the darkness, quickly, hopefully. “What am I doing?”
“Pitying yourself, that’s what. Knock it off.”
Since he hadn’t been aware of doing it, Data wasn’t quite sure what to knock off. By the time he found knock it off in his memory banks, the subject had passed and Geordi was leading the way into an anteroom that held most of the computer monitors for the actual antimatter containment. On the dim panels, a few lights and patterns were flicking and flashing away happily in their mechanical ignorance, as if trying to say that all was well, all was as it should be.
