Strike Zone Part 13

"Journal of Applied Sciences," said Data crisply. "Volume eighty-three, issue number nine, I believe."

Wesley was calling up Data's references on one of the computer screens. He stared at it, scanning through to the table of contents and looked at it. Then Data actually jumped slightly as Wesley slammed a hand down on the counter. "Aw nuts! How could I have missed that?"

"How indeed?" said Data. "Certainly the voice interface from the computer would have referenced you to that article."

Wesley, looking more despondent than Data had ever seen him, said, "I haven't been using the voice interface."

"What?"

"I shut off the voice interface. I've been scanning everything manually."

Data blinked in confusion. That was foolish. It was the equivalent of shutting down the s.h.i.+p's warp engines and using oars instead. "Wesley ... why?"

"It was giving me problems."

"I think that very unlikely," said Data, feeling a bit stung. While in Starfleet Academy, Data had been instrumental in doing some updating and redesigning of the computer system used aboard stars.h.i.+ps, including greater sophistication in its communication skills and expansion of its already formidable memory. "The s.h.i.+p's computer is extremely ... what is the old-style term ... 'user-friendly.' "

"Well I didn't like it," replied Wesley in annoyance. "I'd ask it research-oriented questions, and it would say 'Purpose of research?' "

"It's designed to do that," said Data, "in order to be as specific as possible in its replies. Its efficiency is increased."

"Yeah. But when I say 'Investigating cure for the Rot,' it just says back 'No cure at present.' I get enough of that from humans. I don't need a machine telling me that too. So if the computer's not going to be on my side, I don't have to talk to it."

Now Data knew something was seriously wrong. "Wes ... the computer can't be on anyone's side. It's just a ... " Then he paused. He was about to dismiss the computer in the same way that the recently arrived Dr. Pulaski dismissed himself when the subject of his humanity was raised. It was most annoying. Was it possible that ... the computer could become annoyed, too? There were the legends of one computer, over three hundreds years ago, that had become upset with the human occupants of a s.p.a.ce s.h.i.+p, and the results had been unpleasant. Besides, what if the computer had feelings. Ridiculous? Any more ridiculous, he wondered, than he himself?

Opting quickly to change the subject, Data said, "Wesley, if you would like, I will be happy to aid you in whatever way I can when I am no longer needed on the bridge."

Wesley smiled raggedly. "Thanks, Data. It's appreciated. But I'll be fine. Really."

The screen blinked out.

And Data wasn't sure which human trait Wesley was displaying just then ... lying, or kidding himself.

"I hope these quarters will be to your satisfaction."

Kobry stood in the middle of the room and turned slowly, nodding. "I have had much worse, I a.s.sure you."

"Good." Picard and Kobry were alone, the rest of the Klingons having been shown to their quarters nearby. Picard took a step forward and said, "I need to talk with you about a rather delicate subject."

"That is supposedly my specialty," said Kobry. He was wearing a large ring on his right hand, and he had now, to Picard's mild surprise, flipped open the top, revealing that it was hollow. He had removed a small vial from his suitcase and opened it, revealing its contents of round, blue pills. He transferred several of them into his ring and looked up innocently as Picard watched him. "For my health," Kobry explained. "Something of great concern to me. A Klingon does not live to be my age if health is not of paramount concern."

"I must admit, I cannot recall seeing a Klingon of your advanced years."

Kobry again gave that small, intriguing smile. "The advantage of my stature, Captain. I'm a smaller target. Now ... that matter you wish to discuss?"

Picard resisted the temptation to inquire about Kobry's stature, particularly since it was none of his d.a.m.ned business. "Yes ... that matter. Before the Kreel come aboard, I am going to request that your guards turn over their weapons to me for safekeeping."

Kobry looked mildly amused. "I thought you might."

"Will that be a problem?"

"That depends on how you define 'problem.' "

Picard gave silent thanks that, with an opening like that, Data wasn't in the room. "You're implying that your men will object."

"To put it succinctly."

"You could order them to."

"That I could. But since their first priority is to protect me, it is very likely that they will be ... reluctant ... to follow the order."

"Nevertheless, I must insist. Once the Kreel come aboard, the slightest argument could lead to a phaser pulled in anger. I would much prefer not to put that temptation at hand."

The door buzzed and Gava entered. She smiled at Picard and said to Kobry, "You are comfortable, Honorable Kobry?"

"Quite. The captain here wishes my men to turn over their weapons. I was apprising him of the difficulty of that."

"You are saying that, if we ask them to hand over their phasers, they won't do it?" asked Picard.

"Oh no, I'm not saying that at all. In fact, they probably will hand over their phasers since this is, after all, a diplomatic mission."

"Then what is the difficulty?"

"The difficulty," said Gava, "is that each of those Klingon bodyguards you see has at least eleven weapons on him."

Picard's eyes widened. "Eleven?"

"At least," affirmed Gava cheerfully.

"But I only saw the phasers."

"Of course," said Kobry. "That's all you're meant to see. With Klingon warriors, it's always a matter of pride, finding new and interesting places on one's person that a weapon can be hidden. Remove their phasers if it will satisfy your sense of decorum, Captain. Gava will accompany you, to relay that that is my wish in this matter. But disarm my men? Very difficult. The only way you'll detect every weapon is with detailed sensor scans, and once detected, you'll never manage to get my people to part with those anyway. They'll fight to the death first."

"Yes, 'death first' seems to be a rallying cry these days," said Picard ruefully. "Very well then. I believe I will take you up on your suggestion to remove the phasers. At least give the Kreel a cosmetic belief that no overt threats are intended."

"As you wish."

"My concern is for the civilians aboard this s.h.i.+p. I do not want hostilities to break out aboard the Enterprise."

"None of us does, Captain. Well ... actually, I should qualify that statement. I don't. You don't. Hopefully, at least one member of the Kreel diplomatic party doesn't. Other than that," and he shook his head, "my people are spoiling for a fight. It would not take a great deal to set them off."

Picard turned to go, then looked back at the small Klingon. "This is going to be a very tense trip."

Kobry smiled. "Stimulating, isn't it?"

Picard walked out, Gava right behind him. They were met in the corridor by Worf who said, "The honor guard has been settled in their quarters, Captain."

"Excellent, Worf. Now, I believe I'll need your a.s.sistance on this as well. I will be requesting that each of the honor guard relinquishes their phasers to the head-of-security. Namely you."

If Worf was surprised at that, he didn't show it. "Yes, Captain."

"Worf," said Picard after a moment, "do you have eleven weapons on you?"

Worf stiffened. "Of course not, sir."

Picard sighed. "Good." Then a thought struck him.

"How many ... do you have on you?"

"Fourteen."

Picard looked stunned. "Worf ... do you feel that's appropriate? Regulations ... "

"Regulations give the head-of-security broad discretionary powers," said Worf. "If I have the lat.i.tude to protect this crew and myself with extra ... insurance ... I will do so."

Gava said, "Fourteen? In a uniform far less designed for weapons concealment than that of a Klingon? Very impressive."

"Everything about me," rumbled Worf, "is very impressive."

Oh G.o.d, thought Picard.

Chapter Ten.

DR. PULASKI ENTERED sickbay to find Wesley Crusher exiting with half the med lab.

"Wesley!" Her voice went up half an octave. "What are you doing?"

With a small antigrav cart, Wesley had collected an impressive amount of hardware, primarily chemicals and various culture-growth machines. He stared at her blankly for a moment, as if trying to remember who she was. Then, sounding a little distant, he said, "I needed some things."

"This isn't needing things! This is bordering on grand theft. Now you put it all back." She looked more closely at him. His complexion was decidedly pallid, his eyes bloodshot. His normally immaculate hair was messy and seemed unwashed. "Wesley," she said slowly, "how long has it been since you got any sleep?"

"I've been sleeping."

"For how long?"

"Until I woke up. Can I pa.s.s please?"

"No! I said you couldn't. I'm not going to let you go waltzing out of here with all this equipment. It's enough that I've given you access to as much as I have. Look, Wes," she said in a gentler tone, "why don't you lie down for a while?"

"I'm fine. Really." He smiled wanly. "You know how it is when you get really caught up in something. You just keep plowing ahead."

Pulaski thought back to her days in research, and before that, her years in medical school. If there was one thing she identified with, it was compulsiveness. Still ...

"Wesley, I really can't approve of you taking this much equipment out of here. Now if you need something synthesized, you contact me and give me the specifics and I'll do it."

"That will take too long," protested Wesley. "You're always going to have other things to do. More important things to do. Everyone has always had more important things-that's why there's no cure for this disease yet."

And at that moment, Data came in. He stood there for a moment, blocking the door, and Pulaski and Wesley stared at him expectantly.

"Wesley," he said. "I am pleased that I found you here."

"Pleased, Data," Pulaski said, not bothering (it seemed to Data) to remember that he preferred his name p.r.o.nounced with a long "a" rather than short. "How impressive. Pleased." She seemed very amused by that, far more amused than was Data.

"Wesley," Data began again, not allowing his train of thought to be disrupted. "I am becoming concerned for you. Your call to me several hours ago had you in a far more agitated condition than you usually are. I think you are pus.h.i.+ng yourself far beyond your capacity."

The fact of the matter was that Pulaski had had the exact same sentiments ... until Data stated them. Now, however, she heard herself saying, "Who are you to judge what Mr. Crusher's capacity is, Data?"

"I am a friend."

"A friend. I see." Arms folded she looked at him thoughtfully. "Listen, Data ... the difference between machines and men are that machines do indeed have limits. Defined limits beyond which their capabilities cannot extend, until they are redesigned. Human beings have the ability to constantly surpa.s.s their limits and set new ones. That is part of the joy of being a truly living individual ... something I would not expect a machine to understand. Now you purport to be alive. Do you understand?"

"Hey," Wesley said sharply. "You don't have to come down on Data like that."

"No, Wesley," said Data. There was a hard edge in his voice. "Dr. Pulaski is free to state her opinions. In answer to your question, Doctor ... yes. I understand. Perfectly. I understand, in fact, more than I believe you would suspect."

"Well, good," said Pulaski, smiling in such a manner that Data couldn't tell whether it was sincere or sarcastic. Without giving him a chance to decide, Pulaski turned to Wesley and said, "The additional equipment you need? Take it. Just be prepared to return it to me immediately if I need it. Oh, but don't take the Wa.s.serman Chamber. An eager young med student named Katherine Pulaski once removed a specimen from a Wa.s.serman, a mere five seconds prematurely, and blew out the sides of the lab."

"Fair enough," said Wesley, and he picked up the large silver, oven-shaped device to bring it to the rear med lab.

And the moment he was out of earshot, Data said in a low voice, "Doctor Pulaski, if you have a difficulty with me as a member of this s.h.i.+p's crew, I think you should tell me. I don't understand why you feel the need to make rude comments about me."

She looked more amused than she had before. "I wouldn't expect you to understand, Data. It's a human foible."

Data took one step toward her, and there was something about the movement that spoke volumes. "Try me." When she didn't answer right away, he said, "Do you have a strong ant.i.technical bias?"

Her eyes narrowed as she appraised him. "You mean, do I dislike machines? Not in the least." She paused, as if trying to verbalize for the first time something that had been more free-floating irritation than anything else. "I think machines are marvelous. Machines are a testament to man's ability to think, to plan, to challenge and overcome his environment. Machines as man's servants are a wonderful thing."

She stood there, waiting for Data to pick up on what she was saying. He didn't. He just stood there, guileless, blank. Waiting for more input, of course, she realized. She sighed. "Don't you see? Machines and humans ... it's like apples and oranges. You can contrast them, but you can't compare them. So a machine that believes that it's a human ... that walks, and talks, and pretends to be something that it's not ... well, it's just absurd. It's a joke. A machine pretending to be alive ... how can it possibly be taken seriously? Or believe that it's going to be taken seriously?"

"I see," Data said slowly. "You are, of course, putting forward a hypothetical situation ... that being, a machine that believes that it's alive."

"Of course," said Pulaski diplomatically.

"A truly interesting hypothetical. Let us take it another step further, if you don't mind."

"Not at all."

"Let us a.s.sume that this machine actually tested out as being 'alive' by all standards that would normally apply to any human. That this machine thinks and feels. That this machine dreams of ... "

"Electric sheep?" asked Pulaski helpfully.

" ... dreams of being fully, unequivocably human. Wouldn't that indicate anything about the state of being alive, Doctor? Where does the division between machines and man end?"