Star Trek - Survivors Part 12

She was testing him. Should he ask to be taken to Tasha? She might be in custody-and Nalavia knew Data's strength well enough from those Starfleet information tapes; if she imprisoned him, she would make certain he could not break out. If Tasha had simply been diverted for some reason, Data would reveal his suspicions by asking for her.

Until he was certain Tasha was in trouble, he would do her the best service by remaining free and learning as much as possible about Treva.

"You promised to show us the city," he reminded her. "Even if Lieutenant Yar has chosen a different itinerary, I would like to see it." And perhaps pick up some clues to what is happening here. He put on his blandest, most innocent air, the one guaranteed to drive sophisticated people to shouting at him if he kept it up long enough. There had been a time when it was his only mode of interaction with humanoids.

Nalavia did not shout. As they looked out at the world from her transparent groundcar, she put up with childlike curiosity about her city and her people for almost an hour. Finally, though, she had enough of "Inquiry-"

"Let's stop the games, Mr. Data. Last night you were an entirely different person. Stop playing the walking machine-you have far more interesting modes of interaction."

Perhaps the most startling thing about his reaction was the pleasant warmth at her casual a.s.sertion that he was "playing" a machine. It meant she thought of him as a person. But then he reminded himself of who-and especially what-she was. He had not told her of his wish to be human, but could she have learned it from Tasha?

"It is not completely inaccurate," he pointed out in the most reasonable tone, "to refer to me as a 'walking machine.' However, as I am only partly mechanical, and have a considerable organic component-"

"Stuff it," she said in imperious tones.

He blinked. "Stuff ... it?"

"I don't want your imitation Vulcan act, either. You were a most interesting companion last night. I want to know why that has changed."

Why me? Why is it not Will Riker here? He is the one you send to handle beautiful, clever, and powerful women!

But Commander Riker was many light-years away, and Data had to do something here and now. What would Riker do? he asked himself. The problem was, he didn't know what had happened behind the doors of Beata's chamber on Angel One, and on several other occasions.

No-wait. He did know one thing: Riker always gave the woman a present, something rare and beautiful.

So he said, "I feel ... awkward. You are such a gracious hostess, have provided us with luxurious accommodations, excellent food-and I have nothing to give you in return."

She smiled lasciviously. "Oh, you will give me something in return, Mr. Data-this evening, I think, after we have met with the members of my cabinet."

In desperation, he accessed his flirtation files. "Ah, but that will be as much for me as for you, Madame President. I wish to give you something special, something as beautiful as you are ... something for you alone."

"Why, what a lovely thought," she said. "But I have all I could ever ask of material goods. I shall take the thought as the gift." And then, to Data's relief, after a pensive pause Nalavia deliberately changed the subject.

With a sad little sigh, she looked away from him, to the swarming city outside the groundcar and said, "There is one gift you can give me, you know: persuade Starfleet to help my people."

And, when she put it that way, Data was able to say with perfect sincerity, "Oh, yes, President Nalavia, I shall certainly try to do that."

Data was watched every moment. Although he was quite capable of doing two things at once, only one of those things could occupy his immediate consciousness. Thus while fencing with Nalavia he could merely set his data processor to indexing the material he had input during the night, so that later he could access the rest of it in an organized fashion, and ponder its meaning.

They returned to the palace for luncheon with representatives of the victims of the "terrorist raids." Data pitied those who had had friends and families killed or maimed, even though Nalavia had staged the attacks. It was obvious her people did not know that.

It was Data's first chance to meet Trevans other than the palace staff, for they had never left Nalavia's groundcar during the tour of the city. There were two spokespersons for the terrorist victims, and eight people who had either been injured or had a loved one killed. Data was puzzled by the lack of anger or anguish in the victims. They were wistfully sad, and spoke lovingly of those they had lost, but they seemed to have no interest in placing blame or exacting retribution. Data wished Dr. Crusher or Counselor Troi were here, for he could not tell if their reactions were unnatural, or normal for Trevans.

After the meal, Data spoke individually with some of their guests, but even when they told of their grief, it was with a kind of distanced sadness. As if somehow they could not find the emotional strength to really care. The spokespersons were little better, they seemed pleased that Nalavia was giving monetary compensation to their clients, and trusted that the government would prevent further tragedies.

Data had come prepared for a difficult session of trying to explain why the Prime Directive would not allow Starfleet to come in and kill off those who had so hurt these people. But the tough questions never came, and afterward he asked Nalavia, "Are these people in shock?"

"Oh, no-no, Mr. Data. They're just members of the old peasant cla.s.s. Even though we are educating them and making their lives far better than they used to be, it will take generations to raise their sensibilities. In the meantime, we must protect them as the childlike creatures they are."

He pretended to accept her explanation, and also to be interested in the visit to a nearby school scheduled for the afternoon, even though he would have preferred to stay at the palace. He was concerned about Tasha's continued absence-had his colleague really been sent on a time-wasting tour, or had something more sinister happened to her?

At least Nalavia would be meeting with her counselors that afternoon; Data was free to act on automatic programming while his mind concentrated on the information he had only begun to sort through in the night.

Children were fascinated by Data, and quickly got over being frightened or shy. He had a well-rehea.r.s.ed routine, which he was conscious of only enough to recognize that the children responded in an apparently normal fashion. Possibly Nalavia was right-perhaps cla.s.s att.i.tudes were so strongly embedded in Trevan society that only the young people could be educated out of them.

On the other hand, while the children did shout and giggle, there were no outbursts of anger or crying, even among the youngest. Coincidence? Insufficient information.

So he put most of his attention on the megabytes of information he had gleaned from Nalavia's computer. Much of it he could discard as inapplicable: public transport schedules, weather data, crop reports, manufacturing quotas. But wait-an inordinate amount of intoxicating substance seemed to be produced on Treva, and the records indicated that little was exported. He remembered the video broadcasts he and Tasha had monitored, full of advertising for intoxicants as beverage, inhalant, even topical application cream.

Intoxicants might be the reason for the Trevans' dulled sensibilities. The children seemed more normal because they did not use those substances. He focused his concentration for a moment on the teacher of the cla.s.s he was visiting, to lead the conversation around so he could ask, "Are you educating the children against the use of intoxicants?"

The teacher seemed completely puzzled. "Why should we do that? Intoxicants put joy in life-a well-earned pleasure after a job well done." She was parrotting one of the advertis.e.m.e.nts, apparently quite unaware of the source.

Data's guide hastily thanked the teacher, and moved them on to another cla.s.s. Data went back to playing friendly android, while internally he concentrated on the revenue figures for intoxicants and advertising of same. They were huge ... but when he looked into the production figures he found something peculiar: chemical substances were a giant industry, but the substance with the highest production rate was something called "Riatine," which had no advertising budget whatsoever. However, Data was able to trace the largest stockholders in the companies manufacturing it: Nalavia, and several members of her cabinet.

Perhaps the substance was called something else in the form in which it was sold to the public. But no-it was not sold, and it was not exported. In the files indexed under manufacturing, the substance was produced ... and there the information ended.

Data's internal programming, however, was a thousand times more efficient than that of Nalavia's computer. He searched for any reference to Riatine in any file-and found it in open government records: Riatine was a purifier distributed to all city water systems.

No great mystery, then. And yet ... he searched the files for the chemical formula for Riatine. Not in the open government files. Not in the manufacturing records. Treva did not have anything like a patent office, it seemed-but continuation of the global search for the term "Riatine" located it in a top security eyes-only file coded to Nalavia and only two other people.

Data read the formula, and then began a search of his own data banks for the effect of such a chemical on humanoids of Treva's genetic makeup. "Creates susceptibility to hypnotic command while suppressing negative emotions," the file told him. "Nonaddictive. As adjunct to psychotherapy, used to control excessive anger or grief. Commonly used as an aid in sleep-learning. No negative short-term side effects. Not recommended for long-term use."

The long-term effects included "emotional deprivation, suppression of a.s.sertiveness. Deprived of emotional outlet, subject loses self-reliance and turns to external sources for mental and emotional stimuli. If not carefully supervised, subject may seek chemical stimuli to induce emotion. Side effects disappear once Riatine is discontinued."

So there it was: Nalavia's people were undemanding and unaggressive because they were drugged and hypnotized. They turned to video entertainment and intoxicants to put feelings into their emotionally deadened lives, while in turn the video programs told them what to believe, even if today's a.s.sertions contradicted yesterday's.

He had to find Tasha! Nalavia could have her drugged by now. Why hadn't he insisted on being taken to join her on her supposed "agricultural tour"?

No. As long as Nalavia thought he did not suspect anything, Data remained free. But if the President did not produce Tasha by dinnertime, Data could no longer pretend to be fooled. Before then, he must find out where Tasha was being held, and rescue her.

So he prattled to his guide about school systems in the Federation until they were back at the Presidential Palace. Then he excused himself, "to dress for dinner," and hurried to his room, first a.s.suring himself that Tasha was not in hers.

Finally he had time to take apart his combadge. There was nothing wrong with it-except that it wouldn't work! His tricorder confirmed external interference to the signal.

In an hour, when it was time to go to dinner, the masquerade would end, for Data could not pretend to accept whatever lame excuse Nalavia gave for Tasha's continued absence. Desperate now, he accessed Nalavia's computer again, even though it was in use. He hoped that simply spying through the tricorder would not be detected, and might provide him a clue to Tasha's whereabouts.

There were business dealings going on at one terminal, military orders being issued at another. The main communications terminal was not in use when he began listening ... but after a time someone accessed it to call "Droo." When Droo answered, the caller said, "She's fuming, Droo. You better have found that Yar woman!"

"I tell ya, she's nowhere on the grounds!" Droo replied. "She musta got clean away-no tellin' where she'll be by now."

"d.a.m.n you-it'll be my-"

"It is your head, Jokane," Nalavia suddenly interrupted on her private line. "Report to foot patrol duty. And Droo, you have my authority to conscript half the army if need be. I can't stall the android much longer-get that woman back here by sunset, or you'll be guarding an ice mine on an asteroid. If I'm going to deal with Starfleet, I cannot have one of my hostages at large!"

Chapter Seven.

TASHA YAR WAS Starfleet Security trained. Once she was certain that no one was going to attack her in the night, and that the door was indeed barred, not locked in some way that could be picked or jimmied, she prowled the bare but adequate room that Darryl Adin had her locked into, only long enough to ascertain that there was no escape.

The building was stone, with hand-laid parquet floors of the kind made only in times when manual labor is cheap. Without a tricorder, she could not be sure there were no hidden sensors, but she could not imagine where they would be installed unless parts of the wall were false. The stone felt real, and gave back a solid thump when she struck it. The wooden door frames had the patina of genuine age, and she could detect no tampering with them.

There were no windows, and the only doors were the one to the hall and one leading into a primitive but functional bath. The only mirror, small but clear, was in there, hung above the basin, but it was not positioned to take in the bedroom, making it an unlikely candidate for spy device.

The bed consisted of a thick pad on a wooden frame, covered with soft blue linens. Yar took it all apart, felt every bit of the mattress, and then remade the bed. There was nothing, and no devices on its underside.

What would they expect to find out by spying on her anyway? Dare had her combadge. She couldn't communicate with Data. Dare would expect her to do exactly what she was doing, and then, when it became obvious that she could not get out, rest so that she could face whatever happened in the morning.

There was no closet, only a peg rail. A soft blue robe hung on it, with a pair of soft slippers on the floor beneath. Yar decided to accept the invitation; her dress uniform had been through enough this evening without being slept in.

The bath had no cabinet; a wooden shelf held comb, hairbrush, toothbrush, dentifrice, soap, towels, and a tube of shampoo. She recognized the last item: Dare's personal preference, made with herbs from Rigel Seven. It was part of his individual scent even now, she recognized as she sniffed it, a wave of nostalgia washing over her.

But she could not allow herself to be overwhelmed by yesterday. Darryl Adin was a traitor and a murderer, and now, by his own admission, a mercenary. He was no more to be trusted than President Nalavia-and Yar feared that she and Data had been thrust into one of those gray situations in which neither side was in the right.

Since there was nothing to do until morning, though, she put all that out of her mind, and slept.

Starfleet officers-star travelers in general-did not allow their bodies to settle into a fixed circadian rhythm, as each planet they visited had different days and nights, and they might beam down to noon or midnight, winter or summer. Yar slept for five hours, got up and exercised, showered and dressed, and waited for someone to come for her.

It wasn't long before Poet appeared, all playful gallantry, to escort her to breakfast. He was not in camouflage this morning, but boasted a soft yellow tunic over black trousers, a wide black belt defining his waist. He did not appear to be armed-now that she thought of it, she had seen no evidence of weapons on any of the men last night. She had seen lots of loose clothing, though. Starfleet uniforms made concealing weapons virtually impossible; the loose tunics, shirts, and jackets she saw here might conceal any variety of phasers, blasters, knives, slings-Starfleet Security training had rendered Dare, like herself, expert in virtually every weapon known, and she had little doubt his chosen henchmen were equally versatile.

Should she make a break for freedom? She already knew Poet was stronger and more skilled than he looked, and she did not know her way around this ... place. What was it-a castle? She decided to ask Poet.

"That's right," he told her. "Rikan's castle, the center of the resistance movement against Nalavia. Someone will show you around later." He paused, making her automatically stop as well, and turn toward him. Light glinted off the lenses of his gla.s.ses, making his eyes unreadable. She wondered if that was why he wore them. "You're the one, aren't you?" he asked suspiciously.

"The ... one?"

"The woman in the case. The reason he chats up little fine-boned blondes, an' then either leaves 'em frustrated or comes back the next day frustrated as h.e.l.l himself. A Starfleet Officer! Always did say Dare was a glutton fer punishment."

At her look of astonishment, he added, "Oh, yeah, we all know Dare was Starfleet-and how they screwed him. How you-" His eyes raked over her in obvious distaste. "Womankind more joy discovers/Making fools, than keeping lovers."

So Dare still blames me.

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Breakfast was served in one of the most beautiful rooms Yar had ever seen. It was one of several that ran along the outside of the building, windows on the outer wall overlooking a deep chasm filled with bright-colored trees, solid walls with fireplaces and hangings on the inner wall. The dining room table would seat at least twenty people, completely set, although just three were currently eating. Yar knew only one of them: Sdan.

Tapestries, damask furnishings, old and beautifully polished wood for the table, porcelain and gold place settings-the splendor took Yar's breath away, vying for her attention with the magnificent view through the windows. Imagine living here, amid the beauty of nature blended so perfectly with the finest work of artists and artisans. For a moment she could do nothing but let the effect sweep over her. Then she deliberately pulled the cloak of Starfleet efficiency about her, and approached the table.

The two strangers were a man and a woman. The woman appeared human, with olive skin and thick straight black hair cut as short as Yar's and tied with a kerchief about her forehead. She was neither pretty nor beautiful, but exuded power even seated, eating and talking with her companions. She wore a sleeveless shirt that displayed arms more muscular than most men's-clearly another of Dare's mercenary band.

If the woman was intriguing, the man was impelling. He was human or Trevan and quite old, with thick white hair, leathery skin, and clear hazel eyes. Yar did not know the aging patterns of Trevans, but for a human he would have to be well over eighty. Yet he sat straight, his eyes were alert, and the moment she approached he stood, all old-fashioned gallantry, as natural as Poet's was contrived.

"You must be Natasha Yar," he said. "I am Rikan. Welcome to Warrior's Rest, Miss Yar."

Her translator chose the term "Miss," obsolete even in Starfleet now although it had survived there until last century, to represent whatever Trevan term he had used to address her. An extremely useful item, the universal translator even suggested the flavor of his language, apparently archaic even among Trevans.

"I am glad to meet you, sir," Yar replied, stopping short of the table and standing at attention, "but you greet me as if I were a guest. In actuality, I am your prisoner."

"Nonsense," the warlord replied. "You are my guest. Please sit down. The servants will bring you breakfast."

Yar remained exactly where she was. "Where I come from, Lord Rikan, guests are not locked into their rooms."

He smiled charmingly, revealing worn but well cared for teeth. "Then you will wish to eat so as to replenish your strength, in case you should decide to attempt escape."

Yar looked into the wise old eyes and saw that he knew exactly what was going on in her mind. She gave up, and allowed Poet to seat her. The food smelled wonderful and tasted better-if she stayed on this planet long, Trevan cuisine just might spoil the line of her form-fitting uniform.

Rikan introduced the other woman at the table as Barbara. "That's Barb," she corrected. "Don't n.o.body call me Barbara, and especially don't n.o.body call me Babs!" This last with a glare at Poet.

"What's in a name?" he replied. "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

Barb bared her teeth at him. "This rose has thorns!"

"Natasha-" Rikan began.

As long as they were getting names straight, "It's Tasha," Yar corrected. "It probably comes from Natasha, and that was put down in my early records, but all either my mother or the woman who raised me called me was Tasha."

Barb said, "Ain't no use tellin' him, Tasha. Dunno why I bother, when it don't do no good."

Rikan ignored the interruption and continued, "My young friend Adrian-" There was a snort from Poet, who must know Dare disliked being called anything but his chosen nickname. Well, if Dare couldn't pierce Rikan's habit of formality no one could. "- did not believe you would visit me voluntarily, even if it had been possible for an invitation to reach you through Nalavia's security."

"He was wrong," Yar said firmly. "If the alleged terrorist warlord had invited us, Data and I would certainly have made every effort to meet with you."

"Data-the android?"

So Rikan understood what Data really was. Yar was sure Dare did, too; he was simply scornful of everything connected with Starfleet these days. "Yes, Data is an android, but that doesn't make him any less a person."

"Indeed? I should like to meet him."

"If you keep me here long, you will certainly have the opportunity," Yar replied confidently.

Another voice interrupted from behind Yar. "I'm sure your walking computer can work out where you are, but it will never get within ten kilometers of this place."

Yar turned, and watched Dare enter and take his place opposite her as she said, "He will if he decides that is the best course to take." She did not continue because her attention turned elsewhere. Dare had not come in alone; a woman walked beside him as if she belonged there, and Dare seated her beside him as if he agreed.

"Aurora," he addressed the woman, "may I present Lieutenant Tasha Yar. Tasha, my tactical advisor, Aurora."

Aurora was a stunning woman who appeared to be only slightly older than Yar but made the Security officer feel awkward and childish in comparison with the other woman's easy confidence. On second glance, she was not beautiful, hardly even pretty, but she had the regal att.i.tude of born n.o.bility.

Her hair was dark brown, with red highlights brought out by the same exposure to sun that had sprinkled freckles across her fair complexion. Her eyes were a warm brown, almost Vulcan in their depth. Otherwise, taken piece by piece she was quite ordinary: cheeks a little too round, jaw a little too square, figure not at all fat but neither slender enough to be called willowy nor buxom enough to be called voluptuous. Yet exquisitely dressed in a cherry-red jacket over a white satin blouse and black full trousers, she made Yar feel ... she could imagine Data finding the word "tacky" in his memory banks ... even in her dress uniform. Especially in her dress uniform, which was totally inappropriate at breakfast.

Aurora gave Yar an appraising look, saying, "I'm pleased to meet you, Tasha. Dare tells me you are highly skilled at combat. I hope you will be persuaded to help us."

That was the last comment Yar was expecting. She frowned, looked at Dare, then Rikan. "Help you?"