He carefully clipped the leads to the correct nodes, then plugged them into the port on the computer and activated the diagnostic program that would examine every one of Data's processing centers and check them for signs of degradation and malfunction. They went through this process about four times a year, more often if there was a lot of wear and tear. He was, he knew, the closest thing Data had to a personal physician.
Despite this—and it grated his engineer's pride to admit it—if he ever had to perform any kind of major “surgery” without Data's guidance, he would be utterly lost. Geordi understood what Data's parts did, but had almost no clue as to how. It was, he knew, why Bruce Maddox had been so keen on taking Data apart. Duplicating Soong's work was the current Holy Grail of artificial intelligence. But to dissect is to kill and Data had, as far as Geordi was concerned, every right to refuse to be disassembled. As for the others—Lore, Lal and the three failed prototypes—well, that was Data's business.
Almost as if she had been reading Geordi's thoughts, McAdams crossed to the transparent cases where the inert androids stood. Geordi had noticed when they had come in that the vault doors weren't, as they usually were, opaque, but the lights were off, so all that could be seen were the androids' shadowy outlines. Then, McAdams touched the glass, the case's sensors registered her presence and the lights flicked on. McAdams was momentarily startled, but then curiosity overcame anxiety and she bent down to study the androids' faces. She pointed at the three that stood to one side. “These are Soong's prototypes?” she asked.
“Yes,” Data said.
“They don't have features,” she observed. “But they're not like the shapeless mannequin we saw in Maddox's lab, either.”
“No,” Data said. “Giving the android distinctive facial features is one of the last steps in the process. Obviously, Commander Maddox and Professor Vaslovik had not reached that stage.”
“But according to Lieutenant Barclay, they were going to activate the android on the night of the storm,” McAdams said. “Wouldn't they have wanted the android to have features when it was switched on?”
“Not necessarily,” Data replied. “I did not create features for Lal, precisely so that she would have the opportunity to choose her own.”
McAdams looked at the form of a small young woman at the far end of the row of androids. She looked so serene, Geordi thought, as if she were only meditating and might open her eyes at any moment.
“She was very pretty,” McAdams noted.
“Thank you,” Data said, obviously pleased. Geordi was impressed by the sensitivity that McAdams displayed by speaking of Lal in the past tense. The empty form in the vault was no more Data's daughter than a portrait in a mausoleum.
McAdams smiled, then turned her attention to another of the androids. “This is Lore?”
“Yes,” Data said without inflection. “My brother.”
“Why do you look alike?”
“We were created in our maker's image.”
“Oh,” McAdams said. “Why?”
“An interesting question, Lieutenant, one that I have pondered on numerous occasions,” Data said. “It may have been simple vanity. And, given my father's opinion of himself, it may not be an invalid conclusion. However, I believe the true reason is that my father wished to feel as if some part of himself would continue on after he died. He had no children.”
“Biological children,” McAdams corrected.
Data seemed delighted. “Yes. Exactly.”
Pointing at the last body in the row of cases, McAdams asked, “This is your mother? Dr. Tainer?”
“Yes.”
“She was lovely, too.”
Data nodded, but didn't answer. The room was silent for several minutes as La Forge continued to work. McAdams was still studying Tainer's face when she spoke again.
“Data?”
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Why don't you just fix them?”
To La Forge's surprise, Data didn't hesitate to answer. “The knowledge to repair a positronic brain after cascade failure does not yet exist. When a neural net succumbs to such anomalies, the structure of the matrix is not recoverable.”
“That explains Lal, but what about Dr. Tainer and Lore?”
“My father programmed Juliana to undergo cascade failure when she reached a certain point in her life. Lore posed too great a danger to others while he lived, and I took steps to ensure that his positronic brain can never be reactivated.”
McAdams seemed to consider all of that. “Then, if you don't mind my asking . . . If there's no way any of these six can be reactivated . . . then why not give them to Commander Maddox to study?”
La Forge froze. He couldn't help himself. McAdams had just asked a question that never occurred to him. He found himself holding his breath, the diagnostic wand he held poised over an interface node on the surface of Data's skull as he waited for his friend's answer.
Finally, in a quiet voice, Data said, “It just seemed wrong, Lieutenant.”
La Forge allowed himself a small smile as he started breathing again and went back to work.
McAdams let silence fall again, still studying Dr. Tainer's face. “I agree with you, Commander,” she said after a few moments.
Turning away from the case, she continued, “I also agree with you about Maddox's lab.”
La Forge and Data both looked up and answered as one: “You do?”
McAdams frowned. “Yes. Why is that so surprising?”
Data opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to reconsider what he was going to say, and started over. “Does it not trouble you that the physical evidence does not support my conclusions?”
“But that's exactly it,” McAdams said. “Everything about it strikes me as too convenient. The failure of the weather grid, the lightning strike, the overloaded power conduit—all on the night that the android was to be activated? And the only surviving witness is in a coma that no one's been able to coax him out of? I'm with you, Commander: nothing about this feels right.”
“Wait a minute,” La Forge said. “Are you suggesting the storm was engineered? That the lightning was timed and aimed at the power grid?”
“Of course not,” McAdams said. “But someone could have sabotaged the weather grid, and used the cover of the storm to engineer the EPS overload, making it look like an accident.”
“An intriguing theory,” Data said. “Unfortunately, it is also one unsupported by any evidence.”
“So far,” McAdams admitted. “That could change. I just can't shake the feeling that something, someone, wants us to believe in a version of reality that would make our lives much easier. One thing I've learned, Commander, is that whenever something looks easy, it's probably a lie. Life isn't that convenient. It's . . . complicated.” There was something in her tone that made Geordi think she wasn't really speaking to them anymore. McAdams was continuing a conversation she had once had with someone else, perhaps more than once.
Geordi looked at his friend and was surprised, but pleased by what he saw. For the first time since he had returned to the Enterprise, Data looked neither stressed nor confused. He looked simply . . . intrigued. “Lieutenant?” he asked.
“Yes?” she replied distantly.
“Would you like to discuss your theory further?”
McAdams shook herself as if waking from a dream. Looking around the room, she said, “I'm getting hungry. How about over dinner, Commander?”
“I do not need to eat, Lieutenant.”
“Then you can talk while I eat.”
Data pondered his options. Finally, he said, “However, just because I do not need to eat does not mean that I cannot.”
“Even better, Commander,” Rhea responded.
“Please call me Data, Lieutenant.”
McAdams smiled. “Rhea.”
The door signaled and Picard heard Data call out, “Enter.” The portal hissed open and the captain strode in purposefully, but, then, sensing the mood in the room, slowed h
is pace and studied the three officers. McAdams and Data were both pictures of wide-eyed attentiveness, though he sensed there was something else happening, like someone had just told a joke they would never, ever tell in his presence. La Forge pretended to be absorbed in his padd. Picard smiled warily and asked, “What have we discovered, Geordi?”
“All primary and backup systems are performing at optimum levels,” La Forge said. “No problems with the interface between the positronic brain and Data's neural net.” Scanning farther down the summary, he noted, “Some stresses showing on his emotional subroutines, but, again, well within tolerance levels. I'm going to run my results through the ship's computer, just to be sure, but unless it shows that I missed something, I expect to be able to give Data a clean bill of health.”
Picard nodded. “Very good, Mr. La Forge,” Picard replied. As the engineer withdrew to a console on the far end of the lab, the captain turned to McAdams and said, “Lieutenant, you're dismissed. It would seem that we will not be needing anyone to watch Commander Data, after all. Please drop by my ready room at the end of your shift so I can speak to you about a special assignment.”
“Very good, sir. Thank you.” Smiling, she rose. “See you around, Commander La Forge.” Then, more warmly, McAdams finished, “See you later, Data.”
Picard cocked an eyebrow at Geordi to see if he had any idea what was going on, but the chief engineer just shrugged, grinned and turned his attention back to the diagnostic display.
The captain smiled. “So. How are you feeling?”
Data, who was still staring at the door, suddenly turned and looked at him. “With all due respect, Captain, that information does not seem to be relevant.”
Ouch. I suppose I deserved that one. Picard sighed and grabbed one of the swivel chairs in the lab. He sat opposite his operations officer and took a moment to collect his thoughts before admitting, “Counselor Troi has helped me to see that perhaps it should be, Data. I've just come from speaking with Admiral Haftel. I believe I've convinced him that you should be allowed to look into the Maddox affair personally, pursuing whatever lines of investigation you see fit. It wasn't an easy decision, and Admiral Haftel will be looking at the results of your investigation very closely.”
Data reached up to disconnect the lead from his cranium. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I hope I will be able to reassure the admiral. May I make a request?”
Picard nodded.
“I would like to ask that Lieutenant McAdams assist me in the investigation. I believe her talents and background in security would be valuable.”
Picard smiled. “Precisely the assignment I was going to discuss with the lieutenant,” he said. “The Enterprise will remain in orbit and at your disposal for up to three days. If you haven't found anything by then, we close the investigation. That was the compromise I made with the admiral.”
“I understand, sir,” Data said. “I will not give you a reason to regret your decision.”
“You never have, Data. Just trust your instincts,” Picard replied. “As I do.”
Chapter Ten
After the captain left his lab, Data, uncharacteristically, did not stir for several seconds, his thoughts racing. At once, he was pleased that Captain Picard was allowing him to pursue the investigation, but was also concerned that he had to put his newfound insight to the test in such a manner. Additionally, there was the question of what other crimes might have been committed. Did he possess the resources to pursue this trail, especially considering his current state of mind?
Since no answer was forthcoming, Data assigned a processing cluster to its consideration, then compressed and archived several files that were running parallel ( including an analysis of a reconfiguration of the Enterprise's Bussard collectors, a review of the works of Tom Stoppard and the composition of a sonnet about his mother), and dumped them into long-term storage. These were all things that could wait. There were other considerations demanding his attention, not the least of which were his unexpected emotional responses to Rhea McAdams.
A cursory self-diagnostic revealed that a surprising number of his standby processors had been activated involuntarily, and all of them were engaged in processing his sensory input from the new security officer: her airborne chemical signature, her facial expressions, the color of her eyes, the shape of her body, the way her hair moved when she turned her head, the sound of her voice . . .
Another anomaly: His outer integument, particularly at his face and extremities, was experiencing a point-three-degree rise in temperature. His one sexual encounter with Tasha Yar had provoked a similar physiological response, but at the time it had lacked emotional context.
This was different.
Data found himself accessing etiquette and protocol studies; he attempted to determine the most likely problems he would encounter during his dinner with McAdams and began running scenarios for dealing with them. He quickly determined that the issues were too complex to resolve with the resources he had assigned and attempted to sort and prioritize the variables. This did not clarify his thinking particularly, but it did make Data aware of a peculiar, but not altogether unpleasant, nervousness.
“Data?”
“Yes?” Data said a bit too suddenly. He realized he had forgotten Geordi. No, not forgotten, but become less aware of his presence, somehow, as if Data were . . . preoccupied. The thought, like so many other recent new experiences, intrigued him.
“I said, that was quite an interesting conversation you were having with Lieutenant McAdams.”
Data nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It was. Though I have the feeling that I may have missed some of the undercurrents.”
His friend grinned and leaned back against the edge of the control panel. “I don't think you missed anything important. Looked to me like you were just getting to know each other better through banter. It's deceptively sophisticated behavior and you were holding your own just fine. I confess it's not something I'm that good at myself and the lieutenant seems like a formidable opponent.”
“Opponent?” Data asked, confused. “I sense that you are being ironic, but I fail to completely grasp your meaning.”
Geordi faltered. “I just meant . . .” He paused again and tapped his lip with a fingertip. “I guess what I'm saying is that Rhea is a kind of woman who will keep you on your toes. She's very quick, very . . . I don't know . . . combative . . . ? Do you understand what I mean?”
Data quickly parsed Geordi's statements for possible meanings. Though several interpretations suggested themselves, none was so overwhelmingly probable that he felt like he could, in good conscience, assure his friend he had grasped his meaning. He shook his head. “No, Geordi. I do not.”
“All I'm saying is . . .” Geordi sighed resignedly. “I'm sorry. This isn't one of my best areas. What I'm trying to say is that you might be entering into terrain that even those who have years of experience with emotions sometimes have problems traversing.”
Data nodded. “I believe I understand now. You are concerned for my welfare and are attempting to warn me away from circumstances you think might be perilous.”
Geordi sighed with relief. “Yes,” he said. “That's it exactly.”
“Also, I am currently in what might be described as an emotionally vulnerable condition.”
“Good point.”
“But is it not possible,” Data asked, “that this is one of the attributes that Lieutenant McAdams finds attractive?”
Geordi weighed this consideration, then held up his hands in mock surrender. “You know,” he said. “You might not need my help, after all.”
Rhea McAdams's quarters were decorated in a simple, almost austere manner. She had removed most of the Starfleet-standard furnishings and broken up the main room into irregular spaces with painted folding screens. The main living area was centered around a low, wide table that was surrounded by cushions. Around the window, there were several small pen and ink studies of Mount Fuji that Rhea had done, she explained,
during her student days. There was a faint tang of incense in the air and Data noted a small table at the edge of the space set with an incense holder and a trio of small holograms.
“Those are my parents,” Rhea called from the dining area, where she apparently had several cooking devices engaged. Such equipment was optional to most crewmembers aboard starships, but few chose it over the convenience of a replicator. “And my grandmother—my mother's mother.”
The man was red-haired and fair, but the woman, black-haired and small in stature, closely resembled Rhea. “Is your mother standing on the deck of a boat?”
Rhea called, “That's the Ryo-oh-ki, one of the fishing boats she owned.”
“Fishing boats?” Data asked. “Commercial fishing?”
“Yes, commercial fishing,” Rhea said, poking her head into the living area. “Some Japanese people, especially the more traditional families, take fish very seriously. Many of them won't eat replicated fish, especially if they're having sushi. It doesn't have the correct texture.”
“It sounds as if you know a great deal about fish,” Data said.
Rhea laughed an unexpectedly loud guffaw. “You could say that,” she said. “From the day I could walk, could crawl, I've been around fish. Worked on the boats and on the docks, hauled fish, cleaned fish, packed fish. Do you know what we're having for dinner tonight, Data?”
Data considered, then guessed, “Fish?”
“No!” Rhea laughed. “Anything but fish. I hate fish. I joined Starfleet to get away from fish. Do you know what they told me I should specialize in at the Academy?”