Chapter Twenty-Two

Silarra adjusted her transporter armband and rechecked her small, Romulan tricorder for any sign of humanoid or equestrian life forms in the caves ahead.

The readings showed residual heat traces of two horses and two humanoids, and fresh tracks in the sand indicated some sort of horse-drawn vehicle. Probably a couple of local Rangers re-stocking the camp-stops along the official trail that circled through the planet's ancient ruins.

Silarra smirked, and tucked her tricorder back into its pocket on her narrow utility belt. As tourist expeditions went, this burning sand-pit of a trek wasn't exactly popular, but it was the only real attraction Nineveh IV had going for it, and she knew the city officials made a point of maintaining the paths and keeping the stables clean and stocked. The Rangers who had just been here were probably only a few miles ahead of her, off to identify and report any trail or site damage caused by the latest bout of earthquakes and sandstorms. For now, though, it seemed the caves were…

"All clear…" she murmured to herself.

Shifting her skin tone and texture from reddish-rock to coarse, sun-lit sand, Silarra crept out of the shaded, rocky crevice like a lanky spider and skittered across the sand, using a strange-looking, yet surprisingly efficient, hop-shuffle that effectively erased her tracks behind her.

It was only a short distance, but the burning rays of the rising sun were enough to make her feel uncomfortably overheated. She tugged irritably at the collar of her tight, translucent bodysuit, and grunted.

"Damn suit…"

The highly advanced suit refracted light, aiding her chameleonic talents by providing a shade of near-invisibility, but while the inlaid metals, glass fibers, and woven plastics were effective protection against stun rays and projectiles, the outfit was designed for use in deep space – to retain body heat rather than cool a person down. As such, it wasn't exactly the most efficient desert gear.

She headed for the sleeping cave first, tricorder in hand, but either the Federation travelers were conscientiously tidy or the Rangers had cleaned up the campsite because they hadn't left so much as an empty ration packet or used heat stick behind. Even more disappointing, the walls of the cave were extremely rough. Loose sand crumbled away at the slightest touch.

Silarra grumbled through her teeth.

The Boss-man had provided her with several stolen passwords to get her started on this assignment, but smooth surfaces and casually discarded trash could have given her the biodata she needed to access private personal information on these Starfleet people she'd been sent to shadow. Fingerprints, trace DNA… Without it, she'd have to learn from official personnel records and observation alone and, while she prided herself on being an exceptionally skilled mimic, it always helped to be familiar with the inner hopes and secrets of her prey.

The stable didn't promise to be much better, but Silarra went in just the same. She kept her attention on her tricorder, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimness…

Movement - there, in the shadows...!

Silarra gasped and crept back, but despite the alarm bells chilling her spine, she couldn't quite bring herself to run. Instead, she moved in deeper, slinking closer to the shadowy back wall…then closer…

"What in all the galaxy…?"

Four powerful figures faded into view – and she realized what her eyes had mistaken for movement was really a startling image of four sleek horses bursting out from a field of golden handprints.

"It's…it's a painting…" she said, slowing leaning forward, her long fingers outstretched. "An artwork…"

She sniffed the air, then patted the vibrant pigments with her glove. It came away clean, but she was certain, "This is no ancient relic. This paint is fresh…"

Quickly, she fumbled for her tricorder and scanned the work. The stone here was different from the other cave, smoother, less sandy, but she could still find no trace DNA. Even the background of yellow hands provided only partial prints, smeared and badly muddied by the thick paint. But—

"What's this…?"

Silarra bent closer to the craggy wall, where she found a very neatly printed dedication written, not in Federation Standard, but in an odd sort of code that combined letters and numbers. Her tricorder gave her at least eight possible translations, but only two made any sense:

TO MY DEARLY LOVED

FOR LAL

Riker shuffled into the main cafeteria, yawning and stretching, and almost stumbled over a pair of legs sticking out from under the cafeteria's replicator. A silvery tool box and empty saddlebag rested against the wall nearby.

"Whoa - what—?"

"Oh! My apologies!" Data said, backing swiftly out of the open wall panel and rising to his feet. "Good morning, Commander. I'm sorry for… That is, I was merely making some…um…adjustments…"

He held up his tool box as if in demonstration, his entire manner oddly awkward and sheepish.

Riker regarded the fidgeting android, his pre-caffeinated brain hovering somewhere between amused and suspicious.

"What kind of adjustments?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Data assured him. "This unit operates as specified. Perhaps it would have been more appropriate to say 'enhancements' rather than 'adjustments,' as the items I wish to replicate require a great deal more power, processing capabilities, and memory capacity than a standard, portable emergency replicator is designed to handle."

"Yeah?" Riker said, a tiny smile playing around his lips. "What do you have in mind?"

Data looked away and Riker could swear, if an android without skin could blush, Data was certainly doing his best to prove it.

"I do not understand why speaking about…personal matters…has lately become so…so hideously awkward," the android mumbled. "Such discussions never bothered me like this before…"

"It's perfectly normal Data," Riker assured him. "You're going through a very personal transition right now. We all understand that. It's something all humans – or humanoids, if you prefer – go through as they mature."

Data regarded him, and Riker smiled.

"Well, in one way or another," he qualified.

Data returned his smile, just slightly, and set his tools back down on the floor.

"Yes, sir," he said, and glanced at the console controls. "The replicator is functional. Did you wish to order breakfast?"

"Scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, sourdough pancakes topped with lingonberry jam and birch syrup, a glass of cranberry juice, and a black coffee," Riker rattled off. "Hot. And, put it on a tray."

The replicator chirped and whirred, and an appropriately loaded breakfast tray materialized on the inset shelf.

"Ah, perfect!"

Riker grinned and carried his food tray to a fold-out table nearby.

Data just watched.

"If you're planning something complicated, Data, you might want to get it finished now," Riker suggested. "We're admittedly getting a late start this morning, but it won't be long before the rest of the group swarms in clamoring for their breakfast."

Data nodded.

"I should, yes."

He glanced at Riker, already eagerly digging into his scrambled eggs.

"Do you intend to…remain there…?"

"Hey, if you want me to leave, I'll leave," Riker said. "And don't worry, Data – I get it. You're feeling shy, and that's OK. I suppose if I were planning to replicate myself a whole new skin, I wouldn't want an audience either."

Data's eyes widened, and he twiddled his folded fingers.

"It's that obvious?"

Riker's smile gentled, and he picked up his tray

"Look, Data, I can go eat in the other dome. It's no problem. I just came in because this replicator's better than the one in the clinic. You do what you have to do and, when you're ready, you're welcome to come join the rest of us. Just don't forget to order some breakfast for yourself, OK?"

Data nodded, very slightly.

"Thank you, Will. I do appreciate your understanding in this matter. And…Will?"

Riker stopped half-way to the cafeteria's sliding door.

"Yeah, Data?"

"Those sourdough pancakes… Are they…" He smiled a little. "Do they 'taste as good as they smell'?"

Riker grinned all over his bearded face.

"Better," he said, and left the room.

Data jutted his lower lip with a slight, "Hm!" and went back to his work. By the time Nat and Tu'Pari came in some fifteen minutes later, the android, his tool box, and his replicated materials were already gone.

Data stood in the dimness, his overstuffed saddlebag slung over one shoulder and a dermal regenerator in his metallic hand. He started to move toward Kahlestra's cot, then paused and backed away, briefly closing his yellow eyes as he listened to the soft, slow sounds of sleep...

Despite their exhaustion, it had taken a lot to get the children to bed. Kahlestra had wanted to stay beside her mother, and Ishta had flatly refused a cot. All Deanna and Freja's attempts to persuade her had only fortified her stubborn anger until the young Orion had seemed on the verge of screams.

Finally, Data had pried his exhausted frame up from his own cot and wordlessly handed the furious green girl a blanket. She'd taken it with a huff and marched to the far corner, where she had a clear view of both doors. Crouching down with her back to the wall, she'd wrapped the blanket around herself like a cloak, hugged her knees to her chest, and glowered until Deanna and Freja had left the room.

"You know they're only trying to help," Data had said wearily, sinking heavily back onto his cot. "They are concerned about your wellbeing, as I am."

"I don't care," Ishta had grumbled into her knees. "I won't sleep there. I won't sit there. I can't."

"Then, you do not have to," he'd said.

Data could have questioned her. She might even have answered…at least, in part.

But he didn't. For some reason, at that moment, allowing the tightly-strung girl her privacy and some time to relax had seemed more important than assuaging his own concern and curiosity. So, he'd pulled his own blanket up to his chin, closed his golden eyes, and listened closely until both girls had fallen fast asleep. Only then had he activated his dream program…

Data squeezed the dermal regenerator and sighed through his nose.

He'd hoped the girls would be awake…that he could talk with them a bit before…

But, no. After everything they'd been through…he couldn't wake them up now. Better to let them come to consciousness on their own, when their systems were ready.

Unfortunately, his systems couldn't wait that long. The warning messages from his diagnostic programs had faded in intensity from red to yellow, but it was clear now that, no matter how long he rested or what he consumed, he would never be able to sustain optimal performance levels as long as he continued to operate without his skin. He was tired of feeling tired and, while he was aware he should probably wait until Dr. Crusher was available to assist, this awkward new 'shyness' was pressuring him to complete the operation now, on his own, before the doctor arrived.

Was it an aspect of his modesty program – insisting it was inappropriate to appear 'naked' before a colleague? Particularly a female colleague? Had his studies of humanity fostered this powerful sense of embarrassment?

Or was it, as both Riker and Troi had said, that he was undergoing something quite personal? A transition as physical as it was mental?

Whatever the cause, Data knew if he was to complete his 'upgrade' before the captain, the doctor, or the children required his presence, he would have to do so now, and quickly. Besides, if he needed assistance, he could always call on Howard. He'd assigned the robot to monitor Mikey and Kurak while the rest of them slept, but he was sure Riker would be amenable to keeping watch should Data have to call the robot away for a few minutes.

Adjusting the saddlebag on his shoulder, Data left the children to sleep and headed out of the clinic, through a plastic tunnel, and into the empty exercise dome...

Fifty-six minutes later, a light-skinned young man with neatly brushed dark hair entered the crowded cafeteria. His face seemed a little flushed, his gait a bit stiff, but his boots were polished to a mirror-like shine, his khaki hiking outfit looked crisp and freshly-pressed, and his Starfleet combadge gleamed above his front pocket.

The man made a brief stop at the replicator, then headed for the long, fold-out table, struggling to keep his expression blankly neutral as he watched startled, yet pleased, recognition dawn first on Troi's face, then Riker's and, finally, Picard's and Kahlestra's.

Setting down his tray of pancakes, juice, and hot breakfast tea, he offered a polite "Good morning!" and a friendly handshake to Kahlestra and Ishta, to the very puzzled archeologists, and to Picard, Troi, and Riker, who was struggling not to laugh into his second cup of coffee.

"Always knew you'd make it, Pinocchio," Riker teased, once he'd managed to swallow. "Seriously, though, I don't know what you were so worried about. You look great, my friend."

"Indeed," Picard said approvingly. "I would hardly have known you."

"You really do look wonderful," Troi told him sincerely, her gaze lingering appreciatively on the warm gold and copper hues in his striking amber eyes.

Kahlestra echoed her sentiment with a wide-eyed, "Wow! You look way better than in those pictures I saw. Way better! Don't you think he looks great?" She nudged Ishta.

Ishta grunted, her unruly hair mostly concealing her grumpy, sleepy scowl.

"What are you talking about?" she mumbled. "Who the hell is this guy?"

From the glances they shared, the archaeologists seemed to share her confusion.

No longer able to hold its carefully neutral expression, the man's face broke into a big, beaming grin and he laughed out loud.

"I am Lt. Commander Data," he told the rather stunned girl, grabbing his tray and squeezing into the space between the young Orion and Klingon. "And, right now, my energy-starved systems are crying out for nutrients. Mind if I join you?"

To Be Continued…

Thanks so much for reading, and for your wonderful reviews! I hope you liked this chapter! Coming Soon: More about the mystery beneath the Stairway... Stay tuned! :)