Data hesitated. “Perhaps not,” he admitted. “At least, not so quickly. Eventually . . .”
“Eventually, more of them would have died,” Vaslovik said. “And in a state of slavery.” He looked around the room. “They helped me build this station.”
“So, you bartered for their services?”
Vaslovik shrugged. “I would have let them live with me for free, but the truth is they don't enjoy being idle. It's not in their nature . . . though I've noted that some of the younger ones are more inclined to be indolent.” He laughed. “Youth! Some things never change.”
Data smiled. He would scarcely have believed that an organic being could understand a biosynthetic so well, but he was beginning to see that Vaslovik was exceptional in many regards. But then he gave voice to a thought he had been concealing, both from Vaslovik, and also from himself. “And yet,” he said, “in all this time, despite your obvious interest in artificial intelligence, you never tried to contact me. Neither did you attempt to salvage any of the androids created by Dr. Soong. Why?”
Vaslovik appeared to be genuinely confused by the question, but after thinking about it for a moment, he laughed and clamped Data on the shoulder. “Why?” he asked. “Why would I have? There was never any need. You were doing a fine job keeping the opportunists at bay. Noonien knew what he was doing when he made you, Data.” And with this, he squeezed Data's shoulder, then released it. Data, for his part, was surprised to discover that he felt a bittersweet sadness about the fact that at no time in his life had he ever known anyone who felt like they could pat him on the shoulder that way.
Troi was not prepared for the waves of conflicting emotions she felt rolling off Captain Picard when he reentered the observation lounge. He had just safely ensconced Sam in a vacant VIP cabin, then escorted Admiral Haftel to the transporter room where, Troi was certain, their argument about Sam's fate had continued every step of the way.
Picard was worried, naturally, for Data and McAdams, as he would be for any of his crew who were in harm's way, but mingled with the concern was a tight ball of black anger. This troubled Troi, not only because Picard was so rarely angry, but because she was unable to determine precisely at whom the anger was aimed. There were so many candidates. Was it McAdams, whom Picard had come to genuinely like and trust in the short time she had been aboard? Was it the android bartender Sam, who seemed to be responding to the potentially deadly events as blithely as he would a story unfolding in a holo-novel?
Of course, the anger might be directed at Haftel, who was, Troi decided, revealing himself to be more of a conservative, old-school Starfleet admiral at every turn. His gut reaction had been to throw Sam into a holding cell and call in the “experts.” Of course, who those experts were precisely no one knew. Maddox? Perhaps . . . and perhaps that would be the best solution. The conservative solution frequently was, or, at least it was the path that involved the least amount of risk. But there were too many unknowns here, too many blank variables to consider. It was always times like these when Data was the most valuable member of the command staff. His ability to catalog the capricious, to sort those elements into some kind of order . . .
And then the last possibility struck Troi. Perhaps the captain was angry at Data. The always faithful, always dependable Data had gone and done something unpredictable: he had fallen in love, or, at least, something very close to it. She had heard Will's report about what had happened on the planet's surface and had to consider the possibility that Data's decision to face the Exo III androids unassisted had been motivated by a desire to protect (possibly even impress?) Rhea McAdams.
Picard sat down heavily in his chair, let out a sharp breath through his nose, and looked around at the faces of his remaining command crew. Both Will and Geordi appeared calm, though exhausted, and ready to undertake any task their captain should lay at their feet. Then, he glanced at Troi and, to her surprise and relief, he smiled wryly. “The answer, Counselor, to the question plaguing you is ‘Myself.’ I'm angry with myself.”
Surprised by his perspicacity, but pleased by his openness, Troi responded, “You have no cause to be, Captain. You've handled events as well as anyone could—better, I expect, than any of the participants could have anticipated.”
“Have I?” he asked dryly. “Then why do I feel like I've been stumbling down a dark alley and being rapped on the back of the head by every scoundrel and charlatan who feels up to taking a shot?” The captain reached up and lightly scrubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. He needs sleep, Troi decided. How long has it been since he rested? Picard looked at her again and said, “And, yes, I do need sleep, though I'm afraid tea will have to do in its stead, at least for a little bit longer.”
“A little food, too, sir,” Troi suggested.
Picard nodded. “As soon as we finish here, Counselor. Otherwise, I know you'll turn Beverly loose on me and none of us wants that. The doctor has more than enough to do.”
“Casualties were high, Captain?” Geordi asked. He had been too busy working on repairs to hear Crusher's report.
Picard squared his shoulders and turned away from the window. They were back to talking about the crew now, not himself. “High enough, but it could have been worse.” He nodded at Troi, smiling. “Thanks to some impressive battle maneuvers.”
“Taught her everything she knows,” Riker said.
Picard rubbed his forehead, trying to mask a grin, and asked, “What have you been able to discover about Vaslovik?” he asked.
Riker arched an eyebrow and activated the room's main viewscreen. “After you told us what Sam said about him, the computer was able to track down these images in the Starfleet archives. Computer, display file Vaslovik-one.” The computer complied and brought up a holo of Vaslovik. “This was taken several years ago at a scientific symposium on Vulcan,” he explained. “He wasn't even the true subject of the image. The Andorian to his left . . .” Riker shifted the focus of the image. “. . . was the main speaker. As far as we can determine, this is the only recorded image of Vaslovik in the Starfleet archive until he joined Maddox's project. Apparently, he's always been a little shy about being recorded.”
Picard grunted acknowledgment, thinking about the number of times any of the three of them had been recorded in either log files, security dossiers or news items. True, they were Starfleet officers, but even the most mundane citizen of the Federation could expect to have his likeness cataloged at least once every day or so.
“And here,” Riker continued, bringing up a second visual, “is another image we found in an unrelated section of the Starfleet archives. It was part of a tricorder scan taken by Dr. Leonard McCoy of the Constitution-class Enterprise on Stardate 5843.” The image was what Picard would expect of a tricorder recording from the era: two-dimensional and overlaid with technical data. Despite that, seeing the two images side by side on the viewscreen, there was no denying the truth: some relatively minor cosmetic differences notwithstanding, these were two different portraits of the same man. Vaslovik and Flint.
“Amazing,” Picard breathed. “He hasn't aged a bit.”
“Apparently not,” Troi explained. “Though, according to the computer, there are no fewer than seven points of difference in the morphology. Flint's ears, for example, are slightly larger and the earlobes are attached, while Vaslovik's are detached. Flint's nose is straight while Vaslovik's looks like it must have been broken once and healed poorly. It's hard to be certain, but we think Flint's eyes were closer together—”
“But why not completely alter his appearance, or just grow a beard?” Picard asked.
Troi shrugged, flicking her eyes at Riker. “That's hard to say, sir, but from what we know, I'd say the answer is probably, at least a little, vanity. He likes the way he looks.”
“What do we know about the encounter with Flint?”
“That's the odd thing, sir. Very little,” Riker said. “The story of the old Enterprise's encounter with a six-thousand-year-old immortal human named Flint is fai
rly common, now, and a subject of some considerable controversy among Terran historians. But the logs of the three Enterprise officers who met him—Captain Kirk, Commander Spock, and Lieutenant Commander McCoy—talk about Flint mostly in the abstract, as a human anomaly. They describe his home, his abilities, his financial and technological resources—”
“Such as?” Picard prompted.
“He'd purchased the planet he was living on. He manufactured guardian robots to tend his estate, and he conducted experiments in more advanced forms of artificial intelligence to create self-aware androids. And, according to the logs of all three members of the landing party, with the press of a button he was able to put the entire Enterprise into stasis, shrink it down to the size of a toy and transport it onto a tabletop.”
Picard regarded his first officer skeptically. Riker shrugged. “I'm only telling you what was in the files, sir. It may have been a trick, but it may also be a mistake for us to dismiss the story out of hand. Think of the kinds of things Q can do—”
“Point taken,” Picard agreed. “Still, from what we can piece together, Vaslovik is human, isn't he?”
“So the scans would indicate. In fact, according to McCoy's tricorder readings, Flint had sacrificed his regenerative abilities when he left Earth. Something unique in Earth's ecosphere, McCoy reasoned, had kept him alive.”
“I think,” Picard sighed, “we should consider this a clever ruse on Flint's part. Given the resources at his disposal, after six thousand years of moving seamlessly from one identity to another and covering his tracks, we shouldn't be surprised to find he could fool a tricorder.”
“If you read McCoy's personal logs,” Troi said, “you'll see that the doctor hints at the same conclusion, though he seemed to be reluctant to state it unequivocally.”
“Why would he hesitate?” Picard asked.
“It's difficult to be certain,” Troi admitted. “Although the officers' logs are full of empirical information about Flint, they're surprisingly lacking in details of the landing party's interaction with the man himself. My impression,” the counselor continued, “after reading all of them, was that something of an intensely personal nature happened to Captain Kirk during that encounter, something that none of the officers wanted known.”
Picard frowned, unhappy with the thought Troi had put forward, but resigned to going forward with the information they had. He turned to the chief engineer. “What can you tell us about the escape pod, Mr. La Forge?”
“Pretty much what Commander Riker said about it: standard Starfleet issue, a few years old, but in excellent condition. I traced the registration back to a ship destroyed at Wolf 359. Vaslovik must have salvaged and refitted them.”
“Can you track the pod that Data and McAdams used?”
“Well, that's the odd part, Captain,” La Forge said, warming to his topic. “Normally, I'd say no, not after it went into warp, not with all the background radiation from that exploded ship. But someone activated a beacon, some kind of subspace signature. We should be able to follow it without any problem.”
“Why is it there?” Riker asked.
“Only one reason I can think of,” Geordi explained. “It's a trail of breadcrumbs. McAdams . . . or Data . . . wanted us to follow.”
“Wasn't that a rather risky thing to do?” Picard asked. “What if we had lost the fight? Then the androids would have followed them.”
“That's a very good point, Captain,” La Forge agreed. “And the only answers I can think of are that either Rhea or Data decided we wouldn't lose or . . .” He trailed off.
“Or?” Riker prompted.
“Let's just say that when we come out of warp wherever the breadcrumb trail ends, we should have shields up to full and phasers charged.”
“An excellent tactical recommendation, Commander,” Picard agreed. “Perhaps you should return to the engine room to make sure we can follow it. Estimates for completing repairs?”
La Forge was already on his feet and headed toward the door. “Two hours, Captain.”
“There's one more thing, Geordi. According to Sam, the androids built their vessels by studying the remains of Dr. Korby's spacecraft. Check the sensor logs from when they attacked earlier and see how their warp engines register. They might have advanced weapons, but I'm willing to guess that their propulsion system is a hundred years out of date. I need tactical options that would take advantage of that fact.”
Riker grinned broadly. “Yes, sir. After what they did, it would be a pleasure to hand them some of their own.”
Picard smiled grimly. “I'm glad to hear you feel that way, Mr. La Forge. I doubt very much that we've seen the last of those ships.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Vaslovik fell silent—it seemed like he had finally run out of things to say—and Data once again felt his attention drawn by the piano music he had heard when he awoke. The player had picked up the thread of Liszt's Piano Concerto No. 1 in E-Flat, attacking it with verve and brio.
Watching the expression on Data's face, Vaslovik suggested, “Take the first doorway to the left and go to the top of the stairs.” Data turned to leave, but before he left the room, the professor called, “Thank you for everything you've done for her, Data.” He bowed at the waist, a solemn, courtly gesture that might have been learned centuries earlier in some fine, shining court. For a moment, Data felt that he was once again catching a glimpse of the old warrior he had seen for a moment through Soong's eyes on Exo III.
“I believe, sir,” Data said, returning the bow, “that it is I who should thank you. You saved my life today.”
“Well,” Vaslovik said, straightening, “the day is still young. We may trade favors before it's over.”
Data recalled again the brief view of the gigantic spacecraft he saw through the escape pod window. He would have to attempt to contact Starfleet soon; it was his duty. But, first, there was something else he needed to tend to.
The stairway was wide and curved to the right in a lazy spiral. As Data ascended, and the music grew louder, he wondered what he would say to her first. Confront her for lying to him continuously about her true nature? For hiding her knowledge of the Maddox affair? For concealing her relationship to Vaslovik? No, he realized. While it displeased him that she had done those things, he found he understood why she had felt compelled to. She needed to protect herself, she needed to experience life among humans, and she needed to learn who she could trust.
She trusted me.
Data clung to that thought as he reached the top of the stairs, and the music changed once again, from Liszt to playful variations of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” first performed as if it had been composed by Mozart, then by Beethoven, then by Wagner. The virtuosity displayed by the musician might have seemed pretentious if it weren't so obvious that she was having so much fun. There was no door at the top of the stairs, only a wide archway that opened into a cavernous space. As he had known she would, Rhea sat at a grand piano on a wide platform framed against the stars. The concert space was at the top of the station's tallest sections and was completely enclosed by a force field so carefully modulated that there wasn't even a hint of blue shimmer. The floor was highly polished black marble and it reflected the stars so well that it looked as if Rhea was floating in space.
She must have sensed his presence, but Rhea did not look up, not right away. Her dark hair was pulled back in a nonregulation ponytail that Data found to be aesthetically pleasing. She had changed into civilian clothing, probably something that she had left behind at the station: dark slacks and a long-sleeved plum-colored blouse. Her eyes were half-closed and she did not look at her hands as she played.
Rhea looked up then, smiled and beckoned to him to join her with one hand though she continued to pick out the simple tune with the other. When she reached the last stanza, she finished with a minor chord that reverberated throughout the dome.
Data clapped his hands lightly as he climbed the three steps to the platform and Rhea b
owed her head, blushing. “That was lovely,” Data said. “I did not know you played.”
“I just tried for the first time a little while ago while you were resting,” she explained. “I was looking for something to do, so it seemed like a good time to learn how to play the piano . . .” And here she laughed. “Believe me, it sounds as strange to me as it must to you. Vaslovik, Maddox, Barclay, Zimmerman . . . they gave me all this knowledge, all these abilities, but they also gave me the ability to be astonished by them.” She smiled, a little wistfully, Data thought, then asked, “Do you play?”
He walked across the wooden floor to stand beside her and saw that she wasn't wearing shoes, but had been working the pedals with bare feet. He was surprised to see that her toenails had been painted a bright cherry red, though the paint was now a little chipped. The two smallest toes on her left foot were curled more closely inward than the toes on her right.
“I prefer the violin,” Data said, “though I have been told that my playing sometimes lacks shade and variation. I believe that this problem has lessened somewhat since I installed my emotion chip . . .” He let the thought trickle away into silence, realizing that he had no desire to talk about music.
Both of them let the silence stretch out for several long seconds. Then, Rhea played a soft chord with her left hand, but it was flat and quickly fell still. “So,” she said, looking at the keys, “he told you everything?”
It was, Data decided, a purposefully ambiguous question. He considered several hundred ways to respond, then settled on the simplest. “Yes,” he said. “Everything except where we are to go from here.”
With a quick, precise motion, Rhea pulled the cover over the keyboard with a dull thunk. “I'm afraid I don't have that answer,” she said. She looked up at the dome of stars over their heads and Data saw, to his helpless dismay, that there were tears in the corners of her eyes. “Strange as this may seem, Data, I don't completely understand this universe I was created to live in.” She sniffed and one of the tears broke free and ran down her cheek. “Does anyone? But . . . but my existence seems to have catalyzed so much conflict, so much strife. I've been online . . .” Rhea laughed derisively at her own choice of words and started again, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I've been alive for only a couple of weeks, but I've been afraid almost every moment of it.” She looked into Data's eyes. “Except when I've been with you.”