Star Trek: TNG: Cold Equations II: Silent Weapons (9 page)

Lost in this wilderness of maudlin reminiscence, Data was three-tenths of a second slower than normal to realize that he was being followed. It wasn’t the first time he’d had this feeling since arriving on Orion. It had happened on the night he’d arrived, and shortly before both his meetings with Hilar Tohm. Unable to corroborate his suspicions, he had tried to dismiss them as mere paranoia, the product of an emotional misfire in his positronic matrix. Now it haunted him again—the sensation of being watched. Of being hunted.

He quickened his pace, hoping that if he could get off the main thoroughfare and into the service corridors, he could either confront his pursuer or evade him long enough to beam back to the
Archeus
and get off the surface. Once out of orbit he would be free to engage his ship’s cloaking device and resume his hunt for the Immortal once known as Emil Vaslovik.

The crowd ahead of him thinned as he turned a corner. At first it felt like an opportunity: open ground, free of obstacles. Then he saw it for what it was: a danger zone. An area devoid of camouflage or cover. The nearest escape points ahead of him would be too far to reach in time if his pursuer had a beam weapon. At the risk of hastening the confrontation, he chose to stop and double back into a more densely trafficked part of the starport. He flipped up his collar and lowered the brim of his hat to hide his face, then tucked his hands into his pockets and lowered his chin as he rounded the corner, returning the way he’d come.

As soon as he made the turn, he heard the bark of an angry masculine voice.

“Commander Data! Drop to your knees and place your hands on your head!”

A dozen Starfleet personnel in black commando uniforms had emerged from concealed positions along the corridor, and ten more looked down from the level above. They all aimed their combat rifles at Data, and a clatter of running footsteps behind his back told him that he was surrounded. Civilians scattered, screaming in panic, as the Starfleet security force advanced on Data, slowly shrinking their perimeter around him. A male Bajoran seemed to be the one in charge. Data froze as the man shouted, “Commander! This is your final warning! Drop to your knees and place your palms on your head!”

With careful, slow movements, Data lowered himself first to one knee, then he tucked the other knee under himself. Before removing his hands from his pockets, he clutched the quantum transmitter he’d concealed in his pocket, and which held a prerecorded message he’d saved in its transmission queue as a hedge against an unforeseen emergency. A single tap on the finger-sized metallic cylinder sent the SOS to the one person Data knew he could trust to answer it. Then he took his hands from his pockets and placed them atop his head.

“Hold your fire,” he said. “I surrender.”

7

The door signal was so understated that it barely rose above the ambient background hum inside Picard’s ready room. The captain closed the crew evaluations he’d been reviewing to fill the time between Worf’s increasingly bleak reports on the search for the
Sirriam
. “Come.”

With a faint hiss, the door to the bridge slid open. Chief engineer La Forge entered holding a small metallic cylinder the size of his finger. Worf was close behind him. Both men wore stern expressions. Holding up the device, La Forge said, “Captain, you need to hear this.”

Picard stood and stepped around his desk to meet his two most senior officers. In addition to serving as the ship’s chief engineer, La Forge had accepted a promotion several months earlier and was now the ship’s second officer, third in command of the
Enterprise
. It had been a long overdue recognition, in Picard’s opinion. Not only had La Forge served with distinction at his side for many years, it was a sensible precaution to have a senior member of the ship’s chain of command serving somewhere other than on the bridge, and main engineering was the only location other than auxiliary control from which one could have full command of the ship.

“What’s this about?”

La Forge held up the device. “I just got a message from Data, on this quantum transmitter he gave me before he left the ship a couple of months ago. Listen.”

He pressed one of the cylinder’s controls, and Data’s voice filled the room as if he were there with them.
“Geordi, this is Data. I am on the Orion homeworld. I need your help. Please come at once.”

“That’s the entire message,” La Forge said. “I’ve tried hailing him. He doesn’t answer.”

Picard was troubled by the brevity of the message. “You’re certain it’s genuine?”

“Data has the only quantum device linked to mine.” La Forge frowned. “If he sent that, he’s in trouble. And if someone else sent it posing as him, then he’s in even
more
trouble.”

It was a reasonable argument, and Picard shared La Forge’s sense of obligation to their old friend, but he didn’t have the luxury of simply defying orders and abandoning his mission. He looked at Worf. “Number One? Where do we stand with the search for the
Sirriam
?”

The Klingon wore his disappointment like a crown of shame. “So far, we have no leads. The
Roanoke
has detected no sign of a crash site on the third planet, and none of our shuttles have found any sign of the interceptor on the gas giants’ moons. If the pilots did survive a crash landing in this system . . . they likely ran out of air more than two hours ago.”

“Then, even in our most optimistic scenario . . . those men are dead.”

Worf breathed an angry sigh. “Yes, sir.”

He shared his first officer’s frustration. As remote as the likelihood of a successful rescue had seemed, Picard had dared to hope they might save the lost agents and bring them home to their friends and families. But if there was no way the men could be saved, if the
Enterprise
’s mission to the Tirana system was now little more than a glorified salvage effort, then he had to place the needs of the living ahead of the needs of the dead, regardless of what his superiors might have to say on the matter. Still, he knew it would be wise to make certain he and his crew had at least a modicum of legal cover for their actions.

“Number One . . . based on your reading of Starfleet’s general rules and regulations . . . would you classify Mister Data’s message to Commander La Forge as a distress signal?”

A smirk indicated that Worf understood Picard’s implicit suggestion. “Yes. I would.”

“Then our course of action seems clear.” Picard stepped back behind his desk. “Number One, recall our search teams and have Lieutenant Faur plot a course to Orion. Mister La Forge, when Commander Worf gives the order, we need to be ready for maximum warp. Understood?”

La Forge smiled. “Yes, sir.”

A devious gleam shone in Worf’s eyes. “Will you be informing Starfleet Command of our change in plans, sir?”

Picard sat down. “I shall. Though I
have
been rather absent-minded of late, Number One. If I haven’t contacted Starfleet by the time we reach Orion, please remind me to do so.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Dismissed.” Worf and La Forge turned to leave. The door slid open ahead of them, but they halted at its threshold when Picard called after them. “Gentlemen?” He waited for them to turn around, then he continued. “As far as the rest of the crew is concerned, treat the reason for our change in plans as need-to-know information.”

Both men nodded, then continued on their way. The door closed after them, leaving Picard once again sequestered with his thoughts. For a moment, he considered contacting his superiors and apprising them of Data’s call for help and the
Enterprise
’s response, but years of experience with Starfleet’s endless layers of bureaucracy had taught him the inestimable value of discretion; if one never asked permission, one could never be refused.

He made his decision and resolved to stand by it. If, after all was said and done, apologies needed to be made, there would be time for that later.

We’ve only just welcomed Data back from the dead,
he reminded himself,
and I quite literally owe the man my life. . . . If he needs our help, he’ll have it—no matter what.

•   •   •

Data sat in silence at the minimalist monotanium table inside the claustrophobic interrogation room, waiting to see who next would walk through its lone door. The gray thermocrete walls were bare, and feeble light came from a naked fixture high overhead. No surveillance devices were visible, but Data was sure they were there, and that he was being observed. He was shackled at his wrists and ankles with magnetic manacles. The chair beneath him—also monotanium—was bolted to the floor. It would take only a token effort for him to rip it free, and he knew at least three ways to use his internal circuits and power supply to deactivate and remove his restraints, but he knew such actions would only worsen his already poor situation.

Though he had been moved around via transporter beams a few times in the hours since his arrest, he had noted enough details on signage and accoutrements in the institutional-looking corridor outside the interrogation room to deduce that he was being held inside the Federation Embassy.
Most likely I am on one of its secure underground levels, from which I cannot be rescued by a transporter beam.
According to his memory of the layout for this embassy—one of many seemingly trivial facts he had accumulated during his decades of Starfleet service—there were many layers of armed Starfleet security between him and the closest exit, and multiple redundant safeguards to prevent him from getting there.

The door slid open. In shuffled a lumbering, bovine-featured hulk of a humanoid, a Grazerite. He wore a Starfleet uniform accented with the burgundy turtleneck of a command officer and carried a thin briefcase of brushed nickel-aluminum alloy. As the door closed, the Grazerite set his case atop the table, pulled back the chair opposite Data’s, and sat down.

“Good morning, Mister Data.”

“Good morning. Who are you?”

“Lieutenant Commander Peshtal-Azda.” He extended a beefy hand, then retracted it when he realized Data was in no position to accept the friendly gesture. “I’m your attorney.”

Data eyed him with dubious curiosity. “I do not recall asking for legal counsel.”

“The Starfleet JAG office sent me. But don’t let that fool you—I’m actually competent.” He opened his case and took out a padd. “So, let’s see, here.” Scrolling through the files stored on the device, he subvocalized a number of worrisome murmurs. He looked up and squinted. “I want to make sure there’s been no mistake—you are Lieutenant Commander Data, yes?”

What an odd question
. “Yes.”

Peshtal-Azda held the padd at arm’s length while squinting even harder. “No offense, but you look a bit different than your service record photo.”

Data cracked a sly smile. “I had some work done.”

“Apparently.” He tapped at the padd. “Has anyone told you why you’re here?”

“Not yet.” He leaned forward, hoping for a look at the padd’s screen, but the Grazerite kept it tilted just out of view. “Am I correct in assuming I am inside the Federation Embassy?”

The lawyer nodded. “For now. Starfleet asked the local police to pick you up, but they refused because no one can produce any evidence against you.”

Lifting his shackles as high as he could, Data replied, “Yet I am in custody.”

“Well, that’s because the evidentiary standard for a military tribunal is significantly lower than for a civilian criminal trial.” Data started to voice an objection, but Peshtal-Azda cut him off with a raised hand. “I know you think you’re a private citizen, but Starfleet considers you an officer on reserve status, which means you remain subject to its authority.”

Starfleet’s regulations were vague with regard to the status of officers who were returned to life after being declared dead, but Data had no difficulty believing someone had persuaded the admiralty to reactivate his commission without his knowledge or consent. He let out a low, bitter chuckle and shook his head. “Would it be too late for me to resign?”

A sour look telegraphed the lawyer’s reply. “A bit.”

“With what crime, exactly, have I been charged?”

“So far? Attempted breaking and entering, and criminal trespass. But there are more charges under investigation, and if the JAG office gets its way, you’ll be facing all of them.” Peshtal-Azda picked up the padd and navigated its contents with a distracted air. “My job is to defend you, here and in court. But I can’t do that unless you trust me.” He leaned forward. “Let’s start by having you answer a few questions to set up your alibi. Why are you here on Orion?”

Data had been afraid this line of questioning was coming. “I cannot say.”

Peshtal-Azda scowled at him. “Commander, I’m your lawyer. Anything you tell me is protected by attorney-client privilege. And don’t worry about the surveillance systems in the room—by law they have to be deactivated whenever a defense counselor is meeting with a client. Now, let’s try that question again—and answer truthfully. Why are you on Orion?”

“I am here because of a private family matter.”