Time
After several hours of reconfiguring the plasma conduits, a process which had covered his hands with burns, scars, debris, and tiny flecks of liquid gel, Lieutenant "Jace" Wright smiled victoriously, glancing up at the warp core of the Nebula-Class starship to which he was assigned.
"There," he sneered. He leaned over the edge of the catwalk he was standing on, and spat out at it. The spittle dripped down the clear housing that contained the matter and antimatter, and one of the junior engineers watched from the other side of the room, rolled her eyes, and continued her current task...whatever that was.
"Now you're going to behave," Jace snapped, addressing the core as if she were the heart and soul of the ship itself, "You're going to sit still, and work with me. You're going to co-operate. Because if I have to repair one more faulty manifold, then, oh ho, you're going to need a full refit by the time I'm done with you, girl."
He picked up a diagnostic tool, and hurled it aggressively at the casing. It clinked off harmlessly, dropping down the shaft to the bottom. Instead of a clang where it landed, there was the crack of the instrument on a human head, followed by a disgruntled "Ow!" Jace cleared his throat, nervously, and peered over the edge.
"Sorry!" he called. He then shifted his gaze, glancing sternly at the core. "You made me do that on purpose," he accused.
"Lieutenant Wright, I presume," a voice called out behind him, too strangely monotone to be completely human, "Whom do you address?"
Wright whirled around, and was prepared to address a Vulcan, or an Andorian, or some equally stoic creature. When he saw who'd addressed him, his eyes widened. Wright glanced at the white-gold skinned man in the red command uniform, then at Maddox, who accompanied him, and then back at the man. Most Starfleet officers knew this man's name...if one could truly call him a man, of course...but only those particularly versed in robotics or engineering were familiar with his face. He was well-known, especially in biomechanical texts.
"Oh no," Wright whispered, "Oh no, oh no, oh no!" He turned from his superior officers, his face contorted in panic, and then he took off towards the nearest plasma manifold. "I'm busy! You two are going to have to leave!"
"Mister Wright," Maddox snapped, his tone heavy, "I am giving our new First Officer a tour. And when your first officer asks you a question, you will answer it."
"First Officer?!?" Wright gasped, his face dissolving into terror. Wright had been assigned to this hellhole ship, full of robotics and gadgets and gizmos and whatever other mechanical nightmares Bruce Maddox and Starfleet Robotics could conjure up. He'd had to run maintenance on machines that most people only read about in scientific journals. He'd had to fight, tooth, nail, and claw, with about every mechanical menace he could imagine. And, oh, had he ever fought - and not once had he ever let the synthetic bastards best him. His spite of computers, of the starship's interior, and of machines was what motivated him as a chief engineer. It was what drove him to excel.
What had Bruce done now...?
"No, no, NO!" Wright snapped, "I told you after the conversing panels, I told you after the prosthetic twenty-foot tentacle of death, and I told you after the Risan mind-sex-probe-things. You can play with whatever toys you want in the Cargo Bays and the Science Labs, but for God's sake, Maddox, keep them out of engineering!"
"I was not aware that Starfleet was responsible for the manufacture of the Risan mind-probes," Data remarked, raising an eyebrow in surprise and glancing over at Maddox. Maddox merely brushed, and broke into an uneasy chuckle.
"Well...we didn't actually manufacture them," Bruce explained, shakily, "I just...er, we just invented them. And as for the tentacle," he snapped, glaring back at Wright, "That was designed for a security officer from a species that requires such a limb as a tail, for balance! Without it, he can't - !"
"Look, I'm not debating this!" Wright snapped, glaring at both of them, "I'm just saying, keep your damned machines out of my Engineering!"
Data arched an eyebrow, realizing that Wright was referring specifically to him, and stepped forward.
"I am not a toy, nor a machine under Captain Maddox's control," Data explained, his face stern, "And I concur with the Captain's previous statement. You will utilize the proper respect, or you shall be met with severe discipline. Is that clear?" The last few words almost bit into Wright, who recoiled with almost an irrational fear.
"Y-yes, Commander Data, sir," the Engineer mumbled.
"You will also provide me with a progress report. Have the starboard power couplings been realigned, and main power restored to Deck Four?" Data asked, quickly.
"Y-yes, sir!" Wright barked back, "However, there are indications that the power grid in Junction Four on Deck Seventeen has the potential to cause on overload in the grid if left - "
"Then you will proceed to Deck Seventeen and repair the power relays," Data snapped, "I will not tolerate carelessness, nor will I allow a potential threat, even one as slight as a faulty power relay, to jeopardize this mission, this vessel, or this crew. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?"
"Y-yes, sir," Wright nodded, quickly, scrambling to pick up his tools. Maddox glanced over at Data with a look that smacked of admiration, and amusement.
"That was...well said," Maddox mused.
"I have observed the command protocols utilized by Captain Picard and Commander Riker for some time," Data explained, "And I am confident not only in my ability to emulate and recreate such behaviours, but to elaborate and improve in them. I will endeavour to improve my programming in these regards as the journey progresses - "
Again, Maddox found himself waving Data's babble down.
"Alright, alright," he agreed quickly, "Well! The engines are back online. Number One, shall we proceed to the bridge?"
It took Data a moment to process the military endearment, a term that, in the past, he'd associated almost exclusively with Commander Riker.
"Yes, Captain," Data responded. "Let us proceed."
Maddox and Data stepped back through Engineering, towards a turbolift. They entered, and the doors closed with a whoosh. Near the core, Wright breathed a sigh of relief, but then the look on his face turned to one of vindictive fury. He glared back at the core, waving a spengler wrench threateningly.
"You did that on purpose," he snapped, "I know you did that on purpose."
The core glowed and hummed, as if laughing at him. Grumbling, Wright gathered his toolkit and headed for Deck Seventeen.
* * *
No sooner did the doors of the turbolift open again than a resounding "Keptin on the bridge!" filled the scant bridge of the USS Rorschach. Upon stepping out of the lift, Data found himself greeted again by Lieutenant Chekov, standing at attention, her stance unwavering.
"Relax," Maddox groaned. Chekov didn't budge.
"Allow me, sir," Data motioned, stepping forward. He tilted his head slightly, as he remodulated his vocal subprocessors to emulate the inflections of an Academy drill sergeant. "Crew stand aaaaaaat-ease!"
Immediately, Lieutenant Chekov responded, assuming the proper position.
"Now you may command her to relax, sir," Data spoke, to Maddox. Maddox groaned, rolled his eyes, and then covered them with his hands. He wasn't sure at the moment who was more regimented, more mechanical, or more stubborn - Lieutenant Chekov, or Lieutenant Commander Data. He groaned, and then sighed.
"Just relax," Maddox snapped.
"Aye, keptin!" Tatiyana responded briskly, taking her place again at the tactical station. Her face was aglow with excitement. She'd always been proud of her family's place in Starfleet, and of her own accomplishments as a Starfleet officer, short though her career was. This mission was just another chance for her to prove herself - and she intended on doing just that, to Captain Maddox, to Commander Data, to the crew, and to the fleet.
Maddox was more concerned with just staying alive...rather, making sure that Earth stayed alive. He'd had a sense of dread since putting together the figurative dots, the writing on the wall...he knew that whatever was out there wasn't going to be friendly. And when they found it...well, it wasn't going to be a pretty find.
The ensign in red seated at helm control glanced down at the terminal in front of him, and spoke softly.
"Engage bioneural interface Gallant-Theta-One."
Immediately, two segments of the panel parted, making way for what looked like large ports, openings. Maddox watched with fascination as the ensign took his hands - prosthetic hands, made of what appeared to be steel or some other metallic alloy - and placed them inside the ports. There was a brief flicker, and the ensign jolted for a moment, and then glanced up at Maddox.
"McKinley signals ready for our departure!" he called out.
"Thank you, Ensign...?" Maddox spoke, his voice trailing off as he scrambled to remember the Ensign's name. This was the same Ensign who'd been at Flight Control when their ship had been struck by the energy wave that had killed his last First Officer. What was his name again?
"Ensign Daniel Gallant," the young officer reported, "How should I proceed, sir?"
Maddox paused, glancing out the main viewer. This was the beginning of a journey, a crucial journey...and he had no idea how the journey would end. But even the greatest of journeys had to start off on a single step, taken with a single foot. A single command would suffice.
"Data, take your place at Ops," Maddox spoke, delaying that single command.
The bridge was small, but had sufficient space for all four officers to function. The tactical terminal was to Maddox's left, and this was where Chekov was stationed. Helm control was in front of him, where Gallant was seated. Ops was off to the right, and it was where Data now stood. The Nebula-Class bridge was compressed, and had not been designed for comfort. She was, after all, a science ship, not a floating city like the Galaxy or Ambassador-Classes. It would be enough, though. She was a good ship, with a good crew. The Rorschach would serve them well...and would bring them home, just as it always had.
Maddox sighed, watching the empty space in front of them, with Earth just off to starboard.
"Mister Gallant, take us out," he commanded, "One-quarter impulse."
Here goes nothing.
* * *
Picard glanced out the viewport of McKinley station, as the USS Rorschach made her way out of port.
Seven days, he reassured himself, They'll only be out for seven days.
The more he repeated the phrase to himself, the more he found himself disbelieving it. He paced, nervously, as the starship began to move farther and farther from view, but he not once took his eyes from it, keeping them trained on the vessel that his former Operations officer was now running, at the side of a man who only years ago had asked to have him dismantled. If anyone had told him a week ago, a month ago, hell, years ago that he'd be sending Data on this sort of suicide mission, he'd never have believed them.
No...not a suicide mission, and not one that Picard had sent the android on. Data had chosen to go of his own accord. Picard couldn't have stopped him, and wouldn't have, given the conviction that the android seemed to have regarding the mission. The greatest possibility was that this was another one of Bruce Maddox's damned foolish scientific escapades. The destructive force that Data had claimed threatened Earth might be no more than a nebula, some spare debris from a passing comet, perhaps even a spaceborne life form having lost its way from a herd. Picard had very little faith in Bruce Maddox.
Picard's fears did not stem from any faith in Maddox whatsoever. They stemmed from his faith in Data, a faith that had become unwavering. A faith as strong of that of a father, hearing the convicted words of a son.
Rene and Maurice Picard were gone. Jean-Luc Picard was the last survivor. His legacy was not to be written with a bloodline, and he had made peace with that fact by now. He chuckled lightly as the Rorschach finally disappeared into warp, vanishing amidst the stars. His eyes were wet, and weary, and he wiped them before planting himself firmly into the chair of his quarters, scant though they were in comparison to, say, the Ready Room on the Enterprise-D.
The last seven years, Data had been like a child - growing, learning, advancing. Picard had helped the android through his first tastes of emotion, love, fear, art, beauty, despair, loss, and all else that humanity had to offer. He felt responsible for the android, and for his development.
He'd lost the Enterprise-D. He'd lost Rene and Maurice. Data was the only real legacy that Picard had left...the only real thing that Picard would leave behind, aside from the stuff of dusty textbooks and academy lectures.
Seven days, he reassured himself, Seven days...
There was a trilling at his door, indicating that someone was seeking entrance.
"Come," he commanded.
Beverly Crusher stepped into the room, smiling. She was clothed in her standard duty uniform, blue with black shoulders, and her face shone with a grin the likes of which Picard had not witnessed since they'd lost the Enterprise.
"Not much longer now," she smiled, "Are you excited?"
"Should I be?" Picard snapped, forlornly. Beverly glanced at him, a look of concern on her face at the sound of his voice. The captain seemed to be gripped with hopelessness...loss. Beverly had known about his brother and nephew's deaths, but feared now that perhaps tragedy had struck this man, whom she cared so deeply about, once more.
"Jean-Luc," Beverly whispered, "It's only another three weeks...of course you should be excited."
"Three weeks?" Picard cried out, standing aggressively from the chair, practically throwing the computer terminal off of his desk and onto the floor. "He told me seven days! Damn that Bruce Maddox and his confounded - !"
Beverly's dazed look spelled out, quite clearly, to Picard that she had no idea what he was talking about.
"Obviously we are on two completely different pages, Beverly," Picard sighed, retreating into the chair and putting both of his hands over his face, as if hiding himself away.
Beverly arched an eyebrow, approached, and took the captain's hand into her own.
"Why don't you tell me a little bit more about your page, Jean-Luc," she whispered. She lifted the hand, and kissed it gently. Picard glanced up, and smiled at her, seeing the comfort in her eyes, and feeling the care in her touch that he very much needed right now.
"It's Data," he whispered, "Bruce Maddox has dragged him off on some damned assignment on the Rorschach. I do not trust the man...but Data seems convinced that the mission is of great importance. He also seems convinced that there is a great danger that he won't return."
Beverly understood, and sat slightly on the desk, her eyes still locked on the captain's, as she smiled, giving him that healing, happy warmth that he needed right now.
"It will be alright," Beverly soothed, "We can't get rid of Data that easily."
Picard paused, the scene from the restaurant playing back in his mind over and over again. He and Data had made a pact, had they not? That they would all be together again? He smiled slightly, but then paused, thinking back to the way that the android had entered the restaurant. The way that he'd walked. The way that his uncertainty had only struck when he thought he'd met Picard's disapproval.
He remembered that feeling well.
"Did I ever tell you the story," Picard asked, casually, "About the last time I talked to my father?"
"I know how your father felt about Starfleet," Beverly grinned, rolling her eyes, "I guess I'm in for an interesting story."
"You're damned right you are," Picard chuckled, "I stepped into a little restaurant, in Labarre. A little old place the local old men used to frequent. I never thought I'd be one of them." He cleared his throat, remembering the day well. "At any rate, I walked in, and told him that I'd been given captaincy of the Stargazer. He'd never approved of my entry into Starfleet Academy...but every time I came home, and we spoke, I hoped that something I'd done...something I'd accomplished...just might change his mind. All I ever wanted was his...approval."
Beverly smiled, still holding his hand, a little bit sadly now.
"You never got it," she whispered, "Did you?"
"Oh, of course not," Picard sighed, "He was as stern and as stubborn as ever. Actually, probably worse than before, now that I think of it. I was upset...I walked out."
Beverly paused, swallowed, and glanced back at him, still not completely understanding why the story was coming out now.
"Does it bother you, now?" she asked, "Because of Rene and Maurice? The way that things turned out with your father?"
"No," Picard sighed, raising a palm to his face once again, "It bothers me because last night, an android with a great strut to his step walked into a Parisian cafe to give me news that he'd become First Officer. That he was advancing. That he was going on a bold new adventure, all of his own, one on which I could not guide him, or protect him, or assist him. And...I met him with the same reservation with which my father met me."
Beverly sighed, knowing the feeling as well as anyone else in the quadrant possibly could. Her experiences with her own son's departure had left her with similar conflicted feelings.
"Jean-Luc," she sighed, "Data was a child when he came to us. But...eventually, those children grow up. They spread their wings, and they learn to fly. And we're not always going to be there to catch him."
Picard sighed, glancing out the window at open space, where the Rorschach had vanished into the great expanse.
"I know," he whispered, "But...I'll be damned if that makes this feel any easier."
Beverly crouched, slightly, and wrapped her arms warmly around him, embracing her captain, her friend, her Jean-Luc. He held her, too, as if holding on for dear life, seeking shelter in a storm. All the while, though, his gaze was fixed outside, on the expanse.
Seven days...he thought once more, Seven days...
