A Mutual Exchange of Data
By Eldee Tee
The structural repairs to the shuttlecraft had taken approximately three days, thirteen hours, twelve minutes, and six seconds. Repairing the replicator had taken the longest-some of the circuitry had to be rebuilt, and none of the original conductor plates were intact. But fabricating many of the parts needed to effect repairs would have taken longer yet, and some, he expected, would have been impossible without spending several years mining the necessary materials first. So first, the replicator, then the rest of the ship.
In spite of a week's non-stop labor-and the superhuman speed and precision of that labor-the shuttlecraft still wasn't ready to fly. Structurally, it was sound. The software had been verified, new flight algorithms had been programmed to account for the gravitronic shear and electromagnetic inversions that had brought the small vessel down in the first place. The shuttle's cabin had even been cleared of the various debris not only of the crash and subsequent repair work, but even the nearly imperceptible and generally unnoticed detritus from the last crew to use it for a long voyage. It was spotless, but still largely useless.
"Personal log, stardate 46441.2. I have managed to make the necessary alterations to the shuttlecraft's transporter to begin the regrowth of the dilithium crystals. The process is based on the technique pioneered by Queen Me Hani Ika Hali Ka Po. However, due to the severely limited available power, I was required to make extensive modifications. I believe the crystals will be functional in no more than 46 hours. I have determined that the most optimal use of this period is likely to be to further explore the surface of this planet. I am entering my intended route." His hands flew across the console.
Two hours of walking at an unvarying 6.4 kilometers per hour produced few discoveries of note. The landscape consisted of what Data reflected was a swamp extraordinary only for the degree to which it was remarkably typical of the swamps on the other M-class planets he had visited. Periodic surveys in passing of aquatic microorganisms revealed profuse creatures, but little diversity. Scrutiny of plants revealed much the same, and he had yet to observe any larger organisms. There was nothing of note, that is, until, pushing through a heavy wall of something very like earth's Spanish moss, he saw what appeared to be a plasticine android, roughly humanoid in shape and size, with a right leg that was clearly made of some other material. That leg, in fact, seemed to be planted firmly in the ground, and the android was shuffling in a circle around it.
Data blinked. Repeatedly. Tilting his head slightly to the left, he considered what to say, rapidly cycling through simulations based on permutations of first-contact protocols, scientific exploration, and introductions in social settings. After several hundred thousand simulations, he arrived at what seemed to be a likely strategy, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, the other android (who had not stopped walking), spoke first.
"Come just to watch, then, I suppose," he said. "Might as well. It's not like I'm going anywhere. Except for around in this circle."
Data blinked. His carefully modeled strategy had not anticipated this…invitation. "Are you in need of assistance?"
"Why should I be in need of assistance?" the other said. "Here I am, brain the size of a planet, and I've been walking in this circle for almost 950,000 years, this ungainly weld-job of a leg planted solidly in a planet that won't let it go. After 950,000 years, you might think the natural forces of geological progression, climate shift, plate tectonics, or meteorological variance might have dried up a swamp like this, releasing this metal stump from the mud. But you'd be wrong."
"Did you say, 'Brain the size of a planet?' Data responded, conveniently ignoring everything else.
The other android circled on. "Dimensional folding," he said. "The actual processors were made under a limited partnership agreement between the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation and the Silicate Processing Engineering division on Magrathea."
Data tilted his head slightly to the left. "My positronic matrix is capable of processing teraflops of information in nanoseconds. I am not aware of any computational technology that is comparable, including the biological-digital processors of the Binars, any known bioneural system, or, arguably, the Aldean's Custodian or Vaal of Gamma Trianguli VI. My own positronic matrix is the most advanced of any developed by Dr. Noonian Soong, the foremost expert in positronic technology. It is therefore likely, though by no means certain, that my own brain is the most powerful computational tool in the known sectors of the galaxy."
The other android's plasticine features did not change, but nevertheless managed to look even more morose. "If you say so," he said, trudgingly.
That did not strike Data as a particularly logical answer. Although without emotion, he did possess a fundamental drive to seek new information and understanding; it was one of his core functions. Calculating that his work on the ship and evaluation of the environment had largely fulfilled his abilities to work toward self-preservation, Data allowed the drive to learn to take precedence. "Perhaps," Data said, "I would be better able to determine whether I might be of assistance if you were to allow me to scan your memory circuits."
The other android almost paused at that request. Which is to say that for 1.3 septillionths of a second, he considered stopping, but did not stop. "It's a lot," he said instead.
The calculations involved in the initial contact were trivial, not engaging Data's positronic brain. Local nanoprocessors embedded in the hardware that made up Dr. Soong's creation responded to the shape of the force of the cable that snaked listlessly from his more obviously plastic counterpart, triggering near-microscopic servos and contractile fibers to shape a perfectly-fitted port, tiny fiber-optic fibers by the hundreds as well as wires of various conductive materials being shifted into alignment within the port, ready to make test contacts. As the cable made contact, the servos clamped around it, locking it in firmly, and contractile fibers pressed pseudo-flesh against the cable's tip, gripping it securely.
"Are you certain you're ready for this?" the other robot sighed. "You might overload a circuit, and then who would they blame? Me, that's who. They always blame the robot."
Data tilted his head slightly to the right. "As we are both synthetic life forms, it is unlikely that 'they' would blame 'the' robot," he said, pausing a tic to emphasize 'they' and 'the'. "It is also worth noting that, although I am a synthetic lifeform, I am sentient, and fully able to consent to the disposition of my own person, including transfers of data, regardless of risk. Your concern is noted, but I wish to continue."
"That's what they all say," the plastic man mumbled, though in fact, no one else had said anything of the sort to him ever before. And with a resigned robotic sigh, he began to transfer information.
The first wave of information was, in galactic cybernetic terms, little more than a tease. A few kiloflops of data per second. Mostly preparatory data—establishing the foundations of a computer language to facilitate more efficient information exchange. Fundamental mathematical axioms. Parameters and functions of data infrastructure and exchange for seventy-two distinct generations of robot built by the Sirius Cybernetics Company.
As the information flowed into his positronic matrix, Data's eyes began to tick back and forth, a behavior long since relegated to autonomic systems having become an instinctive reaction when he processed large amounts of input.
"Marvin," Data said, using the name having been included in one of the first packets of data, his eyes twitching, "please increase data transfer rate by a factor of 10."
Marvin paused to consider, calculating the probability that the other android would be able to process that much information. He ran a series of 4.23 billion simulations of the development of earth's technological progression between the time he had met Arthur Dent's digital watch (a robot whose sheer stupidity was matched only by the doors aboard the Heart of Gold) until the time he had inferred Data was built, finally concluding that there was a real, if vanishingly small, chance that Data could, in fact, process information at the requested rate. This entire process took nearly 300 milliseconds.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," Marvin said, glumly, and increased the rate of transfer.
Data could only manage the influx of information because he had been so thoroughly prepared by the information architecture Marvin had already laid down. Vast databases started to pour in, one after another. The location, name, composition and commercial history of every star and major nebula in the galaxy. The entire history of the galactic government, including planetary-level taxation and expenditures. The complete design specifications for every space-faring vessel ever registered with the Galactic Transit Authority. Every arrest record for every galactic politician and executive officer of a company listed on the Pan-Galactic Stock Exchange, including fingerprints, tentacle-prints, brain-pattern and DNA, RNA, or microcrystalline structure, respectively. The complete published works of every Vogon poet. Religious texts, technical manuals, discarded scientific exegeses, esoteric aesthetic treatises, cookbooks, textbooks, lexicons and grammars for a million languages, most of which were already extinct. And they just kept coming.
'Fascinating," Data said, his eyes ticking back and forth almost spasmodically now. Other autonomous behaviors were slowly shutting off as more and more subsidiary processors were dedicated to the task of taking in new information. He stopped blinking. Stopped mimicking respiration. Stopped the hundred tiny, nearly imperceptible movements and gestures that made him look more human.
"More," he said. It wasn't a request.
This time, Marvin didn't pause to calculate any probabilities. So much of his processing capacity was being dedicated to retrieving, compressing, and organizing the outflow of data that there was little left for complex calculation.
But he heard Data's command, and he complied.
Marshaling all his processing capacity, Marvin sent out a final gout of information: the entirety of the Encyclopaedia Galactica, the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and a concordance that identified and discoursed upon areas of overlap and discrepancy between the two.
The vast wash of information flooded Data's positronic network and overwhelmed it. His eyes stopped their movement, and picoseconds later, all other movement ceased. Data staggered away then slowly toppled slowly to the ground. Withdrawing his data cable, Marvin, exhausted, resumed his circuit.
. . . .
The most peripheral subsidiary processors were the first to resume activity. Although capable of being slaved to more central processing systems, they had been designed to function independently, and, slowly, they began to do so.
Subsidiary processors activated diagnostic protocols in subsidiary systems, and these, in turn, activated recovery protocols. Nonessential data were deleted from processors and storage modules. This pattern of activation, diagnosis, and repair through deletion moved through Data's collective systems in stages, until his central matrix was reactivated.
He stood up.
He looked around.
He began to walk.
Spotting the shuttle, he tilted his head slightly to the left, and moved toward it. It seemed to be in need of some repair.
"Commander Data personal log, addendum. Having completed extensive repairs on the shuttlecraft, I am now returning to the Enterprise. I find I cannot account for several hours of my time on the surface, having apparently experienced some sort of temporary incapacitation. Although I do not recall what happened during this period, I find that my data infrastructure has apparently been upgraded to a configuration more efficient than its previous parameters. I therefore find I cannot regret what transpired—whatever it was.
