Star Trek: TNG 064: Immortal Coil

  Data looked down into Rhea's eyes and was almost overcome by a surge of muddled emotions. Not since the days right after he had installed the chip had he felt so confused or so vulnerable. Data wanted desperately to say something—preferably something profound and heartfelt—but his tongue felt like a lump of wet cardboard in his mouth. He looked into the eyes of a person whom he was almost certain he loved desperately, and, like so many lovers in the annals of humankind, he resorted to impulse. “Rhea,” he blurted out, “would you interface with me?”

  Rhea stared at him blankly for several seconds. She had stopped crying at least. Then, an eyebrow twitched and the left corner of her mouth slowly inched upward. “Why, Data,” she said dryly. “Are you coming on to me?”

  Now it was Data's turn to stare. He said, “I am on.” Then, he blinked. “Oh. I see. Humor. That was funny.”

  “So, why aren't you laughing?”

  “I am not certain,” Data said. “So I have stored away that particular emotional response for a more appropriate moment.”

  She climbed up onto the bench and knelt so their faces were on a level. Rhea cocked her head to the side, considered, then nodded. “Good enough,” she said. “And to answer your question, I'm afraid our systems aren't compatible . . . that way.” She reached up and lightly brushed his cheek with the tips of her fingers. The sensation sent a shiver down Data's spine. “We're going to have to find out about each other the way the humans do—one minute at a time. One thought at a time. One kiss at a time.” She leaned forward then and touched her lips to his; a feather's brush, but it almost sent Data reeling back on his heels.

  Data reached up and almost touched his mouth, but did not for fear that it would erase the lingering sensation. “I believe,” he said, “I can live with that.” He looked at her and saw her smiling, relaxed, unafraid. He hated to have to pursue another topic, but he felt he had no choice. “But what of Vaslovik?” he asked.

  The smile did not leave Rhea's face, not immediately, but Data saw sadness steal into her eyes. She laid her hand on his and squeezed it, saying, “He's a very old and lonely man, Data. He's been everything—great, meaningless, good, evil, creative, destructive, selfish, selfless—everything. He's known dear friends, terrible enemies, devoted lovers . . .” She sighed. “But in six thousand years, there's never been anyone to share the totality of his life, no one with whom he could look forward to the future.” She looked up into the endless depths of space and said softly, “He needs me.”

  Data did not reply immediately. He did not wish to add to her burden, but could not resist the need to speak his mind. “I need you, too.”

  She looked back into his face and her eyes glowed with affection and regret. “I know,” she said. “But not as much as he does.”

  And then, Data had an insight. Before he even knew why, he asked, “Rhea . . . what do you need?”

  Her head jerked then like someone had just poked her between the ribs and stared at Data openmouthed for the count of three. “What do I—?” she began to ask, but before she could speak another word, Rhea was cut off by the sharp clang of a klaxon. Rhea flinched, stuck her fingers in her ears and waited several seconds for the alarm to shut off. When it did not, she grabbed Data's hand and led him to the exit.

  The klaxon was not quite so deafening outside the performance hall, but Data put off asking any questions. It did not require intuition to see that something was wrong and Rhea was obviously leading them to someplace where they could do something about the situation. They went down the spiral stairway, out into the hall, through the section Data had visited, then out the other side. Soon, they left behind the artwork and carpeted floors and entered the station's gray-walled nerve center.

  Vaslovik stood in the center of the giant, circular room. As soon as Data and Rhea entered, the klaxon shut off and Data saw an exocomp flutter away into the dark upper recesses of the chamber. He wondered if the exocomps were nervous around anyone other than Vaslovik, or if maintaining the station required constant activity on their part.

  Vaslovik was studying a huge holographic tactical display of the star system, the station a red circle at its center. To his left was a two-dee schematic of the station, which was undergoing a subtle change in configuration as weapons and defensive mechanisms began to sprout from ports. To the right was a smaller holotank, one which Vaslovik was ignoring for the moment. Data studied it for several milliseconds before he recognized it for what it was: a political map of the quadrant. Data watched facts and figures crawl up and spiral through the displays: population studies, movements of Starfleet and other military forces, and detailed readouts of spatial phenomena—a continuous galactic “weather” report, culled from who knew how many sources to which Vaslovik had gained access?

  But before he could ponder these questions any further, Data's attention was drawn by events unfolding on the tactical display. A red streak of light crossed a perimeter line and closed with the station's lower hemisphere. Small yellow dots flew out from weapons ports—torpedoes or some kind of antimissile device—but nothing impeded the red streak's passage. Seconds before it struck, Data grabbed the edge of the nearest console and was alarmed to see that neither Rhea nor Vaslovik did the same.

  The red streak flared against the underside of the station schematic and damage control figures scrolled down the screen, but the deck did not rock. Data glanced at Rhea curiously. She looked back at him. “Good inertial dampeners,” she said. “Better than the ones you find on most starships, anyway.”

  “Clearly,” Data acknowledged. “But can the station sustain another such explosion?”

  “It had better,” Vaslovik said. “We're being fired upon again.” In the holotank Data saw a tangle of red threads converging on the station. Data estimated a fleet of twenty ships, perhaps more.

  “Do you have any countermeasures?” Data asked and began to study the consoles before him. Many of them were Federation issue, though several were much older than any of the interfaces he had ever used.

  “Yes,” Vaslovik said, manipulating controls. Blue streaks blossomed and a constellation of yellow dots raced toward the red streaks, some of which flared and died. Many more red streaks passed through the conflagration unhindered. Behind the first wave came a second. “But not enough, I fear. They made it through my pickets, which is where most of my power was concentrated.”

  Vaslovik and Rhea frantically manipulated controls, Rhea moving at almost superhuman speed. Data studied her movements and began to see how the battle might be won. If they could keep the automatic defenses primed and guide the computer to take out the attacks that were most likely to cause critical damage, they might survive.

  Seconds before the red streaks were intercepted by Rhea's spread of anti-torpedo devices, the torpedoes seemed to divide.

  “Multiple warheads!” Vaslovik shouted and scrambled to reprogram the computer, but it was already too late. The torpedoes impacted in a half-dozen spots and this time Data felt the floor rock beneath his feet.

  “Damn!” Vaslovik shouted and leapt away from the main tactical computer as it sparked, overloaded and died. Rhea took a half-step back, but was too slow to abandon her station and was caught by the shock wave. Her small form was launched across the room and it was only dumb luck that Data was close enough to catch her.

  The dim rumble of explosions echoed through the room and a new klaxon blared. Exocomps appeared and put out small fires. Data helped Rhea to her feet and though she reassured him she was uninjured, she did not release his hand. When they looked at Vaslovik, he was on his knees before the console, pulling open access panels. After examining the circuits for no more than a few seconds, Vaslovik said a curse word in Ancient Greek so obscure that Data didn't recognize it or any of its antecedents. “Well,” Vaslovik said, standing, “that's that.”

  “The whole system?” Rhea asked.

  Vaslovik nodded and wiped his hands on his pants. The holotank flickered and the field collapsed. The tactical
of the station contracted, locked and stayed frozen. Data realized that the galactic schematic had been gone for several seconds.

  “How long before they arrive?” Rhea asked.

  “Hard to say,” Vaslovik said. “Minutes. Maybe only seconds if they avoid some of my tripwires.” The station rocked again and this time they all had to steady themselves against the console. “Our shields will hold for a while, but not forever, and the place is just too damned big for us to defend it manually.”

  “Then hook me up to the main computer,” Rhea said. “I'll try to guide it. You two can get to the ship and then beam me—”

  Vaslovik and Data shook their heads as one. “It won't work, Rhea,” Vaslovik said. “Even you can't produce enough processing cycles to keep the station running. Your system has depth, but what we need here is power. This system . . .” and he pointed at the tactical computer “. . . was a dedicated AI. It was built to do, to be, one thing. You aren't.”

  “He is correct, Rhea,” Data said. “Neither of us would be effective in this capacity.”

  “Then what are we going to do?” Rhea asked just as the station rocked once more. The floor listed to the side, then slowly righted itself.

  “That's not good,” Vaslovik muttered ominously. “The generator that powers the gyroscopic system and the AG might be damaged.”

  “Your question is answered,” Data said to Rhea. “We must leave.”

  “We wouldn't make it a hundred meters from the docking bay,” she retorted.

  “I have an idea,” Data said. “Vaslovik, give me access to your inventory system.”

  Vaslovik hesitated for a moment—he was too accustomed to being his own master to respond instantly— but then nodded and turned to a console on his left. He keyed in a password and waved Data to the control surface.

  It took Data seven point seven milliseconds to comprehend the layout and functioning of the control surface, precious time that they did not have to waste, but his years of serving as a Starfleet operations officer served him in good stead. All databases share certain characteristics and he developed a search algorithm almost more quickly than the CPU could process it. He found the information he sought, shut down certain subsystems, pieced together a piece of kluge code, debugged it, then inserted it into the processing system.

  Twenty-five seconds after he had he logged onto the system, he looked up at Rhea and Vaslovik and said, “I must stay and make sure the program initiates correctly. Instruct the exocomps to evacuate the station. I assume you have a ship?”

  “Yes,” Vaslovik said, his eyes narrowed. “It's in the main landing bay.”

  “Go to it and prepare for departure. I will meet you there in four minutes.” The station rumbled again and they all briefly felt the artificial gravity lose power. A panel on the wall at the periphery of Data's vision sparked and blew out as circuit breakers overloaded.

  Rhea took Vaslovik's hand, but seemed unable to take her eyes off Data. He said, “I will not fail to make our appointment.” Still, she did not move, so Data added, “I do not make promises I have no intention of keeping. Your mother would have liked that about me.”

  Rhea could not help but laugh. “All right,” she said. “But you're on probation.” She left with Vaslovik in tow, her father asking what was all this about Rhea's mother.

  Data returned to his task and, one minute and fifteen seconds later, left the war room and headed back down the corridor to the living area. Two minutes after that, he was running down the wide hall to the landing bay, passing numerous works of art along the way. It was sad to think that so much beauty was about to be destroyed, but better that, Data reasoned, than the artist. Vaslovik could always paint more pictures, sculpt more statues, design more cathedrals.

  Rhea awaited him in the hatchway of a small private craft and Data was absurdly pleased to see that it was the same ship that Vaslovik, Soong and Graves had used to travel to Exo III. He would have laughed aloud when he saw the name painted on the ship's bow—Old Bastard—if he would have allowed himself time. Perhaps later, he decided and leapt through the hatch. Vaslovik must have been in the pilot's chair because no sooner had the door closed behind him than the ship was rising up on antigravs. The sudden lurch caught Data off-balance and he tumbled into Rhea, who steadied him, then turned the motion into a quick hug. He slipped his arm around her waist—a new, but welcome sensation—and pulled her to him. “Hold on,” he said. “This is where it will get interesting.”

  Four minutes earlier, the Enterprise burst out of warp at the edge of the system and slid into normal space. Sensors had already picked up signs of a battle: a score of the iceships were peppering the station with torpedoes and disruptor fire, but there was no sign that they had employed the subspace phase weapon. The station was shielded and heavily armored, but it didn't appear to be defending itself. Also, strangely, none of the iceships paid the Enterprise the slightest bit of attention. Whatever was inside the station—and Riker had a pretty good idea what it was—the attackers wanted it pretty badly.

  Then, as one, the ships focused their firepower on a docking bay on the station's underside. As the doors opened, Picard commanded, “Tactical, covering fire for that ship. Attack pattern delta four. Torpedoes and phasers—fire.”

  A small ship arrowed out from the bay at full impulse and the sensor readings showed that they were almost ready to jump to warp despite their proximity to the gas giant. Whoever was flying the ship, Riker decided, had guts and knew how to fly. Another second and they might have made it.

  The Enterprise's torpedoes and phasers hit their target, seemingly disabling at least one of the ships, possibly slowing two others, but it wasn't nearly enough. The firepower concentrated on the tiny ship's shields was more than any craft of its class could take, least of all a ship that, according to sensors, appeared to be over a hundred years old. The shields flared, then, in seconds, bloomed orange-yellow, then white.

  “Hull breach imminent,” Riker said.

  “Can we extend our shields—?” Picard began, but it was already too late. He counted silently as the data scrolled past on his tactical monitor.

  “It's gone, sir. There's nothing left.”

  “Scan for life signs,” Picard snapped. “Transporter room: lock onto anything in that wreck. Make sure you scan for tripolymer structures.

  But what about Rhea? Riker wondered. Was she tripolymer? Would she still read as a life sign? Dammit, but artificial life forms could sometimes make this job as complicated as time travel . . .

  “Got them, Captain,” the transporter officer reported. “Data has his combadge. And a human life signature, probably Vaslovik. He's wearing an e-suit that's projecting some kind of force-field bubble. Probably what saved them.”

  “Can you get a lock, Chief?” Ship's shields made transport impossible. But a man-size force field was another matter.

  “Locked on, sir.”

  “Drop shields and energize. Send them to the bridge unless they're injured.”

  “Yessir. No sign of any ill effects on the human . . . Wait.” The transporter officer grunted, and Riker accessed the transporter system so he could see what was happening. Something was attempting to override the transporter beam. Riker dumped emergency power into it and the beam stabilized.

  “What is it, Number One?” Picard muttered, trying to keep his voice low.

  Riker never had the chance to answer.

  Moments later, a figure wearing an environmental suit materialized on the bridge, and Picard immediately ordered the shields raised. After studying his surroundings through the smoked visor for several seconds, their visitor reached up and undid the helmet seals.

  Emil Vaslovik blinked in what, to him, must have seemed like bright light, fixed his gaze on the center seat and said, “Captain, I had hoped we could meet someday . . . though under different circumstances. Where are—?”

  Picard said only, “Look at the viewscreen, Professor.” Vaslovik slowly turned around and saw the Exo
III ships. They were turning toward the Enterprise.

  Data had barely felt the cold of space before the transporter beam swept them away. Vaslovik's personal force field had protected them while the ship had disintegrated, but to stay alive he had been forced to contract the field as soon as they hit hard vacuum. When the transporter effect faded, the first thing he was aware of was that Rhea was standing next to him in what appeared to be a spacecraft control room. Then, he saw the ten, long, pale, utterly identical faces staring down at them. He remembered the creatures he'd fought in Vaslovik's sanctuary on Galor IV, and the body Soong had found on the ice cliff of Exo III. The beings facing him now were indentical to those.

  The only one of the ten who was in any way distinguishable was standing apart in the center of the chamber. He was, Data decided, the leader. And when he turned to face them, Data saw the hatred that shaped his face, but a hatred not for Data or Rhea, precisely, but directed inward. It was self-loathing Data saw there, commingled with anger.

  “Intriguing,” Data said.

  Speaking from the corner of her mouth, Rhea said, “Data, if we're going to keep dating, we're going to have to have a long conversation about what you consider ‘intriguing.’ ”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Evasive maneuvers!” Picard ordered as the Enterprise took another hit. “Bridge to engineering. I need those countermeasures, Mr. La Forge.”

  “Working on it, sir.”

  “Work faster, Geordi. Picard out.”

  “Captain,” Vaslovik said, dropping his helmet to the deck. “We have to rescue them! I demand that you—”