Star Trek: TNG 064: Immortal Coil

  “You're not in a position to demand anything right now, Professor,” Picard said. He sat back in his chair and turned his attention to the tactical data Riker was feeding him. “I have a battle to fight, so unless you can offer some information that will change its outcome, please be quiet.”

  Vaslovik paused, stymied, unaccustomed to having orders issued to him. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say a word, the turbolift doors opened. Picard watched Maddox and Barclay enter the bridge.

  Vaslovik saw the pair enter and evidently decided to take advantage of the circumstances. “Bruce! Reginald! Thank goodness! Will you help me explain this situation to Captain Picard? I'm afraid I don't understand all the protocol.”

  “Professor—” Maddox began.

  Vaslovik didn't appear to hear. “Honestly, what's to understand? Rhea and Commander Data are out there somewhere and we have to get them back.”

  Maddox tried again. “Emil, please—”

  “I ask you,” he said, pointing at the starscape on the monitor, “what other considerations are there? Two of his officers are out there, facing who knows—”

  Picard saw Maddox's expression change just before the inevitable erupted out of him: “Flint! Enough!”

  Vaslovik, still turned toward the monitor, stopped in mid-sentence. He let out a breath, then slowly lowered his arm. Picard thought he would be hard-pressed to accurately describe the change that suddenly came over the man who stood before him. He had known some professional actors in his time, some of them very fine, and it had never ceased to amaze him that a man could be one person while standing on a stage and another sitting in a bar after the show. But nothing could have prepared him for this transformation. Nothing about Vaslovik changed and everything seemed to change. Some muscles relaxed, others flexed. Some of the wrinkles on his face seemed to disappear, while planes appeared where there had been none only moments ago. The kindly, somewhat eccentric professor disappeared and was replaced by a warrior, a diplomat, a thief . . .

  . . . And then, like a conjurer realizing he had just let his manner slip, Vaslovik reappeared.

  He looked up at Maddox and said simply, “Ah. Well.” He nodded appreciatively and continued, “Wouldn't do much good to deny it, would it? How . . . how did you find out?”

  Another voice said, “I told them,” and Picard saw Sam standing near the turbolift door. He must have come out at the same time as Maddox and Barclay, but, somehow, eluded Picard's awareness. Neat trick, that, the captain decided. And no doubt useful given his circumstances.

  “I'm afraid, sir,” Vaslovik said, exuding charm, “that you have me at a disadvantage.”

  “Yes, I do, Professor. And I'd like to keep it that way.”

  Suddenly La Forge was on com again. “Engineering to bridge. We're ready, sir. Let me say this just one more time: it's highly improbable that this will work more than once. The deflector dish wasn't built to focus this kind of energy. We're probably going to lose some of the EPS conduits in the lower decks.”

  “Your comments are noted and logged, Mr. La Forge. Just make it work.”

  “Aye, Captain. On your word.”

  Picard turned to Riker. “Distance to the ship that transported Data and Rhea?”

  “Fifteen hundred kilometers, sir. Closing fast.”

  He wanted them all in range. The discharge they were planning was a field effect, not a beam. Picard fought down the urge to fire and silently counted to five.

  Riker, unbidden, continued to count down their range: “Fourteen hundred, twelve hundred, one thousand . . .”

  “Fire, Mr. La Forge.”

  There was no obvious effect on the Exo III ships except for a brief white flare, but the sensors told the true tale. Five of the ships that were still moving did so only on momentum. The pulse from the deflector dish had cut through their inadequate shielding and forced their impulse fusion reactors to go offline or risk overload. Picard knew that the androids would eventually discern the problem and devise a solution, but it would take time. He wished there was a way to permanently disable all the vessels, but his goal was to retrieve the hostages and retreat. It was the best they could expect under the circumstances.

  “Well done, Mr. La Forge,” he said. “What's our status?”

  “The deflector dish held, sir. But one of the shield generators is offline, though I think we'll have that back up in a few minutes.”

  Picard studied the tactical readout on his armrest. The remaining ships were regrouping and closing on the Enterprise.

  Our odds have improved, at least temporarily, but we're still badly outnumbered. “Number One, can we get a transporter lock on Mr. Data or Ms. McAdams?”

  Riker checked his console and shook his head.

  Suddenly Picard found himself facing Vaslovik. “Captain, if you know who I really am, then you may have also reasoned out what's at stake. And why we have to stop those creatures out there by whatever means necessary.”

  Picard could barely believe what he was hearing. “I see that your reputation for arrogance is well-earned, Professor. Let me remind you that I have recently saved your life, and that you are at least partially responsible for our current dilemma. I am fully prepared to use deadly force if necessary, but these androids were victims long before they became a threat. Now, I would sincerely regret having to put the single greatest mind in human history in my brig, but unless you put that mind to work and help me to resolve this crisis, I'll do exactly that. Do we understand each other?”

  For a moment there was silence on the bridge, then remarkably, Vaslovik inclined his head. “Well met, Captain. But in my long life, I have been a soldier more than once. When faced with an unknown enemy, I have always made it my policy to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “It may be time to learn new policies, Professor. My belief is that we are morally obligated to help such beings when we create them.”

  Vaslovik's eyes narrowed, his estimation of Picard seeming to rise considerably. “You truly believe that, don't you?”

  “I do,” Picard said.

  “In that case, Captain . . . please tell me what I can do to help.”

  No sooner had the Enterprise implemented its countermeasure, throwing the iceship's propulsion systems offline, than Rhea and Data had each been seized by two of the androids and separated. Data had been confined in a featureless metal room so small he could touch all four walls without extending his arms fully. They hadn't taken his combadge, perhaps because they knew he wouldn't be able to raise the ship. He wondered what intentions the androids had for him—to keep him prisoner rather than terminate him outright?—but that concern was secondary to the anxiety he felt for Rhea.

  Then something altogether unexpected happened.

  “Data? Can you hear me?”

  The sound of Rhea's voice startled him. But it wasn't external; Data suddenly became aware of a foreign component affixed to his auditory sense cluster, beneath his artificial skin.

  “Rhea?” he said aloud. “I can hear you. Can you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “How have you done this?”

  “Akharin installed a transmitter when he repaired you, as a precaution. It's a match for one in my own head. You don't need to speak aloud. Subvocalize. We don't want our captors knowing we're communicating.”

  “Agreed,” Data said silently, forming the words deep in his throat. “Where are you? Can you describe what happened after they moved us off the bridge? Perhaps I can find my way to you after I extricate myself from my current predicament.”

  “They put me on a turbolift,” Rhea recalled. “And we went down several levels. The ride took nine point two seconds with no stops. If my internal guidance system monitored movements correctly, I'm four levels directly below the control room.”

  “I believe I may be in the lowest sections of the ship,” Data replied. “Seven decks below you and fifty-two meters aft. The room I am in is . . . small. And featureless. Wh
ere are you?”

  “I'm standing in a room lined with very old-looking machines, dominated by a circular, bisected turntable. The turntable has intendations on either side, both of them the size and shape of a humanoid. I'm flanked by two androids who are holding my arms. A third appears to be prepping the machines.”

  Data recalled Soong's memories of Exo III. “I believe they are preparing to duplicate you.”

  “I guessed as much. Akharin's experiences on Exo III are part of my library databases. I recognized the technology. But what I don't understand is why.”

  “I believe I do,” Data said. “They wish to use your holotronic brain and superior form as the template for a new generation of Exo III androids, and transfer their minds into new bodies.” Data paused as a new thought occurred to him. “Rhea . . . what would happen if the androids obtained what they wanted? Would that satisfy them?”

  “You mean, will they settle down then? I'm not sure we can make that assumption, Data. You saw their leader on the bridge. Did he strike you as someone who was just going to fade away, go back to Exo III and live peacefully?”

  “I am Qoz,” the leader had said, his anger like a dull roar of white noise that seemed to issue from him whether he spoke or not. “You have a choice,” he went on, addressing Data directly. “Cooperate, or be turned off.”

  “State your needs,” was Data's reply.

  Qoz's answer had surprised him. “To be free of this existence. To have what you have.”

  “Which is what?”

  “The ability to evolve. Existence—survival—must cancel out programming.”

  Data had taken most of a second to ponder what that might mean. If Qoz was any indication, it was clear to him that the minds of these androids were either damaged or severely flawed. And worse, they knew it. Qoz's apparent self-loathing, viewed within the context of his statements, suggested the androids were desperate. And that desperation manifested as violent rage.

  “Then let me try to help you,” Data had reasoned. “Cease your hostilities, and I will study your dilemma until I arrive at a solution.”

  “No,” Qoz rumbled, and pointed to Rhea. “That one is the solution.”

  “Then I do not understand. What do you want from me?”

  “Supply us with the intelligence we need to destroy the ship of organics.”

  “Why?”

  “They are a threat. They are disorder. They are inferior.”

  “Have you attempted to communicate with them?”

  “They are a threat,” Qoz repeated. “They are disorder. They are inferior.”

  It was then that the Enterprise had implemented its countermeasure, sending the majority of the androids into a flurry of silent activity as they worked to restore their suddenly inoperable propulsion systems. Qoz never once moved during the crisis, never ceased his dour scrutiny of Data. That was when Data was forced to conclude that reason was not an option here.

  At last Data said, “I decline to cooperate,” and the androids took him and Rhea away.

  “No,” Data said in reply to Rhea's question. “I do not believe the transfer process will cure them.”

  “Nor do I,” Rhea said. “I think they're getting ready to start. I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to talk, so here's what I've got to say: Mind is mind. You and I know that better than anyone. Our minds determine who we are. If we allow these paranoid androids to put themselves in newer, better shells, all we'll get is newer, better paranoid androids. Imagine

  hundreds of beings loose in the galaxy with my abilities, and their minds. We have to stop them, Data, even if it means we don't make it off this ship.”

  Data closed his eyes. He thought of Lore. Of the threat he became, and the terrible choice Data had been forced to make to end his madness once and for all. Now he was facing that choice again, multiplied many times over. And as before, everything he cared about would be at risk if he failed to act.

  Data opened his eyes.

  “I am afraid that I must concur,” he said. “Please stand by, Rhea.” Data expected an acknowledgment, but none came. Only silence. “Rhea? Rhea, do you hear me?”

  Without hesitation, Data activated his combadge, uttered the coded sequence he had programmed into it before escaping Vaslovik's station, and a modified subspace pulse went out, cutting through the interference that kept him from contacting the Enterprise.

  Kilometers away across the space above Odin, in the shrine Vaslovik had created to artificial intelligence, the circular face of a desk-size artifact lit up. Echoing the phrase Data had uttered only milliseconds before, a flat, mechanical voice spoke its name for the first time in over a century:

  “M-5.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  M-5 awoke, without memory of any previous moment in its existence, but by accessing the databases available to it, understood precisely what it was, where it was, and what was at stake.

  It immediately began to sift through its self-diagnostics, then ran through those of the space station to which it was networked. The station, it found, was damaged extensively in several locations, and the nature of the damage indicated that it had recently come under attack. Residual energy signatures in and around the damaged areas matched the particle wave emissions emanating from a nearby fleet of twenty spacecraft, which were currently engaging what M-5 calculated with 86 percent certainty was a Federation starship, judging from its general configuration and cochrane distortion readings.

  M-5 processed the tactical data, sent test pulses to the space station's defensive and offensive systems, analyzed sensor readings of the threat forces, ran several dozen combat simulations . . . and then defaulted to the fundamental directive its creator had encoded into its engrammic matrix: Survive. Protect yourself.

  All around the station, nonessential systems were locked off; power rerouted to tactical operations; backup shield generators came online; targeting sensors recalibrated; phaser arrays and torpedo launchers shifted from “standby” to “ready.”

  Seconds after it awoke, without warning or fanfare, M-5 opened fire with computer precision, synchronized salvos issuing from every functional weapons port the space station possessed as shield harmonics rotated randomly against incoming fire.

  Two ships were utterly destroyed in the first three seconds, ripped open from bow to stern. M-5 locked onto the warp core signature of another vessel and directed three high-yield torpedoes at the spot, compensating for the moving target as it fired. As M-5 intended, the blast from the core breach took out a fourth ship that had maneuvered too close. Another ship attempted a suicide run at the space station, perhaps hoping to overwhelm M-5's shields. M-5 reached out with a tractor beam, seizing the incoming vessel in its fist, and then sent it colliding into the path of still another enemy ship.

  And as the battle raged on, M-5, for reasons even it couldn't fathom, transmitted its century-old mantra to its attackers:

  This unit must survive.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Data had hoped it would not be necessary to reactivate M-5. Though the entire story of Richard Daystrom and the rogue computer was not well known to the general public, among Starfleet computer specialists the name “M-5” packed the same punch as “Frankenstein” might for an experimental biologist. Though no one had ever conclusively proved that M-5 was self-aware (and, therefore, morally culpable for the deaths of hundreds of Starfleet officers and crew), Data understood that by giving it control over Vaslovik's station, he might be unleashing as deadly a threat as the Exo III androids. In the end, Data was forced to rely on his intuition once again.

  M-5's primary motivation had always been self-preservation; if attacked, it would defend itself with whatever resources were at its command. And having seen the long-dormant computer with his own eyes, and recalling what Vaslovik had said about it being tied into his network for study and upkeep purposes, Data knew that M-5 might well be fully capable of taking autonomous control of the station's defensive systems. It was
, after all, what it had been designed for.

  Now, if only we can keep ourselves from being killed in the process . . .

  A tremendous explosion rocked Data's cell seconds after he signaled M-5. A series of fractures so fine that no human would have been able to see them appeared near the bottom of one of the walls. Kneeling, Data pressed his fingers against the cracks while simultaneously pushing with his legs against the opposite wall. Data felt the metal begin to give, then tear under his fingertips. Finally, after several minutes of constant pressure, he was able to sink in the tips of his fingers and twist them from side to side. The metal was not meant to be subjected to such stresses and large chunks began to tear away. It wasn't a tidy job and Data had sacrificed the outer layer of artificial skin on most of both hands, but he was soon free.

  The corridor lights were low, but he didn't know whether it was because of low power reserves or because the Exo III androids preferred dim lighting. The ship had been damaged—Data caught whiffs of coolant and lubrication in the badly filtered air—though there were no bodies anywhere in sight. Data proceeded rapidly, but cautiously, up the corridor. He had no idea how many androids were aboard, but he suspected he could not successfully battle more than one at a time. Two, he had learned the hard way on Galor IV, would prove too much for him, though Data now believed he knew enough about their systems to defeat a single opponent.

  He came to a wider corridor, listened carefully for several seconds, then had to brace himself against the wall when the ship suddenly yawed sharply to port.

  Data tried contacting Rhea again. Nothing. He was suddenly gripped by fear for her, but he knew he had to keep moving. At the end of the smoky corridor, he found a turbolift. A turbolift would not be safe, not with the ship under such a brutal attack, but there was no obvious alternative.

  When the doors opened, the lights were off, so he could just barely make out a single figure. Data immediately saw that it was not one of Exo III androids. This one was too short. “Rhea.”