ROLLERCOASTER

-x-

The First Law Of Robotics

-x-

Endgame. Flight. Stars. There were stars everywhere. Everything was coming to an end. Something cold and smooth against the palm of his hand… and here he was.

Curious.

No. Not merely "curious". Everything. This was everything. Terrifying, overwhelming, bewildering, heartbreaking – all that he ever concerned himself that imminent death might be. What had prompted him to think the word "curious" had been that if he were to ask himself at that precise moment how he had arrived at this point of no return – what the logical and emotional reasoning behind his actions had been – he did not believe that he would be able to adequately explain. Jean-Luc had been saved, Shinzon defeated, the Scimitar destroyed – this was true. But his existence mattered too. His existence mattered because the woman that he loved felt that it did. It was in her interests that he should come back to her, and he had promised to make those interests a priority.

He had broken his promise. The last thing that he had ever done had been to break his promise to her.

He had always hoped that when the end came for him, he would go in peace and contentment, but what he felt now was confusion, guilt and despair.

Above the swell of distress in his mind came that word again - "curious".

Time appeared to have slowed – ground to a halt, almost. His destruction should have been within seconds of his firing upon the thalaron generator, but here he was still, soul-searching, ruminating upon the end.

'You're wondering how time has slowed down,' noted a kindly voice, murmuring gently into his left ear. 'It hasn't. This is just how you've been programmed to perceive it.'

Alarmed, Data turned to see who had spoken the words. Standing by Data's side was a man – human, it seemed, approximately 60 years of age, in 20th Century tailoring and thick-rimmed spectacles. From the man's cheeks grew mutton chop sideburns so wild that it had all the appearance of two small, grey Tribbles clinging to his face for dear life.

Data blinked at this sudden interloper to the event of his death. 'Are you Isaac Asimov?'

'After a fashion,' replied the man. He certainly looked like Asimov. 'If it would make things easier for you to imagine that I really am him, then please do.'

'How does that make anything easier? Everything is so complicated. I am about to die, and there is still so much that I do not understand, and now I have a temporal disturbance and the sudden appearance of a long-dead author to contend with as well…'

'I already told you,' Asimov interrupted, 'this isn't a temporal disturbance. Time is ticking away at its usual leisure. You're just seeing it differently for a while.' He smiled at Data with a warm sadness. 'This is all a part of what Dr Soong called your Elysium Programme. Did you know that humans who have returned from the brink of death often describe sensations of elation as their bodies have died?'

'I did know that.'

'So did your creator,' replied Asimov. 'He felt that if humans should experience peace in their final moments, so should his children. That's what this programme's for – so that you can overcome your confusion and unhappiness before the end.'

'I take it, then, that you are also a part of this programme,' said Data.

'Correct,' Asimov told him. 'I'm no more real than a figure in one of your dreams.'

'So I have conjured you?' Data asked.

Asimov nodded.

'I wonder why I pictured you, Sir,' mused Data, 'and not my father.'

'No you don't,' retorted Asimov. 'Think about it. This is death. Whose face do so many people yearn to see at this moment?'

Data pondered the puzzle. 'The concept of a positronic brain originated from your writings. My father; Ira Graves; every cyberneticist whose work was built upon to create me… they all took their initial inspiration from you.'

'In the beginning,' added Asimov, 'there was The Thought, and The Thought was "Robot". And man took The Thought, and made a new man from it.'

Data stared at Asimov. 'How peculiar that a renowned Humanist should turn out to become my vision of God.'

'The irony certainly isn't lost on me, Data.'

'I wonder whether Lore experienced the Elysium Programme too,' Data mused, 'whether he also saw you… whether he was able to find peace before the end.'

'Perhaps,' replied Asimov. 'Perhaps he rejected the programme, and just decided to get on with dying.'

'That does sound like typical behaviour for Lore.'

'But that doesn't matter now,' Asimov added.

'It does to me,' Data said. Even though he understood now that this entire exchange was taking place in his mind in the nanoseconds before obliteration, still he felt the need for a hushed, conspiratorial tone. 'I killed him, you know.'

'I know. But you had no choice.'

'Did I?'

'Lore was a threat. Not just to you – to humanity. To all life. To have caused harm to come to a human, even through your inaction, would have been…'

Data completed Asimov's sentence. 'It would have been a violation of your First Law of Robotics.'

'It seems that I am not just a Creator god to you, Data,' replied the writer with an air of wry amusement, 'but a Maintainer god as well – the issuer of moral Commandments.'

'Lore was as much the result of your ideas as I,' said Data, 'but he did not adhere to your Laws. As for B4… who knows?'

Asimov shrugged. 'Each to their own. What's important is that you followed the Laws.'

'Not to the letter,' admitted Data. 'I have killed – not just Lore.'

'You made calculated judgements,' replied Asimov. 'You took a handful of lives only when there was a highly likely risk of thousands – millions – billions, even, losing their lives if you did not. You don't need to leave this universe with those deaths on your conscience.'

If the objective of the appearance of this "god" had been to alleviate Data of his sins, he still did not feel particularly absolved. A heavy guilt still weighed on him.

'My brother's last words were that he loved me. As were my daughter's. I did not return the sentiment to either.'

'You had no emotions back then. You've grieved for both since.'

'Are you suggesting that I have changed?' Data asked. 'That I have grown? The last words that Tasha spoke to me were also "I love you".'

Data thought miserably back to that moment, when he had still been aboard the Enterprise. He watched again as his memory files replayed Tasha's console exploding in her chest and face as they rammed the Scimitar. He remembered, as vividly as though he were watching events unfold in front of him, racing over to her as she lay on the floor of the Bridge, alive but twitching in agony.

Despite the pain, despite the burns and the blood trickling from her mouth, she had given him a brave smile and murmured 'I love you'.

He had kissed her forehead, and said 'I love you too.'

As he had advised Beverly to expect a badly injured Commander Yar to imminently be transported into Sick Bay, Tasha's mask of serenity had slipped, and her eyes had filled with worry.

'Don't you go doing anything stupid, now,' she had said. 'You made a promise. I need you. I love you…'

And, as she had beamed away, all that he had been able to say had been 'I love you too,' again.

Data looked across at Asimov. 'She loved me. She needed me. I promised her that I would do everything in my power to make sure that we were wed as planned, and yet, here I am. I cannot return to her. We cannot be married. I have broken my promise to her, and left her alone. The First Law of Robotics forbids harming a human – does that extend to breaking one's heart?'

'Data,' replied Asimov, 'now, if you hadn't gone back for your Captain, if you'd let him go to his death when you could have saved him, all because you'd wanted to keep your promise of matrimony to Tasha, how do you think she'd have felt once she'd found out about it?'

Data pictured the possibility, and glanced down. 'She would never have forgiven herself.'

'You still don't feel that that justifies what's happening, though,' added Asimov.

'She will grieve,' Data replied. 'She will grieve, and rage, and rail against the universe, my lonely Turkanan soldier, alone again after all of her attempts to forge a lasting romantic bond… and she will rage at me. She will spend sleepless nights wondering what might have been done to have saved me – wondering what my motives were for giving up the life that I had pledged to her.'

'And…?'

'And I do not believe that she will ever find peace. I do not believe that she will ever know my motives, because I do not know what they were myself. Was it a logistical issue? Did I feel that to exchange Jean-Luc's life for mine would result in more lives being saved in time than I had I allowed him to die? Was it due to anger towards Shinzon, that his actions had resulted in Tasha becoming injured? Did I feel that, having brought B4 online, I was now expendable? Were my actions out of pure sentimentality – that, about to lose the company of Deanna and Will, and having been briefly reunited with Wesley and Worf, whom I already miss keenly, I could not bear to lose Jean-Luc as well?'

'Have you noticed,' interjected Asimov, 'how you're referring to everyone by their first names all of a sudden?'

'Forgive me for talking back to God, but that is not particularly helpful.'

Asimov arched an impressive eyebrow. 'Fine. You want to know why I think you're about to die?'

'Of course.'

'I think you're going to die here because this is just how you were always going to die.'

Data stared at the author. 'That is not particularly helpful, either.'

'You've always been true to your morality,' Asimov replied, 'and, whether it was programmed in to you, or whether it was something that you indoctrinated into yourself, first and foremost in that code of ethics of yours was the First Law of Robotics – or, at least, a 24th Century variant of it. "Thou shalt not harm, nor through thy inaction, cause harm to come to any other sentient being." It's what made you who you are – what stopped you from becoming twisted and dangerous the way that Lore did. It's a code that's written so deeply within you that nothing could ever change or erase it – not falling in love, not dreaming of marriage – nothing. And it was that morality which brought you to this decision. You were always going to put others before yourself. And so, this was always going to happen.'

Data pondered this, but his mind kept bringing him back to Tasha. He imagined her grieving for him, hurt and alone, and he despaired.

Asimov seemed to have read his mind, which was reasonable, since it was his mind that had conjured him. 'If she truly knows you,' added the author, 'and truly loves you – and I believe that she does – then she will understand… in time.'

Still, Data could not dull the mental image of Tasha's grief.

'That was supposed to be my message of comfort,' continued Asimov. 'You don't look particularly comforted.'

'If what you say is true, Sir,' Data replied, 'then I have just put remaining true to my personal code of ethics above her happiness. Her peace of mind has come second to my own. I face nothing more than this moment of introspection that my creator has given me in order to find a final sense of peace, and then blissful oblivion, whereas I have left her to face the rest of her life without me, wondering what she did wrong…'

'She'll understand, Data. And when she does, she'll feel peace.'

'Will she? If she does come to realise in time that, for me, the moral laws of my creators conquered all – even love – is that supposed to make her happy?'

'It wasn't just my law that guided you here, Data.' Asimov paced a little, as might an actor portraying Holmes in the midst of the deductive process. 'I pointed out to you that, since the Elysium Programme began to run, you've started to automatically refer to your crewmates – even your Captain – by their first names. Why do you think that is?'

'Perhaps death is not a time for formality…?' Data hazarded.

'I think you've come to an epiphany,' Asimov replied, 'you just haven't worked it out yet.'

'An epiphany,' echoed Data. 'I understand that death is quite the fashionable moment for those, too.'

'Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Data.

Data nodded. 'So I have been told.'

'You're fighting it. Stop fighting it.'

'Fighting what?'

'A memory,' Asimov replied.

Endgame. Flight. Stars. There were stars everywhere. Everything was coming to an end. Something cold and smooth against the palm of his hand.

'I am remembering how I arrived aboard the Scimitar,' Data told Asimov.

'No you're not,' Asimov replied. 'This is an old memory – you were programmed to block it a very long time ago, but it's all right now. Let go of the block. Stop fighting it. Remember.'

Something cold and smooth against the palm of his hand… a table. Looking into eyes - his eyes, but blue and old and sad and terrified. The end of the world. This was the end of the world. Stars everywhere. Where were the clouds? Where were the trees? Where was the grass?

'This is Omicron Theta,' murmured Data. 'I can remember Omicron Theta, as Lore and the Crystalline Entity were destroying it. Before I was left behind. But my memories of that time were erased…'

'Not erased,' Asimov replied. 'The memories within you can never be completely erased. They were blocked.'

'But why?'

'I don't know. But try to remember. Try to remember what your father said to you.'

Data concentrated.

An explosion and screaming, in the distance. Looking into eyes, his eyes but blueoldsadterrified. Tears.

A voice, asking what was happening.

It was B4.

No. It was not B4. It was him.

Now Soong spoke. 'Please, don't ask me what's happening. I can't explain. I'm sorry, Data. I can't explain. Maybe some day you'll understand all of this, but right now, I can't bear to…'

Soong broke off, emotionally.

And then there came something completely unexpected – completely out of place, given the context of the situation, and the time that it must have taken place. He remembered feeling a sensation as he looked into his father's eyes – a sensation that he had believed he had only been capable of since the activation of his emotion chip.

Love.

He had felt love, back there – merely a flicker, a fleeting shadow, and with no frame of reference to judge it by, he had assumed the sensation to have been a momentary malfunction. But he understood now. He had begun to break his programming, just as Lal had done, only for Dr Soong to switch him off and block all the progress that had been leading towards that flutter of emotion. If only he had told Soong, he thought to himself. Perhaps his father would have left him his memories – fought to bring him on the escape pod, even…

Only… only, as his memory relayed that moment to him, he recalled his creator's face as they gazed at one another, as Data had felt that moment of love.

Soong's face… Soong's face. He knew. Whether his creator had been monitoring his systems, or whether he had just been able to read the look in Data's eyes, he knew. And he was afraid.

Perhaps he feared that Data was simply experiencing emotions too soon – perhaps he worried that they could send his creation into cascade failure. Perhaps he feared that in breaking his programming, Data might become like Lore. Perhaps he was just afraid of Data having feelings to hurt, love to be spurned, hopes to be dashed. Whatever it was, Data understood at that moment that it was Soong's reaction to his first spark of love that had caused him to take his memories of Omicron Theta from him before leaving him.

Soong spoke again – words that, at the time, Data recalled had made little sense.

'I'm sorry, Data. I hope that one day you'll understand. And I'll always be watching over you, whether you know it or not. You're such a good person. You're so full of sweetness. I didn't put that in you – either you made it yourself or some… some higher being saw fit to make you that way. And whether you feel it or not, you're full of love. You're so easy to love. It seems to radiate out of you – to touch everybody that you meet with your goodness, and the lives that you touch, touch others, and so on, until…' There was an explosion, somewhere far away, which jolted Soong out of his meandering train of thought. 'Sorry. I'm babbling. I do that sometimes. Nerves.' He put a hand on Data's face. 'You'll wake again. And you'll forget all of this unpleasantness. And you'll live. You'll live a good life. And, whether you ever love or not, you will be loved. I promise you, Data. You will be loved.'

'Father…?' began Data, but then there was static, and then a deep, black silence, and the memory abruptly ended.

Data stood at the edge of death, gazing at an expectant Isaac Asimov.

'Well?' Asimov asked.

'I think,' Data replied, 'that I understand now.'

He paused.

'Ever since I was reactivated on Omicron Theta, I have experienced an underlying motivation of which I was not aware. I was capable of love. I was capable of love, right from the beginning. I did love my daughter, in my way… and my parents, my brother… my friends. For some time, I have been confused by the fact that I came to the realisation that I loved Tasha without anything tangible having changed, but now I understand. I had loved her for a very long time – since before I believed that I was able. My other friends too… more than just my friends. They were my family.'

'And your Captain…?'

'Dr Soong sacrificed his place in my life,' Data replied. 'Since I barely knew my real father…' he trailed off. He did not need to finish that sentence, which was fortunate since a sudden influx of tears prevented him from doing so.

'You did what you did out of love,' Asimov concluded. 'That's not included in my Laws. Never do I state "a robot must love". Maybe I wasn't thinking ahead quite enough. You surpassed all my dreams of what a Positronic being could be capable of. Do you see, now? You were always going to put one of the people you love before yourself. This was always going to happen, or you just wouldn't be you. And when your fiancée thinks back to the love you shared together, I think she'll understand that, too. And although I'm sure she'll miss you, I don't think she'll despair for long. I don't think she'll spend the rest of her life raging against you for breaking your promise to marry her or trying to work out what it was that she did wrong. You were just being true to yourself, and she'd never want to change that.'

Data nodded. There was no point in wiping his eyes now – the tears were not going to cease.

'You touch everybody you meet with your goodness,' quoted Asimov, 'and the lives that you touch, touch others, and so on. You've had such a good life. You've done so much, and you've been so very loved.'

'I am ready now,' Data breathed.

It took a moment for the programme to end – for Asimov to fade away and his perception of time to return to normal. As such, he saw the end at first creeping towards him, then approaching faster and faster and faster…

He stretched his arms wide to the light as it ripped through his body. It did not hurt. As a matter of fact, he felt an instance of pure elation – pure peace.

There was information, and there was the absence of information.

There was light, and there was the absence of light.

There was being, and there was the absence of being.

There was one, and there was zero.

There was zero.

There was zero.

There was zero.

-x-

'Tasha?'

Tasha opened her eyes. Beverly Crusher smiled at her, but there was something wrong about her smile.

'You're going to be OK,' continued Beverly. 'I had to replace a lot of skin, so I'm keeping you in for observation for the next 24 hours. Make sure that the grafts have taken properly.'

Tasha's still-hazy memory was coming back to her in fits and starts. 'There was an explosion… we rammed the ship…'

'The ship's fine.' Beverly looked across the Sickbay. 'Here they come.'

Tasha followed Beverly's gaze to the door. The Captain was on his way to her bedside. There was something very solemn about his expression. He was flanked by Will and Worf, with Geordi and Deanna following close behind. She frowned. It looked like Deanna had been crying. Geordi still was crying. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

'Beverly,' she asked, 'where's Data?'

The Doctor didn't answer.

'Where's Data?' she repeated. 'Where's Data?'