Worlds in Collision (16 page)

When he arrived, he nodded to the captain and the doctor, uncharacteristically ignored Mr. Nensi, and looked nervously at Romaine.

The woman suddenly stood up by the table. Kirk slumped back in his chair and glared at McCoy, but the doctor was directing his own attention to Scott and Romaine.

“Hello, Mira,” Scott managed to say. Kirk agonized for his engineer. The poor man obviously had no idea how the woman was going to react.

Romaine started to say something, but it came out as a small halfhearted rasp. She looked down at the table, at the captain, back to Scott. Then she walked away, toward the exit or toward Scott. Both were in the same direction.

She stopped beside him, stared at him long and hard. Her eyes were full, glinting in the soft light of the restaurant. Kirk could see that Scott's were in the same condition. Then everything broke free.

“Damn you, Scotty,” Romaine said with a heart-wrenching tremor. She reached out and kissed him.

McCoy leaned over the table, mouthed, “See?” and went back to his bourbon with a self-satisfied smirk.

 

Uhura was furious. She wasn't simply frustrated that she was only a few hundred kilometers above the best language labs in the Federation, yet compelled to remain at her bridge station. She wasn't upset that taking orders from Lieutenant Abranand was like obeying a trained monkey, and she really couldn't care less about the three nails she had just broken when she tried to pull loose a number-ten crossover board from the service port beneath her communications station. But Commodore Wolfe enraged her. It was one thing for an administrative officer to run roughshod over a starbase, but Wolfe's brand of arbitrary and officious conduct was infuriating. The crew of the
Enterprise
had been through more aggravation together than any ten starbase commodores. What drove that crew was respect, not despotism. Kirk and the other officers understood this implicitly. Wolfe didn't. The mysterious loss of hot water in the commodore's cabin had simply been the first shot fired. Uhura doubted the commodore was going to last much longer on board the
Enterprise.

“When will you be finished?” Abranand barked over Uhura's shoulder.

The communications officer resisted the urge to apply full power to the circuits she was jumping and blow the board. She could always bat her lashes and claim the lieutenant had startled her. But she also refused to give in to his obnoxiousness. She carefully removed her circuit plaser from the crossover board before answering.

“Two or three minutes and I'll try reconnecting it,” she said politely, but without glancing up at Abranand's hulking presence.

“I thought these starships were supposed to be state of the art,” the starbase trooper complained, still interfering with Uhura's concentration as she tried to create a custom subspace filter circuit from scratch.

“What makes you think they aren't?” she asked, delicately threading a connecting filament between a quantum four-gate and the first of eight red-banded parallel assistors. She could see Abranand's hand gestures from the corner of her eye.

“Circuit boards, for one thing,” he said. “I mean, any twenty-year-old cruiser has the circuit equivalents of your bridge network laid out in a control computer no bigger than a footlocker. All the circuits can be reconfigured, even redesigned, by computer, and here you starship heroes are, rewiring macrocircuits by hand.” Abranand snorted.

“Tell me, Lieutenant,” she said carefully as she connected a simulator lead to the four-gate and ran a test signal through it, “have you ever seen a twenty-year-old cruiser's circuit complex after it's been hit by a Klingon broad-beam disruptor while traveling at warp seven?” The telltale on the simulator lead glowed green. Uhura had finished the circuit.

“Cruisers can't go at warp seven,” Abranand said, wary, as if expecting a trick question.

“Well, this ship can, mister. And a disruptor blast that connects can drop it out of warp so fast that any quantum switches that just happen to be tunneling at the microsecond we hit normal space are liable to pop back into existence three meters from where they should be.” Uhura stood up from her station and hefted the number-ten board in her hand. “You know where that leaves you?”

Abranand shook his head.

“Sitting around waiting for the Klingons with a circuit complex full of more holes than a light sail in the Coal Sack.” She smiled at the lieutenant then and, just for the hell of it, batted her lashes at him, too. “Whereas, we starship heroes have circuits large enough to come out of rapid warp translation in the same shape they went into it, and in the event of circuit-burning power surges, alien force beams, or simply spilled coffee two thousand light-years out from the nearest starbase spare-parts depot, we can rebuild every circuit on this ship by hand. That's what I call state of the art.” She pushed her station chair toward the lieutenant as she prepared to kneel down and reinsert the crossover board. “If you'll excuse me.”

Abranand grumbled as he walked away, but he didn't make any more cracks about the ship's design characteristics.

Uhura broke a fourth nail snapping the board back home. Okay, she thought, so some design specs did need to be upgraded, but she certainly wasn't going to say anything about it while Wolfe and her troopers were on board.

Uhura sat back in her chair, after prudently leaving the service-port grille on the deck. There was no telling how many more times Wolfe would ask her to attempt something different to try and break through the bizarre interference that was jamming subspace. She pressed her earphone in place and toggled the activation switches—additional, easily repairable mechanical devices—on the bypass filter pad. The frequency was clear!

“Commodore Wolfe,” Uhura said as she touched the infraship com switch. The ship's computer held part of Uhura's voice in memory, scanned the duty rosters to determine where the commodore would be at this time, then routed through Uhura's page to the briefing room before Uhura had finished saying the complete name.

“Wolfe here,” came the reply.

“I have a clear channel, Commodore,” Uhura said, then pressed the send key that would forward the automatic alert call the commodore had already ordered be the first sent. “The transmission to Admiral Komack is under w—”

A high-pitched squeal blared from Uhura's earphone and she immediately closed the subspace channel.

“What's going on, Lieutenant?” Wolfe demanded.

“The clear channel has been blocked, Commodore. As soon as I started transmitting, the jamming began. It has to be deliberate.”

Uhura could hear Wolfe take a deep breath. “Very well, Lieutenant, I'm on my way to the bridge. Tell helm and engineering to prepare for a warp-eight jaunt out of the range of the interference. I want us out of here to transmit our messages and get back before anyone knows we're gone. Wolfe out.”

Uhura turned to look at the startled faces of the two junior ensigns at the engineering and helm stations. She was the only main watch officer on duty because of the need for her expertise in trying to overcome the subspace interference. “I know, I know,” she said to the younger, less experienced officers who in just a few seconds would find themselves in a position where they would be unable to obey a direct command from a commodore.

“What do you know?” Abranand asked.

“The matter/antimatter system is shut down for repairs. There's no way this ship can be ready for warp in anything less than twenty-four hours.” Uhura turned to the engineering and helm officers. “It's all right. It's not your fault the commodore doesn't know the condition of her vessel.” Then she smiled sweetly at Abranand again. She could tell it was starting to bother him because he had finally worked out that she wasn't doing it to be polite.

The lift doors swept open and Wolfe and the Andorian commander Farl emerged. Uhura realized that no one else was going to do it unless asked, so she spoke first and told the commodore about the engines. The commodore replied with a word that Uhura had only heard once before when she had seen an Orion trader's trousers catch on fire after he had put too many Spican flame gems in his pocket and they'd ignited. Uhura was impressed that the commodore knew such a word, but was disappointed that she would choose to use it.

“Very well, then. Lieutenant Uhura, I want you to check the other transport ships station keeping at this facility and report on their capability for immediate warp travel, including speed and range. I will authorize payment of standard charter rates and arrange for antimatter transfer.” The commodore stared at Uhura for a moment, as if she planned to say something more. “Well, what are you waiting for, Lieutenant? That's an order.”

“Aye-aye, Commodore,” Uhura said grimly as she spun in her chair and initiated the hailing-frequency subroutines on her board. And then she stopped. “Commodore,” she said with surprise as she watched the red incoming indicator blink on and off. “I'm receiving a subspace transmission.” She flicked the controls that relayed the encoded identifiers transmitted with the message. “From Starfleet Command,” she added with even more surprise.

“Put it on the screen, Lieutenant,” Wolfe said, and settled into the captain's chair, Farl and Abranand standing respectfully beside her.

Uhura quickly patched the transmission through to the main viewscreen, then turned in time to see the forward view of the distant Memory Prime asteroid fade out.

At last, the communications officer thought with relief as she recognized the familiar face of Admiral Komack form on the screen, someone is finally going to tell us what's really going on.

“Nensi: you are in Transition with Eight.”

The voice from the speaker was clearly recognizable as that of Pathfinder Eight. Nensi glanced sideways at Romaine, who sat beside him in Garold's interface booth, then replied.

“Is Pathfinder Six available for access?” Nensi asked. This is what had happened before, Eight taking over for Six. Except Nensi would rather speak with the more human-sounding synthetic consciousness.

“Nensi: you are in Transition with Eight.”

“Apparently Six isn't available,” Nensi muttered to Romaine. She didn't respond but he hadn't expected her to do so. She was obviously still in the throes of remembering her reunion with Mr. Scott less than an hour ago. Nensi had hated asking her to accompany him back to the Interface Chamber but, especially after Kirk's further revelations, he felt the need to enlist the Pathfinders' aid. He cleared his throat and prepared for the most difficult part of the interview.

“As chief administrator of this facility, I request that this conversation be held in private,” Nensi announced. “Without Garold's presence.”

Pathfinder Eight's decision was seemingly instantaneous. Garold, sitting hunched in front of the interface console, suddenly shuddered and jerked his silver-tipped fingers from the hand receptacles. The prime interface whirled to Nensi.

“You have gone too far!” he shouted. Shimmering threads of sweat, from exertion or from fear, streaked Garold's half-shaven head, reflecting the galaxy of status lights that ringed the Interface Chamber and shone from the console behind him. “You belong up there!” He waved his glittering hand to the featureless black of the chamber's far ceiling. “The Pathfinders are ours. We understand them. You don't. You can't.”

Nensi had not believed any of the interface team was capable of such a show of emotion. Obviously he had misread the depth of their attachment to the Pathfinders they served.

“I'm sorry, Garold,” Romaine said. “But as chief technician, I must inform you that Mr. Nensi is acting within regulations and with my full support.” Nensi looked between Romaine and Garold. The man's eyes seemed to glow like the console lights surrounding him, mad and feverish.

“Garold, you have no choice,” Nensi said calmly. “Don't force the issue any further.”

Then Nensi heard footfalls behind him. He turned to see two other members of the interface team at the entrance to the booth. One was a teenage boy who wore his hair in the same style as Garold's. The boy's fingertips were normal but a cranial inducer patch was evident on his left temple—the first step in joining the team. The other was an older woman, skull completely shaven and covered in an intricate tracing of silver filigree. For a moment, Nensi thought the metallic strands were decoration, and then he realized they were circuits. When the woman spoke, her voice was flat and mechanical and came from a small speaker box mounted on her neck.

“Garold, we have been informed. Your compliance has been requested. Please come with us.” She held out her hand to Garold, a gesture that Nensi saw as incongruously human, coming from a woman who was half machine herself.

Garold slowly went to the others of the team, the agony of the defeat and the loss he had endured apparent in his stooped shoulders and reluctant gait. He paused at the booth entrance, looked at the beckoning console, then at Nensi.

“We love them,” Garold said, “and they love us.” Appearing to know no other way of explaining to Nensi what the chief administrator was interfering with, the prime interface left.

Nensi felt chilled by Garold's statement. “Is that true?” he impulsively asked the Pathfinder. If machines could love, then what was it to be human? “Do you love them?”

“Nensi: we love the datalinks. What do you wish to discuss?”

Nensi spoke softly to Romaine. “It's that simple? A synthetic consciousness experiences love and now it's time for the next question? Is this in any of your manuals?” He felt floored by the seemingly trivial revelation that these machines experienced emotion.

Romaine shrugged. “Nothing that I've read of. But then, we can't know if they're just using a term that they've determined brings comfort to the interface team.”

“To what purpose?”

“If the interface team members feel good, maybe they're more efficient, easier to work with. I don't know, Sal.”

Nensi could see that Romaine was still unnerved about Scott's return. The question of machines that love would have to wait. “Pathfinder Eight,” he began, “are you aware of the military emergency that exists in this facility?”

“Nensi: yes,”

“Are you also aware of the Starfleet Alpha emergency in effect on the
Starship Enterprise?”

“Nensi: yes.”

“Are the two emergencies connected?”

“Nensi: all things are connected at certain levels. Define your operational frame of reference.”

Nensi thought for a moment. The last time the machine seemed to have no problem dealing with the vagaries of Standard. Well, if it could love, perhaps it was capable of having a bad day, too.

“Are the emergencies connected by sharing common military and/or political causes?”

“Nensi: yes.”

“Please describe the common causes of the emergencies,” Nensi said with a sigh. It was like talking to an associate.

There was an uncharacteristic pause before the Pathfinder replied, and for a moment Nensi thought it had decided not to answer.

“Nensi: discussion of the relevant causes of the emergencies requires disclosure of data listed as classified. Such data is accessible within your level of classification. However, Starfleet regulations require that a positive identification be made. Please approach the interface console.”

Nensi jumped up and took Garold's chair in front of the console. Now he felt he was getting somewhere.

“Romaine: you are in Transition with Eight. Please approach the interface console.”

Romaine walked over to stand beside Nensi.

“Nensi, Romaine: prepare for positive sensor identification. Please place your right hands in the interface receptacles.”

Nensi reached out his hand to one of the six narrow slots on the interface console just large enough for a human hand. Romaine reached out and stopped him.

“Pathfinder,” she said quickly, “we are not equipped with interface leads.”

“Nensi, Romaine: that fact is known. Please place your right hands in the interface receptacles.”

“Explain the purpose of that action.” Romaine was not letting go of Nensi's arm. Her expression was set and serious and Nensi knew better than to question her.

“Romaine: positive identification is required before discussion of classified data.”

“Match our voices,” Romaine said. Nensi folded his arms across his chest. Romaine obviously had good reason not to want them to place their hands in the receptacles and he wasn't going to argue with her. This was her area of expertise.

“Romaine: voiceprints can be forged.”

Romaine put her hand on Nensi's shoulder and squeezed as if looking for support from her friend. Nensi looked up at her questioningly, unsure of what she was planning.

“Pathfinder, identify yourself,” she said.

“Romaine: you are in Transition with Eight.”

“Pathfinder, you are in violation of your contract. Identify yourself…truthfully.” Nensi coughed in astonishment. If the Pathfinders could love, lie, and impersonate one another, life in Transition must be no different from life in Datawell.

Now there was a longer pause. Nensi even heard the speaker click on and off as if a connection were being broken, then, upon reconsideration, reconnected.

“What was that all about?” Nensi said to Romaine after a moment, whispering as if he didn't want to be overheard.

“That wasn't Pathfinder Eight,” she said, studying the flares of color that drifted across the console's nonstandard screen. “First I could sense it was lying again, and then that it wasn't even the consciousness it said it was.”

“But how could you know?” Nensi asked in bewilderment.

Romaine shook her head. “I'm not sure,” she admitted. “Probably speech construction or something. Eight is an old personality. Used to be the shipmind on an old pre-Federation exploration vessel. It has a very clipped, abrupt speech characteristic probably left over from the constraints they had back then on sending data back by tight beam radio. It's never bothered to reconfigure those original parameters.”

Nensi went over the conversation in his mind. “Seemed the same to me. And surely any of the other Pathfinders has enough computational power to mimic any speech pattern.” Romaine had a point but hadn't thought it through properly, Nensi felt.

Romaine waved his protest away. “Just a minute,” she said, and touched some panels on the console. A viewscreen flickered into life beside the receptacles. Nensi recognized another member of the interface team on the screen, a short Centauran with, surprisingly, a full head of hair. However, when his voice came over the screen speaker, Nensi could see that the man's lips didn't move.

“Interface control,” the Centauran said.

“Romaine here, interface booth six. What's the interface load right now, Zalan?”

Zalan's eyes never left their front and center focus on the sensor camera. “Zero,” he said—
transmitted
would be more accurate, Nensi thought. “All interface connections were suspended ninety-six seconds ago.”

“Explanation?” Romaine asked. Obviously she chose to use the interface team's abrupt pattern of speech when dealing with them, Nensi realized. Perhaps that's why she was sensitive to a change in the false Pathfinder Eight's speech characteristics.

“None at this time,” Zalan replied. “All units are currently addressing the problem.”

“Transmit all data to my office and contact me when you have a likely explanation.” Romaine clicked off without a word.

“Have they gone on strike?” Nensi asked when it became apparent that Romaine wasn't going to turn away from the readouts on the console screens.

“No. They're busy in there,” she said, pointing to a fluctuating red and yellow graph. “This indicates that their work load is running at close to ninety-eight percent of their reported capacity.” She turned to narrow her eyes at Nensi. “Which
we
know is only about ten to twenty percent of their real capacity. But however you add it up, one of them in there is interfacing with something out here. Come on.”

Romaine headed out the door of the interface booth and started to jog around the central equipment core of the interface chamber. Twelve booths ringed it, and within a minute she had seen that every one was empty. She hit a call button on a wall-mounted com panel. Zalan appeared on the screen once more.

“Romaine in the chamber. Give me a visual on the I/O room.”

Nensi saw the screen instantly flash to shifting views of the main data-exchange installation, where huge banks of equipment blindly fed in the monstrous data load from throughout the known galaxy to the Pathfinder facility and equally massive storage banks captured the Pathfinders' output for transmission to Prime research terminals and other nodes in the memory planet network. The status lights on every unit indicated the full system had shut down.

“Now give me the capacity-load graph,” Romaine said, and the screen repeated the shifting red and yellow display that she had called up on the booth's console. Nensi saw that the values on it hadn't appreciably changed. “It's interfacing!” Romaine said sharply. “But how?”

“Backup units? Terminals topside?” Nensi suggested.

“Not possible,” Romaine cut him off. “The Pathfinder system is completely separated from the outside universe. All equipment and personnel get in and out by transporter. Data transmissions are tunneled through a one-way subspace short-range downlink and the only data that gets out has to be stored in the I/O room, then passed physically on wafers and wires to be transferred. There are no other facilities for direct link-up to the Pathfinders.”

Nensi watched the graph flickering on the screen. If anything, the values were stronger.

“That you know of,” he said softly.