The Chase
Summary: After 'Masks', Picard considers his role as Korgano, and reality and fantasy begin to mingle. But is he thinking of Masaka – or Data? T for Picard/Data undercurrents.
Disclaimers: I have made no money from writing this story. I do not own anything connected with any of the Star Trek franchises, which all seem to belong to a complex combination of CBS, Viacom and Paramount. Neither do I own either Commander Data or Brent Spiner – if I did, you think I'd be wasting my time typing???
* * *
Captain Jean-Luc Picard couldn't quite contain his excitement as he and Lieutenant Commander Data walked through the hall – now transformed from temple back to starship – and without thinking placed his hand on the android's shoulders. He did not register, until later that evening, that Data had seemed neither surprised nor irritated at the gesture of affection.
He hadn't been sure if that was a good or a bad thing.
Alone in his cabin, he found himself preoccupied with the events that had led to Masaka's defeat. Try as he might, he couldn't shake those opposing visions from his mind: Data, magnificent, disdainful and dangerous; and Data, sleeping, vulnerable and defenceless. Why, he wondered, hadn't he asked Deanna to go? Data was male, and she was female, after all. But he had been thinking too much of Masaka, too much of his adversary being female, and not taking into account that she had invaded a male body. And now, he couldn't get that body out of his head.
Whether it was the disdainful or the defenceless Masaka that held him, he didn't know.
* * *
Two days passed, and then he had his first dream. Standing on a windswept hillside, bathed in silver light, he shouted into the naked air, taunting the day about to come into being. Hiding behind clouds as the distant horizon turned from pink to gold, he could feel the swelling power of the sun as it rose slowly from beneath the clothes of darkness. The thrill of anticipation – how long could he remain here undetected and, once detected, how fast could he run? – was exhilarating, making the blood pump in his veins and his limbs tremble with delight.
Suddenly, the first shaft of golden light stabbed out, raking the ground next to him, and he leapt to one side, laughing in joyous glee. The sun must have heard the sound, for the next beam was closer, almost grazing the dirt at his feet as he ran for his life, darting from cover to cover, catching infinite breath as he finally slipped within the last cloud and dipped below his own horizon, panting in excitement at the outrageous, glorious danger of it all.
He woke up, taught with pleasure, still shaking with adrenalin. And, for the first time since childhood, longed to leave the waking world behind and dive back into the dream.
Later, staring at the back of Data's head as they sat on the bridge, he had the most peculiar feeling: that somehow Data was connected with what he had seen. As if in reply to the intensity of his gaze, Data turned to report some minor anomaly on his display. Picard did not immediately hear his words, but he did see the expression in his eyes.
He knows…
* * *
"Mr Data, I'm going riding on holodeck 4 this evening. Would you care to accompany me?"
The request clearly took the android by surprise: it was at least a second before he answered. "I would be delighted to, Captain. May I ask which steed you prefer?"
"I generally choose an Arabian, but perhaps we should go for something a little more workaday – maybe Irish Draughts."
Data considered. "That would be appropriate. Over what terrain shall we be riding? I will need to select suitable clothing."
For some reason he did not care to investigate, the idea of Data choosing 'suitable clothing' threw Picard for a moment. "Oh – er – nothing too strenuous," he replied hurriedly. "Some woodland, a beach – something relaxing."
"I will see you later, Sir," Data said gravely. "Thank you for inviting me."
* * *
When Data galloped into the clearing where he was saddling his gentle dapple grey, Picard was astonished at the sight: the android's horse was taller than average for its breed – at least seventeen hands high – and a solid red chestnut colour. Data's choice of suitable clothing included pale yellow silks and a deep red riding jacket and trousers that quite put Picard's self-effacing grey and white into the shade.
"Come, Sir!" Data yelled. "I will race you to the sea!"
Picard leapt onto his mount and dashed after him.
It was a mad gallop. The woodland path twisted this way and that: sometimes Picard could see his quarry, and sometimes he could only hear him through the trees. As the chase continued, he felt the sweat begin to pour off him, each yard gained a thrill, each one lost a goad to further effort. His horse was magnificent: he felt the beast moving beneath him in perfect, harmonious rhythm, their bodies melding into one as they slowly drew closer to their prey.
Then, suddenly, the woodland was gone and they burst out into the open space of the foreshore, a long, sand-covered beach rippled with the marks of the morning's tide, shadows beginning to stand proud in the evening light. The waves gently rolled into the welcoming land, and the oncoming sunset had begun to paint the water sapphire and gold. It took Picard's breath away.
Then he saw him. Rearing up on its hind legs, Data's magnificent steed was silhouetted black against the dying sun, and Picard recognised from the beauty of movement that flowed between them that he was watching a true master. As he gazed, transfixed, Data was off, dashing through the surf, kicking up spray and sand in an ecstasy of wild, unfettered pleasure.
"Ha!" Picard cried to his horse, which leapt to the water's edge in eager reply. Two sets of hooves thundered down the length of the beach, deserted except for these madmen, as the long, red rays of the setting sun stroked them into enveloping darkness. Picard shouted inarticulately into the dusk, and he saw Data turn and smile at him in recognition.
He saw Data turn and smile, but he was not sure he knew the face. It was almost, in the strange half-light, not a face but a mask.
Without warning, Data's horse stumbled in the tumbling surf, and he fell. Free of reins and stirrups he lay, a darkening shape amidst the bright white foam, as his horse became a tiny speck on the impossibly distant horizon. Picard's alarm spurred him on, and he slid off his own horse as the last arc of red dipped below the skyline, leaving only the fierce, under-lit clouds to witness that it had ever been there.
Slipping in the wet sand in his impatience to reach his friend, Picard found himself sprawled across Data's supine form and, seeing that he was not hurt, began to laugh. He had not felt this carefree for years. "I've got you now," he yelled to the wind and the waves, crushing Data in his arms as they rolled in and out of the surf like reckless schoolboys.
Finally, joyously breathless, he knelt with Data pinned beneath him, the salt sea lapping at the android's hair. "Oh, this is marvellous!" As he spoke, the moon emerged from the treeline, and bathed his face in triumphant silver. He turned his face towards it, aware that the world had changed, and was now to be seen in a different light. "I've caught you! At last…"
"Indeed you have, Captain." The voice was light and challenging.
"Mr Data?"
"Yes, sir."
"Data…"
With a start, Picard awoke, his bedclothes a damp, tangled heap on the floor, his body slick with sweat. His heart was pounding and his body trembling, not only with the growing realisation of the nature of his dream, but with bitter, thwarted anticipation: what if it had been her?
Perhaps it had. Perhaps Data…
Data! He was supposed to be on the holodeck with him. He quickly pressed the commlink. "Picard to Commander Data."
"Data here, sir."
"I'm sorry – I fell asleep. Can we do this another day?"
"Of course, Captain."
"Thank you."
He abruptly broke the link and sat, now limp-limbed, on the edge of the bed, still reeling from the dream. Who had he been pursuing through the woods, along the sand? Masaka? Data? Masaka in Data's shape?
"Data," he whispered. "No, please no…"
* * *
For the next few days, there were no dreams. Picard slept poorly, anticipating emotion that eluded him, and was soon exhausted. He watched Data, becoming almost fanatical regarding his whereabouts and activities on board the ship. Once, in ten-forward, he even found himself stretching out a hand to touch his shoulder in a conscious echoing of that first, careless gesture. Perhaps Data sensed the movement; perhaps he caught someone's eye; but Picard saw the man's shoulders tense suddenly, and quickly withdrew, instead sitting opposite him and talking about inanities rather than what was filling his mind: had Data had these dreams, and how much were the dreams bleeding into reality?
There were times, when he was off guard, when he hardly knew if he was Picard or Korgano. But when he asked the computer where Masaka was, he knew he had to do something. He shook himself and tried to walk away, but found he couldn't: Data was always there, always Masaka…
And Picard would never impose his will or his desires on another. If Data had come to him, he might have achieved some peace just discussing his strange obsession: but Data did not, merely watching him curiously and, Picard thought, not without compassion. As if he understood, but was unwilling to act on that understanding.
So be it, he thought. I will carry the burden of this mythical, fabulous love alone.
* * *
He realised that he needed to focus his feelings on something physical: he needed to find a centre to concentrate the emotions, trap them and wrap them up, and throw them far away. The only thing he could think of was to re-enact that brief encounter in the temple, alone on the holodeck, and bring it to another conclusion. For that, he would need Korgano's mask.
Jean-Luc Picard was many things, but he was not an artist. After three evenings spent in increasing frustration and failure – he had wanted to create the object himself, as Data had created his – he resorted to the holodeck, instructing it to manufacture what he needed. For the first time in his experience, it was unable to comply.
"There are insufficient references in the Enterprise database," the computer's irritatingly smug voice informed him.
"The whole of that damned civilisation was downloaded into the Enterprise's computers!" he spluttered. "You've just re-created the temple, for God's sake! How can you say you have insufficient references?"
"Certain information was removed from the Enterprise as conducive to future danger," he was informed.
What did that mean? Would it threaten the ship if he pursued this need? Would he somehow reawaken the destructive spirits that had occupied both his ship and two of its officers – one involuntarily, and one by choice? How else could he exorcise this demon?
He could ask Data. Not only would the android have a completely accurate pattern of the mask in his artificial head, but he had the artistic skill to reproduce it. And if he did, would Data guess the unasked question that lingered behind the request? And would they be Data and Picard at all, or would both transform into – something else?
He could not risk his friend. He would not risk his friend.
Shaking his head, he left the holodeck, and almost yelped as he walked straight into the object of his fantasies, standing in the corridor apparently waiting for him. "What the hell do you want?" he snapped, more in surprise than anger.
"You have been in the holodeck for several hours, Captain" Data replied blandly. "I wished to ascertain that you were not in need of some assistance."
"Thank you, Mr Data – I'm fine," Picard said, tugging his uniform tunic down by way of emphasis, and regaining his self-control. He stepped away from the door, hoping that Data had not seen the reconstruction of Maskaka's temple filling the unreal room.
"Very well, sir." The android turned on his heel and strode away, apparently unaware of Picard's hungry eyes on his back.
It was no use, Picard thought: he would have to face this agony alone.
* * *
He walked square-shouldered into his quarters, allowing them to slump in despair only when the door was closed. With time, the feeling would surely pass. The knowledge that he had been on the edge of something unbelievably beautiful would dull; the pain of losing what he had never possessed would fade. A sense of panicked frustration rose within him as he tried to control his futile physical response to such desperate thoughts. To see joy striding the horizon and be unable to reach her because of convention and fear was truly ghastly.
He crossed the room and moved towards the bed: the only welcome now was the welcome oblivion of sleep. Suddenly he stopped, his heart beating thick within his chest: in the centre of the bed, placed as if waiting for him, lay a silver mask, shining coyly in the half-light. Gingerly, he put out a hand and touched it, feeling its texture shaft up his arm like an arc of electricity: it was real, every detail exquisitely perfect, even down to the dark silk ribbons fastened to each side. He picked it up and placed it over his face: like the other, it fitted perfectly.
Without warning, the door chimed. Still masked, he turned towards it, but it opened at another's bidding, and he saw the golden figure of Data, standing silhouetted against the bright corridor lights. Their eyes met, and Picard's defences fell away.
"Mr Data?" he asked, as his third in command stepped into the room.
Without speaking, the android turned and secured the door. When he faced Picard again, he was wearing his own russet and gold painted clay mask. "No," he said, in a firm, female voice as he moved towards his Captain. "I am Masaka. And I have found you."