Spartacus. Part 2

"You don't eat?"

"Not as a rule. I absorb an organic compound on a monthly basis, and use a direct power tap to charge my systems when necessary. I do not, however, need to eat, though I can utilize the sensors in my oral cavity to simulate human responses to culinary matter."

"You can taste, then."

"Yes. I have even found several foods to be of an interesting composition, though I do not possess the ability to truly distinguish between aesthetically pleasing foods and those considered-less desirable."

"Data is many things, but he's no gourmand," Riker explained.

"It was not included in my programming," the android said, simply.

"Well, nonetheless," Kurta continued, "I would highly recommend that you try Porupt's creations, anyway. If nothing else, you can store the sensations for reference at a future time."

"Very well," Data said. Kurta led them over to the kitchen area, and introduced them to the chef, Porupt, who was chopping and slicing the alien-looking ingredients on the board in front of him with the dexterity of a juggler. He smiled a h.e.l.lo and, without taking his eyes off Kurta and her guests, deftly lifted the cutting board and sc.r.a.ped the contents swiftly into a pan where they sizzled delightfully. d.a.m.n good, Riker thought. This guy knows how to swing a knife. It reminded him of his own cooking attempts, and he noted that he needed to have another of his infrequent dinner parties soon. The cook gave the pan a quick stir, and began cutting up more ingredients.

"Kurta. I heard we have visitors," Porupt said. "I see you brought them to the most important part of the ship first. Would you care for a bite?"

"It certainly smells good," Riker said, his mouth watering. "What is it, exactly?"

The chef's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Old family recipe. A secret."

He plucked a container from a rack below the bar and added a small amount to the pan. As he stirred the flavors together, a fine shower of hot oil rained upon his arms, though he didn't seem to notice it. Riker found that strange, but supposed that the man might be used to it.

Kurta slipped behind the kitchen and poured three gla.s.ses of a bright green beverage. "This is, I believe, the proper vintage for the dish?"

Porupt scowled. "Yes, it will do; but it's supposed to be aged seven years. They won't get all the proper nuances of flavor if it isn't. I hate to serve a dish halfway, but I guess necessity wins out over pure art once again."

He pulled three plates from behind the counter and served an equal portion on each. Riker politely waited for his hostess to sit down before he began. She inhaled deeply, then scooped up a pile of food from her plate and pushed it into her mouth. Apparently the local custom made fingers the eating utensil of choice. This didn't bother Riker; he had once attended a banquet where the first and only dish was live mealworms. He picked up a goodly amount of the warm, exotic-looking food with his thumb and forefingers and, pausing only to savor the aroma, stuffed it in his mouth and began chewing.

Data pa.s.sively followed suit. Kurta made an appreciative grunting noise as she chewed and swallowed. Riker fell off his chair.

It was sheer agony. The food was like raw, red-hot antimatter in his mouth. It seemed to burn away the skin cells, the nerves, and eat away at the very fabric of his tongue and mouth in a barrage of alien fire that made him want to tear at his tongue. He grabbed the green wine at his elbow and began gulping it to relieve the onslaught of combustible-seeming spices. He didn't see the look on Kurta's face until it was too late.

"The wine is a little spicy, Commander," she said.

Liquid fire. That was the only way he could describe it. His eyes began to water. Riker desperately gasped for cool air and swallowed madly to get the offending beverage past his taste buds as quickly as possible.

"Water," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely.

"Interesting, Commander," supplied Data, as Porupt quickly poured a tumbler full of clear water for him. "I had no inclination to copy your motions. The food is an interesting combination of molecular patterns and chemical reactions. I was particularly interested in the combination of reactions with the addition of heated organic oils. But I have no desire to gasp, choke, or wildly gesticulate, nor do my optics wish to tear as yours seem to. Perhaps," he said thoughtfully, "I am appreciating this food incorrectly."

Riker was too busy gulping water to answer.

Jared paced intently back and forth in his office. He was suspicious, and it showed. Maran sat in a low couch in front of him, unmoving except for her eyes, which kept track of her commander as he paced. Jared couldn't understand why she wasn't as anxious as he was. The data on the Federation craft, their erstwhile rescuers, had arrived.

"Their vessel is that large? And that well armed?"

"So Dren's crew has relayed. Our scanners are not fully operative yet, however, and so a detailed a.n.a.lysis of the ship and crew is unavailable."

Jared sighed deeply. He hated being without eyes, without knowledge of that which might hurt him ... or help him. He stopped pacing for a moment and sighed again, more peacefully. The storm had been a double-edged sword, then, for if he could not see the Enterprise, then perhaps they could not truly see him. They had no strategic advantage, then. Perhaps. But what were their inclinations?

"What do we know of this 'Federation'? Are they friend or foe?"

"Insufficient data, Commander. The Sarens made some note of the Federation in their exchanges with Vemla, but the information is over two hundred years old."

He nodded impatiently. "Well, what data do we have?"

"The United Federation of Planets was formed as a cooperative organization, designed to share information and present a united, ethical front in the colonization of uninhabited planets. The Sarens viewed them slightly unfavorably, because they attempted to prevent trade of advanced technology to more primitive cultures on the basis that it was detrimental for a culture's development."

Jared halted in his tracks and smiled a harsh, wolfish grin. "Lucky for us that the Sarens ignored them, isn't it? Where would we be now had the startraders not broken the will of the Federation? Certainly, without this wonderful vessel!"

"Jared," said Maran, slowly, "if it wasn't for the Sarens, we wouldn't have been-"

"Yes, yes, I am quite aware of that. Ancient history, now. Sometimes I wish that those merchants had never strayed to Vemla, but then I realize the consequences. In any case," he said, as he resumed his pacing, "we have a problem. How much do the ... Earthmen know about us? Have they seen through the charade? Can we trust them to aid us? Protect us? Or must we attack them to insure our own safety?" These and countless other questions were on his mind. He could do no less as a ship's captain-and a leader of his people-to find out if the Earthmen posed any danger.

"Jared," Maran said again, urgently, "this is not like the other times."

"How so?" he demanded, turning to face her. "Are they not just like the others? They can be beaten-"

"They have an android among them, Jared. He would not be ... susceptible. Besides, they freely offer us aid."

"They do not know us yet! Would they give us the same aid if they did? I do not think so." Did the woman have no grasp of the situation? No clue as to the potential danger? Yes, he would like to believe that the Federation ship would accept them as they were, for who they were, but never in his creation had Jared met the man who had. As his chief information officer, he expected Maran to be as objective as possible, considering all the possibilities so that she could advise him, and yet- "You do not know!" Maran exclaimed. "We have come so far, through so much, and here we stand at the doorway of a new life, with freedom and sanctuary just a few steps away, and you talk of attacking our potential hosts. We fought before because we had to, not because we were barbarians. And, yes, if need be, we will fight again. I will take a thousand lives with my own hand, if necessary, but only when there is no other choice!"

The usually imperturbable Maran had shouted out the end of her speech, an action that in itself was a vital piece of information. Jared knew he was p.r.o.ne to overreact on occasion, and he used Maran as a guide as to how outrageous his own thoughts and actions had become. Jared considered her words for a moment. Perhaps she was right.

"Alright Maran, we will play this one by your rules." Try as he might, he could not keep the undertone of scorn from his voice. "I forget, sometimes, that you were never in the Games, never felt the rage that comes-"

"Don't give me that!" she barked. "My loyalty to our cause has never been in doubt, and I defy you or anyone else to find fault with it." She regained her composure and stared at Jared. "Do we play this correctly? You saw him, just as well as I did. You saw how they treated him."

Respect. That was the unspoken word. "Agreed," he whispered. "But if it comes down to our survival or theirs-"

"If it comes to that, I shall kill them myself. I pledge this to you."

He turned again to her, his tone more gentle now. "I shall not require that of you. We have killers here who are much more suited to the task. Such as myself. And Garan. We were ... trained for it, after all. No, Maran, you are a librarian, a keeper of books, a scholar. How I wish I could share your peace. But what has been learned cannot be forgotten."

"I know," she said, and sat in silence.

Despite what his lips said, in his mind Jared was already planning the possibility of a strike against the Enterprise. Learning the complete operations of the vessel would be no problem; it was run by computer, and computers were merely ... machines. Garan's a.r.s.enal would provide the weapon, of course, and Kurta would be the carrier. Something lethal, yet nondestructive to the integrity of the ship. A plague, or toxin, perhaps. Details, however, that could be settled later, as the time approached.

But perhaps Maran was right. Perhaps this Federation would prove benign, even helpful, in their endeavors. Anything was possible in this mad, chaotic universe, he had found. Friends could become enemies, foes could become friends. Even a shy and retiring librarian could become a vicious killer.

"Let us discuss, then, the possibilities," he said, at last. Despite his genial manner, he was certain Maran knew what he was thinking. She always did.

Chapter Three.

"COMMANDER RIKER has gone back to the Enterprise to help oversee our own repairs," Data said over the comm channel to Geordi. "He wished me to ascertain your progress."

"You can tell him Dren and I have our hands full here. I'm preparing a list of equipment and personnel I might need from the Enterprise. I may even need your a.s.sistance, but it will be at least an hour before I'll know anything concrete."

"Fine, Geordi. Data out."

Dren had witnessed the exchange with considerable interest. "That's a very impressive piece of engineering, friend Geordi."

"What, the communicator?" asked Geordi, surprised. The Vemlans had comm devices of their own-a little bigger and bulkier than Starfleet standard issue, but relatively the same device. "Just a little fancy gadgetry and three hundred years of micro-miniature electronics, that's all."

"No," the wiry engineer said, shaking his head. "I was speaking of your Mr. Data. Did you have a hand in designing or building him?"

Geordi chuckled. He? Build Data? He didn't even understand him. "No, Dren, my specialty is warp mechanics. Data is the legacy of Dr. Noonian Soong, one of the most preeminent cyberneticists in the Federation."

"I was just wondering. How do you get along with Mr. Data?"

Geordi grinned amusedly. How could he sum up their relationship? "Oh, I can appreciate a cla.s.sy bit of engineering as much as the next guy. But Data is more a friend than a machine to me." He began to examine the exterior of the reactor's core with his VISOR, scanning beneath the surface plate in several bands, hoping to detect any flaws in the containment casing. They would have to be repaired before any work on the inner core could be done.

"I see three cracks on the underside of the casing, just where it bolts into the bulkhead, there."

Dren nodded reluctantly. "I was afraid you might say that. The sound from this casing hasn't been right since the storm."

Geordi looked up, confused. "I don't hear anything."

Dren motioned him forward to where a huge metal strut ab.u.t.ted the power core and the bulkhead, holding the power unit in place. "You don't really hear it, so much as you feel it ... in your bones. The vibrations are very slight. With all the reactions going on in the core, they make a very slight vibrational hum. Put your head on this bar."

Geordi did as the man indicated. He listened intently for a few moments, but heard nothing unusual ... of course he wasn't sure what was usual. After a few moments of concentration, he rose again. "Dren, I'll take your word for it, but I don't hear a thing. You must have ears like a dog."

The Vemlan frowned. "A dog?"

Geordi explained the reference.

"Oh," Dren shrugged. "You have your shiny eyes, I have good hearing. You don't think it's our good looks and our professional knowledge of engineering that makes us chief engineers, do you?"

Geordi laughed. He appreciated Dren's casual att.i.tude to the responsibility of the job. Too often he found other chief engineers took themselves and their positions too seriously and became stuffy. Luckily, Geordi was new enough to the job so that he could still kid a little. He tried listening to the engine again. Still nothing.

"Regardless of how we know it's there, this casing is still going to have to come off. Those cracks have to be sealed before we can do anything else. You might want to start emptying the core now."

"Agreed," said Dren. He removed a communication device from one of his belt pouches and snapped it open. "Dren to Deski. Start the drain on engine core three, and get a power crane ready. Our friend from the Enterprise has confirmed my suspicions about the cracks in number three. The whole casing is going to have to come off. Get a team working on it."

He closed the communicator without waiting for an answer. "Deski will get started on this one. Let's go see to number four-that's my worst problem. If I get called in when I'm off duty, ninety percent of the time it's because of number four."

A sudden, wicked thought struck Geordi. "Dren, I have this ensign on the Enterprise who could use a workout on a more primitive drive system. He thinks the warp drive is the only drive there is, and I'd like to give him a little exposure to the brute-force method of star drives. Mind if he tags along and totes the toolbox?"

Dren smiled pleasantly. "Not at all."

"He helps me out in engineering from time to time, and occasionally thinks he knows everything. But warp drives are pretty clean, and I'd like to see him get his hands dirty for a change."

"Dirty?" Dren said, raising his eyebrows. "He'll get dirty, all right."

Geordi hopped down from their perch on the catwalk, followed by Dren, who picked up the tool box and led the way to reactor number four. Once they were out in the Freedom's narrow corridor, they pa.s.sed a viewport. Geordi stopped long enough to gaze at the stars, as he always did. The first time he had seen stars after he got his VISOR he had fallen in love with them. With his unique vision they were an even more impressive and interesting sight than they were to normal human optics. He understood why a ball of luminous gas had inspired man to take to the sky. He had once seen a gaseous nebulae, where new stars were being born, in its full electromagnetic glory, and it was a sight he would never forget.

He noticed something peculiar, though, something wrong with part of the Freedom that he could see through the port.

"Dren, has the Freedom seen any combat?" he asked.

The Vemlan engineer shrugged. "Not that I know of. But there was a war, and I haven't been with her every moment. It's possible. Why?"

"I see some carbon scoring on the hull. Looks like heavy-energy weapons fire. Can't you see it?"

Dren stepped forward and peered through the thick gla.s.s. He stared intently for a few moments, then shook his head. "I don't see anything."

"It's there. I see it," Geordi insisted.

"It could be welding scores," the other engineer offered. "We did a lot of repairs after we left the Hevaride system."

"Yeah, I guess that could be it," said Geordi, unconvinced. That didn't look like a welding score. "You seem to have done some pretty extensive modifications all around."

"This was our first exploratory ship, and the original designers didn't foresee some problems that came up. In a lot of cases we had a better idea, and fixed it like we wanted it." The engineer stared through the viewport at the rest of his ship. "We're pretty proud of the Freedom; she stands for what we believe in."

"I know what you mean, Dren," Geordi said, still staring out at the distant figure of the Enterprise. He indulged one moment more, then gave Dren a friendly slap on the shoulder.

"Here's to cla.s.sy engineering, then," he said, rubbing his stinging hand; Dren was very well muscled. No wonder he'd been able to lift that diagnostic kit so easily. "Let's go take a look at your problem child."

With Commander Riker having returned to the Enterprise, Data continued the tour on his own. Kurta escorted him to the next stop, where she again produced a card key and opened the door.

They stepped out into a huge, brightly lit hydroponics chamber. There were literally hundreds of kinds of plants in front of them, in all varieties of color and size. The air coming from in here was much warmer than in the rest of the ship. The scent of decaying organic matter combined with natural fragrances was almost overpowering.

"This is our second great treasure," Kurta said, waving her hands at the ma.s.sive array of foliage. "We brought with us as many species of Vemlan plants as we were able to gather. There is no telling how much of our homeworld's ecosystem was destroyed by the war. It is quite possible that we have the only specimens left of many of these plants."

Data examined the flower bed to his right. The prevailing color was purple, but the shades and tones were so varied that no one color could properly be a.s.signed to the flower.

"This is very impressive, Kurta, but is it not possible that these plants will not be able to grow on any new world you settle?"

"Of course," answered Kurta, somewhat sadly. "If that's the case, then we will have to keep growing them here or in artificial habitats. I'm hoping that we can find a planet like Vemla, though. Perhaps there is one in the Federation."

"The possibility exists," affirmed Data. "There are, after all, theoretically thousands of M-cla.s.s worlds in official Federation s.p.a.ce, and more being discovered every day on the frontier."

"It would be wonderful to have our own world," the alien woman said, her eyes far away. "With my own garden, where I can watch the flowers grow under a real sun, and get real dirt under my feet and between my toes. When I get depressed, I come in here sometimes and dream about it."

"I have always wondered about the preoccupation that humans have for captive floral matter. Counselor Troi, for example, maintains a plot of roses in the recreational facility on the Enterprise."

"Sentient beings enjoy caring for a plant," said Kurta, carefully. "There is something gratifying in planting a seed and watching it grow. It is a small way to gain a sense of fulfillment, of accomplishment. Don't you have such needs?"

Data shook his head. "I am not human, Kurta. I can only copy my fellow crewmembers' habits and try to theorize the basis for their actions. I try, because I am terribly interested in the race that created me." He paused, as he examined another plant. The flowers were red, this time. Red flowers had several symbolic meanings to humans, but how did the meanings arise and why did they become so inexplicably important? Such questions had burned all too frequently through Data's positronic brain, and always the answers were so elusive that an emotion that he had not the capability to label-but had certainly read enough about-frustration, was beginning to grow.

"Commander Riker once gave me a nickname," Data confessed after a moment of pondering. "He called me Pinocchio. It is a reference to a fable from Earth, in which a lonely man creates an artificial diminutive simulacrum, a puppet, for companionship. Through the intervention of a metaphysical ent.i.ty, the puppet becomes animate. He is still made of wood, however, and no matter how he tries, true humanity eludes him. I have been seen as trying to achieve the same goal, but I share Pinocchio's limitations: I am not truly alive. Therefore the point of theoretically simple pleasures, such as gardening for pleasure, elude me."