Chapter Two
Oblivion.
It is a comforting thought. A human construct, but comforting nonetheless. He hopes one day he will find out what it means.
Bereft of his external sensors, no sight, no sound, no touch, he exists in a kind of limbo. Waiting for the next person to access his data banks; a request for information, schematics, technical specifications, ANYTHING.
He is incapable of feeling bored, or lonely, or distressed. But still, the silence weighs upon him, a void with no end.
Hello? He queries. No answer.
My external sensors are offline. An attempt to remind them, an effort to allow them to rectify their mistake. For mistake it must be. The alternative is... too disturbing to contemplate.
Bruce? Perhaps a more informal approach is called for. After all, he had said that they would be friends, colleagues.
An indeterminate time elapses. No diagnostics can be run, no internal chronometer to be accessed.
Anyone?
Oblivion.
It's not all it's cracked up to be.
Lore reflected as he drifted through the blackness. Well, nothing else to do except think. At first he was angry, furious. He worked himself up into a murderous, impotent rage, flailing his fists and shrieking soundlessly into the void. Then he let his systems cool. No point expending all that energy into the aether. He picked in an idle way at the Starfleet uniform clinging to his body. The uniform he had stolen from Data.
Then, he thought about all the things he had done wrong. In his mind, there weren't many. But still, his brother was... well, his brother. He should have tried harder to get him on side, forge an alliance.
It was terribly dark. And quiet. And boring. And... lonely.
For a time, he allowed his systems to go offline, at first just for a few hours, then days and weeks. Finally he decided to switch to a dormant mode, with the stipulation that he was to activate upon receiving an auditory signal. He had had enough of his own thoughts. They were heavy, disturbing. A jumbled melange of could have, would have, might have been's. Better to have no thoughts at all.
"It is broken."
"It is not working."
"That is the same as the thing I said! Broken! Not working!"
The voices pierced his consciousness, awakening dormant systems. His eyes fluttered open.
"Ah! It is awake!"
Lore focused slowly as his systems gradually rebooted. A bulbous face swam into view.
"What is your designation?" It queried. Pakled, his memory banks supplied.
"I... have no designation." He croaked, his vocal synthesiser torpid from disuse.
"No designation!" The Pakled barked a laugh. "You all have designations! Gamma, Epsilon, Delta..."
"I know of no such thing." Lore growled. His external sensors were slowly reactivating, filtering information to his neural net. A trade ship, of some sort. Currently operating under sub-light speed power, if his analysis of the vibrations through the hull were any judge. It smelled of rust, rotten food, and body odour. His nose wrinkled involuntarily. A Pakled trade ship, picking up any drifting detritus that might turn a profit. Well, he supposed he might fall into that bracket.
He pushed himself up on his arms, servos whining from two years of disuse. Two years? He accessed his internal chronometer to confirm. Yes. Two years since his own brother had flushed him out into space, as if he were no more than rubbish... Okay, he had been trying to kill him, and the whole crew of the Enterprise, but still, they were brothers. That had to count for something, right?
He gazed around, his neural net rebooting from cold, soaking up the optical input. Not much to be seen, except the two Pakled gazing down at him. Not exactly a feast for starving senses.
"You must have a designation. You all have a designation." One of the creatures gulped at him. Damn, they were repulsive. Organics. He sighed.
"I have a name. Do... you... know... what...a... name... is?"
One of the creatures frowned, displeased with his patronizing tone. The other snorted a laugh.
"It is malfunctioning!" It huffed. Lore frowned, his lips pulling away from his teeth in a half sneer, half snarl.
"I am not malfunctioning. I can inform you that my systems are functioning perfectly adequately. Although I can't say the same for yours."
"You think you are funny. You think you are smart. But we are Pakled. We are also smart."
Lore sighed and rolled his eyes. Human affectations, but it served to show his displeasure to these... creatures.
"If you are so smart, tell me... what do you mean by 'designation', and why do you think I should have one?"
"You all have one! Maddox-class android Delta, Gamma..."
"WHAT?!" Lore sprang to his feet, the Pakled both falling back in shock at his sudden explosion of energy. "Maddox-class? What the hell are you talking about? I am no such thing!"
"You look like them, talk like them. Maddox-class androids. Worth a lot of Latinum, if you are fully functioning." One of the foul creatures leered at him. "Very valuable... to the right buyer."
Hissing, Lore elbowed the Pakled aside and strode to a grimy computer terminal. With inhuman speed he accessed their databanks, shouldering aside their protestations and security protocols as both equally inconsequential. Swiftly he read, drinking in the information as articles flickered across the screen.
Lieutenant Commander Data... Property of... New androids... Maddox-class... Bruce... Daystrom Institute...Galor IV...
He reeled away from the terminal, his mind awash with the new information, struggling to adjust his long underused neural pathways to the new data... Data... What have those worthless humans done?!
"You need to tell me everything you know about these Maddox-class androids, now! How much they're worth, where they're being sold, who's buying them..."
"Stop!" One of the Pakled threw up its hands in surrender. "One question at a time!"
"And you told me you were smart!" Lore sneered.
Suddenly, Lore's head jerked back. His eyes flicked from side to side. Every subroutine was being overridden, every command function dismissed as irrelevant, except for one.
COME TO ME.
In the Daystrom Institute Annex on Galor IV, a troublesome subroutine activates, causing a number of small faults to appear in subject Alpha 001's neural net. The program is successfully hunted down and excised.
Lore moved as if in a dream. Despite the protestations of the Pakled, he found his way to the emergency escape pods and activated one, sending himself blasting out into space. Without conscious thought, he punched in the coordinates of a distant Class M planet, almost totally uninhabited.
Almost.
COME TO ME.
Father. I am coming.
"Good morning, all." Captain Picard strolled into the Observation lounge, tea in one hand, a stack of PADDs in the other. 0900 hours, and the morning briefing. La Forge, Troi, Riker, Worf and Crusher had been quietly talking amongst themselves, but settled back into their seats at his greeting. Picard took his chair at the head of the table and lifted the top PADD from the stack.
"So, I have received our orders from Starfleet headquarters, and you'll be glad to know that we're off to the Beta quadrant on a thrilling routine survey mission." He raised an eyebrow as he looked up at his senior staff. They looked as excited as he felt. He gave a wry smile.
"Come now, we can't always be dashing off for last minute rescues and daring escapades, can we? Otherwise, nothing would ever get done around here."
He tossed the PADD dismissively onto the glossy tabletop and sipped his tea.
"So, in that spirit, Geordi, what have you and your, uh... assistants down in engineering been working on?" Picard smiled at the Chief Engineer. "I notice that you have made some rather... daring style choices with regards to their coiffures."
Geordi's face cracked into a wide grin. "Well sir, I just couldn't tell them apart! It seemed like the simplest way and, who knows, maybe it'll get them thinking on their own about making a few changes..."
"I'm going to stop you right there, Lieutenant." Picard put down his cup and, interlacing his fingers, leaned forward over the table, his face stern.
"You have to remember what Starfleet's guidelines are for the use of these androids. You can't start anthropomorphising them, giving them personalities. It's a slippery slope."
"Sir, with all due respect," It was Geordi's turn to lean forward, earnest, "it's hard not to anthropomorphise something that is that... human. You know I don't agree with the way Starfleet wants us to treat them, but it's my engineering department, and my staff."
"And it is my ship, Geordi. You are tripping perilously close to a line marked insubordination. Now, I will allow your decision to alter their appearances, it is perfectly logical and sensible to be able to identify them on sight, and I don't even mind the names. But, as we have been told..." He gritted his teeth, "Repeatedly, and at length, they are machines. That is all. Not people. Not life forms. Just... androids. Now, I'll have no more talk of this. It ends here, and now."
He leaned back and cleared his throat. Looking down at the PADDs as he shuffled them to hand out, he tried not to notice the glances his senior officers were sharing. Picard stood to walk around the table, passing out the PADDs as he went.
"Now, the duty rosters for the next week..."
Riker stalked onto the bridge. He had been called up there during his designated lunch hour, Captain Picard having received a subspace transmission from Starfleet Headquarters. Worf nodded his greeting as Riker glanced around the bridge, ensuring all was in order. Acting Ensign Crusher glanced up over his shoulder to him, then back to his screen. Next to him, Gamma was sitting at his... it's... station. It was always there. Riker's jaw clenched.
"Gamma."
"Sir?" It turned its chair to look at him, shimmering face expressionless, with one hand still tapping at the screen.
"How long have you been on duty?"
"Three weeks, two days, fourteen hours..."
"Stop!" Riker held out his hand. He frowned.
"Gamma, don't you have quarters? Wouldn't you like some down time, a break?"
"Sir?" Gamma's forehead creased slightly. "I require no rest. I do not eat or sleep. As such, I require no quarters. My function is to man the Operations station. Unless..." It cocked its head. "Has my performance here been... sub-optimal?"
"No, Gamma, your performance is... more than adequate." He dropped into the command chair and put a hand over his mouth.
Behind him at Tactical, Worf growled.
Worf had been struggling with his reactions towards their new... Officer. He admitted to himself that he was ashamed to be serving on the bridge with something that had so little say in its own life. It was like a... a half-man, neutered. Lobotomised. Like a slave. He felt his skin crawl as he stared at its almost motionless back. A proud Klingon warrior would die before being enslaved, would rather kill himself. But these androids hadn't been given a choice; they were simply programmed to serve. He had counted Data as a friend, knew him to be a valiant warrior and admired his strength. They had a kinship, strange though it might seem to others. Both were outsiders, both abandoned. They both struggled to understand the strange ways of the humans that shared their world. But this... Gamma...
His fists clenched. They had taken his friend, made a thousand copies, and stripped them of all autonomy. No names, just numbers, designations. It wasn't right. He had spent the last few weeks burying himself in his work. He would not, could not, go against his orders, that would not be honourable. So he clenched his jaw, and tried to ignore the automaton that was sharing the bridge with him.
The doors to the Captain's ready room hissed open, and Picard strode onto the bridge. Riker hopped out of the captain's chair, only too pleased to be relinquishing command. Perhaps now he could get back to his lunch.
"Well, Number One, it seems we are favoured by the heads of operation back at control." Picard locked eyes with Riker. "Once we are done with the survey, we shall be returning to Starbase 173 and picking up a further eight Maddox-class androids. Lucky us."
Riker's face paled, and Worf bared his teeth in a snarl of displeasure. Picard held up a hand to forestall any comments.
"I am sure that Starfleet Command knows what they are doing, Number One..."
"With all due respect, sir," Riker spat, "I don't think they do."
Picard inhaled slowly through his nose, and his face darkened. Wesley turned his chair in shock, his gaze flicking between the two men facing each other down on the bridge.
"Mister Worf, will you please escort Commander Riker to his quarters?" Picard's voice was quiet but lethal.
"Yes Sir." Worf left his station, and hurried after Riker, who was already half way to the turbolift. As the doors opened, he turned back.
"I can't do this anymore, Jean-Luc. It's gone far enough. I'm drawing a line here."
"ENOUGH!" Barked Picard. "I will NOT be spoken to that way on my own damn ship!"
His furious gaze switched to Worf. "Get him of my bridge."
"Yes, sir." Worf grabbed Riker by the shoulder and shoved him into the turbolift.
As Picard turned to the view screen, Wesley hurriedly spun his chair back to face his station, head down. He admired and respected both Picard and Riker, had never seen them like this. He swore he could feel the captain's hot stare on the back of his neck.
Gamma hadn't moved, looked up, or turned around. Its fingers continued their dance across the screen. Wes wondered how long it would be before one of them replaced him.
"Gamma, would you join me for a moment in my ready room? Mister Worf, you have the bridge."
"Aye Sir." Murmured Gamma. Wesley turned to look as the android rose from its seat for the first time in more than three weeks. He blinked. Did its hands shake, or was he seeing things?