Star Trek - TOS Generations

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Part Two

Seventy-eight Years Later

SIX

On the main deck of the Enterprise, Captain Jean-Luc Picard stared up at the fluttering blue-and-white banner of the United Federation of Planets and drew in a deep lungful of brine-scented air. Beneath his feet, creaking timber rocked softly to the rhythm of lapping waves; above, wind whistled through the rigging.

More than anything, he wanted to throw back his head and laugh, to revel in the perfection of the moment. Fate seemed unutterably sweet; he felt blessed to be a man who had found what he most wanted to do, what he was born to do, with his life. Yet, as he looked over his assembled bridge crew—appropriately costumed for the historical period—he kept his expression somber.

The task proved challenging, especially when he met his second-in-command’s mischievous gaze. Will Riker looked amazingly at home in white breeches and dark blue waistcoat with gold epaulettes on the shoulders; but the beard and rakish tilt to his plumed hat spoke more of a buccaneer than a nineteenth-century naval officer. With a macaw on his shoulder, say, and a peg leg…

Picard signaled Riker with a curt nod, then looked away swiftly before his own smile gravitated from his eyes to his lips.

“Bring out the prisoner!” Riker bellowed with obvious relish.

A nearby hatch opened. Crouching to avoid losing her tricornered hat on a low-hanging beam, Deanna Troi emerged, followed by Geordi La Forge—looking distinctly un-nineteenth-century in his VISOR—and the prisoner: Worf, hatless and in shirtsleeves. Prodded by his two escorts, the Klingon moved slowly to the clank of iron chains binding his wrists and ankles.

“Mr. Worf,” Picard intoned with what he hoped was convincing severity, “I always knew this day would come. Are you prepared to face the charges?”

Worf blinked and took in his strange surroundings, seemingly overwhelmed.

With mock ferocity, Troi jabbed him in the ribs. “Answer him!”

The Klingon gave her a glance at once puzzled and bemused, then gathered himself with dignity. “I am prepared.”

Picard directed another nod at Riker, who produced a large scroll of parchment from beneath his waistcoat. He cleared his throat and began to read as Geordi removed the prisoner’s shackles:

“We, the officers and crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise, being of sound mind and judgment, hereby make the following charges against Lieutenant Worf: One. That he did knowingly and willfully perform above and beyond the call of duty on countless occasions. Two. That he has been a good and solid officer on this ship for one score less twelve years. And three. Most seriously… that he

has earned the respect and admiration of the entire crew.” As the last of the prisoner’s chains clattered to the wooden deck, Riker rewound the scroll. “There can be only one judgment for such crimes,” Picard proclaimed, working hard to maintain his stern visage. “I hereby promote you to the rank of Lieutenant Commander, with all the rights and privileges thereto. And may God have mercy on your soul.” The crew roared its approval. Picard at last permitted himself to smile, and leaned forward to shake Worf’s hand. “Congratulations, Commander.” Worf could not quite restrain a small smile himself. “Thank you, sir.” The captain continued to remain in the Klingon’s strong, warm grip until Riker stepped between them, his eyes bright with merriment. “Extend the plank!” The crew swarmed in to surround Worf and pushed him toward the ship’s flank, where a long, narrow plank appeared over the lapping sea. “Lower the badge of office!” Riker shouted. Above him, a crewman who had shimmied up a yardarm lowered a rope, at the end of which hung a naval officer’s three-cornered hat, complete with fluttering plume. The hat descended slowly until it dangled some ten feet above the end of the plank. “You can do it, Worfl” Troi called, waving her own hat. “Don’t look down!”

The others chimed in: “Good luck! ….Don’t fall in…”

Picard watched with open amusement. Riker sidled up to him and said confidently, “He’ll never make it. No one has.”

Worf clearly needed no encouragement. With consummate determination and grace, he stepped onto the plank and inched toward the dangling trophy.

Geordi cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “That’s a looong drop to the water!”

Riker grinned and added, in a loud stage voice, “I bet that water’s freezing!”

Valiantly, the Klingon ignored his crew members’ taunts, but continued his slow progress along the plank, which grew narrower with each step.

Picard watched as, nearby, a slight crease formed between Beverly Crusher’s auburn brows. “Geordi.” She turned to the engineer with concern. “Did you remember to engage the holodeck safety program? I don’t know if Klingons can swim …. “

Geordi’s lips curved upward in a playful half-moon as he kept his gaze on the Klingon. “I’m not sure.”

The bridge grew quiet as Worf reached the end of the plank, then gazed up at the plumed hat, which dangled mere feet above his reach. The Klingon drew a breath, then gathered his muscular bulk and leapt.

Picard grinned in amazement; beside him, Riker gasped as Worf completed an impossible jet~, snatched the hat with one hand, and landed hard on the board.

For an instant, disaster seemed imminent. The wood-en plank flexed, groaning mightily as Worf waved his arms in an effort to keep his balance…

And then he faced the spellbound audience, his countenance proud and defiant, and set the hat on his head.

The crew cheered. Picard smiled over at his second-in- command, who was applauding with less-than-sincere enthusiasm. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the

years,” the captain said, “it’s never underestimate a Klingon.”

Riker did not respond. His expression remained neutral, but Picard caught a glint of humor in his eyes before Will’s lids lowered subtly.

“Computer,” the commander ordered. “Remove plank.”

The board beneath the conquering Klingon’s feet suddenly vanished; flailing arms and legs, Worf fell with a resounding splash into the turquoise sea.

Amid the renewed cheering, Picard turned to his second-in-command and said dryly, “Number One… it’s retract plank, not remove plank.”

“Oh.” Riker’s blue eyes widened with mock innocence. “Of course, sir. Sorry.”

Nearby, Data tilted his head in confusion as he peered over the side rail at Worf, who was thrashing through the water toward a proffered rope ladder. He straightened and turned toward Beverly. “Doctor… I must confess I am uncertain as to why someone falling into the freezing water is amusing.”

She looked up from the water with a toothy grin. “It’s all in good fun, Data.”

The android studied her blankly for an instant. “I do not understand.”

“Try to get into the spirit of things.” She gestured enthusiastically at the surroundings. “Learn to be a little more… spontaneous.”

Data drew his head back and lowered his chin, pro-cessing this new information… then reached forward and, with only the precise amount of force necessary, pushed Beverly over the rail. He watched with a clinical

air as she plummeted into the water with a shriek, then straightened to judge the reactions of his colleagues.

No one was laughing—including Picard, who had witnessed the entire exchange. However, the captain’s mood was so cheerful, so expansive, that he had to force himself to repress a chuckle. He dared a peek at Riker whose own carefully controlled expression beneath amused eyes once again forced Picard to quickly look away.

Geordi immediately hurried over to the rail, peered down, then looked up at his confused friend. “Data… that wasn’t funny.”

“I was attempting to be spontaneous,” Data replied, his tone one of mild puzzlement. “I obviously do not understand what constitutes ‘getting into the spirit of things.’ Why is it that Commander Worf’s fall into the water is ‘good fun,’ yet Dr. Crusher’s is not?”

“It’s… well…” Geordi sighed. “It’s hard to explain, Data.” He leaned forward to offer a hand to Worf, who had made it to the top of the ladder. Dripping but with soggy officer’s hat proudly in hand, the Klingon stepped over the railing onto the deck. He was followed soon after by a very wet—and very unamused—Beverly Crusher.

Flanked by his second-in-command, Picard made his way up to the quarterdeck, then turned to address his crew.

“Well, now that we’re all aboard…” He paused to smile. “Number One, bring the ship before the wind. Let’s see what’s out there.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Will directed his gaze to Deanna Troi. “Take the wheel, Commander.” Troi quickly climbed the steps up to the quarterdeck

and took her place behind the ship’s wheel as Riker shouted, “All hands make sail! Topgallants and courses! Stand by the braces!”

Picard watched with pure pleasure as his crew sprang into action, unfurling sails and trimming yardarms. “‘I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,’” he quoted, then released a contented sigh. “Imagine what it was like, Will. No engines… no computers… just the wind, the sea, and the stars to guide you.”

Riker’s lips quirked with amusement. “Bad food… brutal discipline…” He paused, then deliv-ered the killer blow. “No women…

Picard shook his head, smiling; but before he could retort, the computer interrupted. “Bridge to Captain Picard …. “

“Picard here.” “There is a personal message for you from Earth.” Picard sighed again, this time with mild annoyance at the interruption. “Put it through down here.” He turned back toward Riker. “It was freedom, Will. No ties… And the best thing about a life at sea was that they couldn’t reach you.”

He headed toward the bow, still smiling. He had no inkling what the message might be about, but whatever it was, he would deal with it quickly and return to his companions on the holodeck. He was grateful for today’s festivities; they served to remind him of his great good fortune in being able to lead the life he had always wanted, that of a starship captain.

He passed a few crew members hanging high up on the yardarm, and called up, grinning: “Look alive there!” And then, as he reached the bow: “Computer, arch.”

On the forecastle, an arch opened onto a bank of computer panels. Picard stepped through and cheerfully activated a monitor—without an instant’s hesitation, he would remember later, or the faintest premonition of the horror to come.

It was Deanna Troi who first felt that something was wrong. She had been reveling in the good spirits shared by the crew—most notably the captain, who of everyone seemed most to appreciate the historical scenario she had suggested for the promotion ceremony, and Worf, who despite his outward Klingon reserve had been genuinely touched by his crewmates’ regard.

Yet as she stood at the ship’s wheel, she sensed a sudden, overwhelming surge of emotion, so raw and strong that at first she was too dazed to identify it. For an instant, she clutched the wheel and forced herself to breathe calmly; only then could she distance herself enough to analyze it.

Grief, mixed with horror. So strongly reminiscent of what she had felt when her father had died that the proximity of it was deeply disturbing.

She looked toward the bow, and saw Picard standing in the archway. At the shock on his slack, ashen face, she turned toward the crew member standing next to her and said, “Here. Take the wheel.” She did not explain, but moved inconspicuously, so as not to draw attention to herself or the captain; an emotion this devastating demanded extreme tact, extreme privacy.

She hurried down the quarterdeck steps toward the arch; toward Picard, who stood staring at an invisible sight far beyond the monitor in front of him, his lips

slightly parted, his eyes narrowed with unspeakable pain.

Troi hesitated at a respectful distance. “Captain,” she said, so quietly that none but Picard would hear, “are you all right?”

For a moment, Picard did not answer; for a moment, he seemed not to hear. And then he seemed to retrieve his mind from a very great distance to focus it on the present place and time. “Yes,” he said to the screen. “Fine.” He turned blindly toward Troi. “If you’ll excuse me…

He switched off the screen, turned away. “Computer, exit.”

The holodeck doors appeared before him. Troi watched as he headed into the corridor, carrying his grief with him.

In the meantime, Riker had headed down to the main deck and hadn’t noticed the captain’s reaction or Deanna’s departure from her post. He was having a particularly good time, especially since he had worked the past year to overcome any lingering jealousy he had felt on Worf and Deanna’s account. Apparently, they were still slowly building a relationship, though Will hadn’t heard any details—and he didn’t want to hear any details.

But after the captain had reported his experience of one possible future which led to a bitterly jealous feud between Riker and Worf, Will had been determined to change that future and regain his comfortable friendship with the Klingon.

He had succeeded. The awkwardness between them

had vanished, to the point where Riker now felt free to thoroughly enjoy hazing the new lieutenant commander.

He stepped toward Worf, still wearing his damp breeches and linen shirt—and, of course, his naval officer’s hat with its soggy, drooping plume.

“Set the royals and the studding sails, Mr. Worf.”

Worf turned and gazed at him blankly. “The royal … studs… ?”

Riker grinned and pointed aloft. “Well, since you’ve proven today that you’re so good with heights… You see the top yardarm? Now, look to the—” “Bridge to Commander Riker.”

He broke off, turning immediately toward the direction the comm voice had emanated from. “Riker here.”

“We’re picking up a distress call from the Amargosa Observatory, sir. They say they’re under attack.”

“Red alert!” Riker shouted. Crew members immedi. ately began running past him toward the bow. “All hands to battle stations! Captain Picard to the bridge …. “

On the bridge, Riker removed his plumed hat and stared at a grim sight on the main viewscreen: the battered, blackened remnants of the Amargosa Observatory against the backdrop of a yellow sun. He shook his head. “It looks like we’re too late …. “

Still in his damp linen shirt and breeches, Worf half turned from his console. “There are no other ships in the system.”

The lift doors slid open, and the captain entered—to the veiled, curious stares of all those on the bridge. Only Deanna, Riker noted from her concerned, sympathetic expression, seemed to have a clue as to what was going

on with Picard. Whatever it was, it must have been world-shattering, for the captain to arrive late on the bridge during a red alert.

Picard’s expression, as he moved toward his chair, was hard, utterly closed. To Riker’s amazement, he did not react to the sight on the viewscreen, did not ask to be briefed. Awkwardly, the second-in-command cleared his throat, then offered: “We’re approaching Amargosa, Captain. It looks like the observatory took quite a beating.” “Survivors?” Picard asked curtly.

“Sensors show five life signs aboard the station, Captain,” Data responded.

“The station complement was nineteen,” Riker said heavily.

Picard showed not a flicker of emotion, only rose dismissively. “Stand down from red alert.” He faced Riker without meeting his eyes. “Number One, begin an investigation. I’ll be in my ready room.” He turned and moved away.

Riker shot a quick glance at Deanna, whose startled expression offered no explanation. “Sir?” Riker asked, not trying to hide his amazement.

Picard wheeled to face him, his tone and eyes flint-cold. “Make it so.”

“But Captain, I thought you would—”

“Do it,” Picard said. He turned and exited the bridge without a backward glance, leaving his crew to stare after him.

Amargosa smelled of fire and death.

The smell was the first thing Will Riker perceived of the observatory, even before his eyes refocused to see

that the Enterprise transporter room had metamorphosed into a smoldering ruin. It was the scent of things burning that were not meant to burn: metal, synthetic compounds, flesh.

He narrowed his eyes at the sting of smoke and peered through the filmy haze. Overhead, the dying remnants of auxiliary lighting flickered, casting such feeble light that most of the wreckage lay shrouded in shadow. Riker lifted his palm beacon and swept a beam of light over collapsed bulkheads, scorched consoles—then began to pick his way carefully through the heavy debris, knowing that somewhere in the darkness and rubble lay fourteen dead. The away team—Crusher, Worf, Paskall, and Mendez—followed in silence; speaking unnecessarily seemed sacrilege, disrespectful of the tragedy that had occurred here.

The scent of destruction was fresh. The attack had occurred, Riker guessed, only a handful of minutes before. While he and his friends had been standing on the quarterdeck of the H.M.S. Enterprise celebrating, these people had been dying. He stopped suddenly to squint at something small and dark protruding from under a twisted metal beam: a bloodied hand. Beverly immediately stepped forward and scanned it with her tricorder, then shook her head and shared a disappointed look with Will. The group moved on.

Frowning at the scarred ruins, Worf broke the silence at last. “These blast patterns are consistent with type-three disruptors.”

Brutal weapons capable of burning through skin, muscle, bone… “Well,” Riker said with grim irony. “That narrows it to Klingon, Breen, or Romulan.”

“I’m picking up life signs.” Crusher’s face and voice grew suddenly hopeful, animated. “About twenty meters ahead.”

“That would rule out Klingons,” Worf said, and when Riker gave him a curious look, added, “They woul’, not have left anyone alive.”

Beverly ignored them, moving purposefully into the darkness. “Over here…”

Riker followed, quickly sweeping his palm beacon over wreckage until at last the doctor paused and knelt beside a prone, still form. Without Crusher’s tricotder, Riker would have taken the man for dead; the back of his Starfleet science officer’s uniform had been almost entirely burned away by a disruptor blast. He turned his face from the smell of scorched flesh and fought to contain a wave of hatred for whoever had committed such an atrocity.

Seemingly immune to any emotion except determination to save the man lying before her, Crusher opened her medikit and began to work.

Riker glanced up and gestured at the three men standing nearby. “Worf, you’re with me. Paskall, you and Mendez search the upper deck.”

The two security guards moved off. Riker headed with Worf down a dark corridor, following the ovals of light cast by their palm beacons past more twisted, collapsed bulkheads and battered consoles. At last, a wavering arc of light played across something cylindrical emerging from the shadows: fallen ventilation tubing, Riker thought at first, until he saw the boot. Worf redirected his beacon to reveal the fallen figure of a woman; beside her lay a man. Both wore Starfleet blue.

While Worf provided light, Riker knelt quickly and felt for pulses, then shook his head, wishing the darkness had shielded him from the sight of the woman’s staring face, half of which had been seared away.

At the sound of sudden banging from a distant corner, he rose, and hurried in the direction of the noise.

Worf directed his beam onto a collapsed bulkhead. “Under here…”

Together, both officers pulled aside the large sheet of jagged metal covering the pile of debris, then began tearing through the rubble. From beneath came stirring, and the sounds of ragged breathing. Encouraged, Riker and Worf dug faster, until at last a bloodied hand appeared and began to flail as if desperately trying to assist.

“It is all right,” Worf said, with a gentleness that made Riker glance up in surprise, but not pause in his excavat-ing. The Klingon clasped the thin, pale hand with his own great, dark one. “Do not struggle.”

Where had he learned tenderness? Will wondered. From Deanna? The thought caused a flicker of jealousy; he repressed it firmly. If Worf had gotten something good out of the relationship, then so much the better.

Worf continued to hold the hand until Riker lifted and shoved aside a crushed console to reveal the head and torso of a pale-haired humanoid man. Worf released the hand, which the man lifted, shaking, to his forehead. He stared up at the two Starfleet officers with light, almost colorless eyes that were dull with shock. He seemed to Riker unwounded, although he had an old scar that ran from the center of his forehead beneath one eye and down his cheek.

“I’m Commander William Riker of the Starship Enterprise.”

The man blinked, struggling to make sense of Riker’s words and his surroundings, to gather himself. “Soran…” he whispered. “Dr. Tolian Soran…” His eyes widened as he looked into the smoking ruins; a flicker of intensemalmost insane, Riker thought~ bitterness crossed his face before he lifted a hand to his eyes.

“Who attacked you, Doctor?” Riker asked with quiet firmness. He did not turn at the sound of light footsteps behind him, but watched with his peripheral vision as Dr. Crusher hurried toward them.

Soran lowered his hand and, with a disconsolate sweeping glance at the destruction around him, shook his head. “I’m not sure …. It happened so fast …. “

Beverly directed a reassuring smile at the dazed scientist and began to scan him with the tricorder. Riker watched, trying to get a fix on Soran; there was something about the man that vaguely disturbed him. The intensity in the eyes, perhaps, that verged on wildness; or maybe that the man’s apparent helplessness somehow did not quite ring true.

“Commander!” Paskall called down from the upper level. “You’d better take a look at this!”

Riker directed a glance at Worf; the two strode over to the emergency ladder and crawled quickly to the upper deck, where Paskall and Mendez knelt beside another body. As Riker and Worf approached, Mendez held his beacon so that the corpse’s face was clearly visible.

It was a young soldier, one who had apparently accidentally died in the falling debris. His face was

bruised, smudged with smoke, but otherwise composed in death; Riker felt no surprise, only a growing outrage at the sight of the upswept eyebrows and ears, the ridged forehead. He said nothing, but let Worf give their common anger voice in a single low, disgusted growl: “Romulan…”

SEVEN

The minute he got Off duty, Geordi La Forge headed for Data’s quarters. He did so partly because he felt the overboard incident with Dr. Crusher bore discussion— and partly because being around Data usually cheered him up. Amargosa had caused a strange pall to settle over the day; it seemed unfair that the earlier celebration could have been overshadowed so quickly by tragedy. But then, death interrupting life never seemed fair.

And it wasn’t just Amargosa; something else bad had happened, something to do with Captain Picard. Geordi had been near the bow when the captain had retrieved his personal message. He hadn’t been able to see Picard’s facewnot until Troi had gone over to speak with him— but even so, he had read shock in the sudden slump of the captain’s shoulders.

Geordi paused in front of the door to Data’s quarters and pressed the chime. The door slid open; inside, Data sat in a chair with Spot curled in his lap.

“Geordi,” the android said. “Please come in. I am glad you are here. There are some questions I would like to ask~”

“—about the business with Dr. Crusher this after-noon?” Geordi stepped over to his friend’s side as the door closed behind them.

Data’s pale golden face brightened. “Precisely. I am determined to understand why her falling into the water was not funny, whereas Commander Worf falling into the water was.”

“Er, Data… I’m still not so sure I can explain it. Humor’s pretty elusive stuff….”

Data frowned faintly as he stroked the cat, who closed her eyes and purred drowsily. “Perhaps overt aggression is the key. After all, I pushed Dr. Crusher to make her fall, whereas Worf fell simply because the plank was removed.”

Geordi shook his head. “Unh-unh. Humor can get pretty aggressive sometimes. And you didn’t push Dr. Crusher hard enough to hurt her.”

“Oh.” Data gazed up at his friend with puzzled, golden eyes. “Is she still angry?”

“No… But I’d stay out of sickbay for a while if I were you.” Geordi’s lips curved upward in a slight smile. “Whatever possessed you to push her in the water?”

“I was attempting to…” Data tilted his head, searching for the right expression. “… get into the spirit of things, as Dr. Crusher put it. I thought it would be amusing.” He frowned again, clearly troubled by his inability to understand, then lifted Spot, who emitted a displeased mew, and set her down.

Geordi watched as the android moved over to a bulkhead and activated a control panel. A small compartment slid open to reveal a tiny chip suspended in a crystalline case. It was an emotion chip made to the

specifications of the android’s creator, Noonien Soong. Data had long ago indicated that he had no interest in ever utilizing it; now he contemplated it with such intense interest that Geordi moved closer, both curious and apprehensive.

“Data… are you thinking about actually using that thing?”

“I have considered it for many months.” The android focused his golden eyes back on Geordi. “And in light of the incident with Dr. Crusher, I believe this may be the appropriate time.”

Geordi frowned. “I thought you were afraid it would overload your neural net.”

“That is true,” Data replied. “However, I believe my growth as an artificial life-form has reached an impasse. For thirty-four years I have endeavored to become more ‘human’—to grow beyond my original programming. And yet I am still unable to grasp such a basic concept as humor.” He turned back toward the crystalline case. “This emotion chip may be the only answer.”

Geordi leaned forward to dubiously study the chip, then sighed. At worst, it could cause some annoying complications, but no permanent damage. And what right did he have to deny his friend such an experience? “All right… but at the first sign of trouble, I’m going to deactivate it. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Data promptly sat down, offering himself as willing subject, while Geordi moved behind him and opened a panel on his cranium, revealing the blinking circuitry within.

“This won’t take long…” Geordi said, finishing silently to himself, I just hope we don’t both regret it ….

At the same time that Geordi was performing surgery on his friend, Will Riker was standing in the captain’s ready room, briefing Picard on what the away team had found at the Amargosa Observatory.

Picard’s odd, distant demeanor hadn’t eased. Riker wound up addressing the back of the captain’s chair while Picard, hands steepled, gazed out his window at the stars.

“We found two dead Romulans aboard the station,” Riker finished up. “We’re analyzing their equipment to see if we can determine what ship they came from.”

Index fingers resting on his lips, Picard nodded absently, then lowered his hands and asked, “There’s still no indication of why they attacked the station?” His tone was one of great weariness, as though it required infinite effort for him to focus on the matter at hand.

“They practically tore the place apart,” Riker said, mentally recoiling from the memories of charred bodies and the smell of death. “Accessed the central computer, turned the cargo bay inside out. They were obviously looking for something.”

“Hmmm…” Picard fell silent and stared out the window again, for so long that Riker began to shift his weight nervously. And then the captain said lifelessly, “Inform Starfleet Command. This could indicate a new Romulan threat in this sector.”

Riker did not try to keep the amazement from his voice. “You want me to contact Starfleet?”

Picard straightened, swiveled a quarter-turn toward his second-in-command. “Is there a problem?” he asked softly.

“No, sir,” Riker said. At least, not with me…. But something very serious was troubling the captain. What-

ever message he had received this morning from Earth had been devastating.

Picard continued wearily, “Thank you, Number One,” and swung back toward the window.

Riker turned to go, then hesitated, awkward. “There is something else, Captain. One of the scientists… a Dr. Soran … has insisted on speaking with you.” Anticipating a protest, he hurried apologetically: “I told him you were busy, sir, but he said it was absolutely impera-tive that he speak with you right away.”

But no protest came; no reaction, in fact, except for the captain’s faint, toneless reply: “Understood. That will be all.”

He was clearly eager to be alone, but Riker decided against hiding his concern. Picard was a very private man, and Riker doubted his question would be answered—but he had to at least make the offer to help, to listen. “Sir,” he asked gently, “… is there anything wrong?”

“No.” Picard’s answer was soft, but it was a softness that covered steel. “Thank you.”

Riker paused a moment, then surrendered, and left his captain to his solitary grief.

With a distinct sense of unease, Geordi entered Ten-Forward, sticking close to Data’s side. Maybe he was overreacting, but he couldn’t shake the sense of impend-ing disaster, despite the fact that Data seemed to be quite relaxed and enjoying himself. So far, the chip seemed to be working perfectlymso well, in fact, that the android had insisted on going to Ten-Forward for a little test run. Nevertheless, Geordi kept his gaze glued on Data, who

was drinking in his surroundings with the wide-eyed delight of a child, gazing with hopeful interest at the bustling off-duty crowd, beaming faintly as someone at a crowded table guffawed at a joke. Even the android’s movements seemed subtly altered—more graceful, more fluid, more… human.

The two stepped up to the bar. Almost immediately, Guinan approached, and set a flask on the counter with a determination that allowed no refusal.

Her lips curved slyly into an upward crescent. “You two just volunteered to be my first victims.” She nodded at the crystal flask, which held a dark liquid aswirl with amber highlights. “This is a new concoction I picked up on Forcas Three. Trust me, you’re going to love it.”

She set two glasses on the counter and poured; Geordi caught a whiff of potent spirits laced with something that smelled like broccoli crossed with eucalyptus. He struggled to keep his expression neutral, so as not to influence Data, who lifted his glass, sniffed the contents, then took a large swallow.

Geordi watched intently as Data frowned down at the glass in his hand. After several seconds, the engineer prompted, “Well… ?”

The android glanced up, still faintly frowning, his expression one of puzzlement. “I believe the beverage has provoked an emotional response.” “Really? What do you feel?”

Data lowered the glass, clearly trying to turn his focus inward. “I…” He glanced up at Geordi with something very near dismay. “I am uncertain. I have little experience with emotions. I am unable to articulate the sensation.”

“Emotions?” Guinan leaned forward, elbows on the counter, to direct an amazed glance at Geordi.

The engineer cocked his head to one side in a gesture that was almost an affirmation, all the while managing to keep one eye focused on his charge. “I’ll explain later …. “

He watched as Data threw his head back and took another huge gulp—then set down the glass and curled his bottom lip in pure disgust. Guinan turned to Geordi. “I think he hates it.”

“Yes!” Data leaned toward his friends, bright-eyed, near breathless with excitement. “That is it. I hate it!”

The android’s enthusiasm was infectious; despite his concern, Geordi felt a broad smile settle slowly over his own features. “Data… I think the chip is working.”

As he spoke, Data rapidly drained his glass, then broke into a huge, triumphant grin. “Yes. I hate this! It is revolting!”

Guinan permitted the two men a moment more of celebration, then coyly lifted the flask, ready to pour again. “Another round?” she asked sweetly.

Aglow with happiness, Data held up his glass. “Please.”

At that moment, Tolian Soran also sat in Ten-Forward, but the crowd and his table’s location blocked any view of the bar; instead, he stared out an observation window at the stars—thinking of one star in particular, the one named Amargosa. “Bitter,” the name meant in some Terran language or other. The bitter star; oddly appropriate, it seemed now. Had he witnessed the exchange between the three

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