A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [54]
He shook his head. “I just don’t see how a system like this one could go on for very long. Even threats of pain and death aren’t enough to keep so many people in line for very long. At least, not in the history tapes I’ve seen.”
Data looked at him. “There may be another factor,” he offered.
Riker returned the look. “Such as?”
“A behavioral anomaly that I have noted in the course of my research. But its significance has thus far eluded me. I cannot seem to put my thumb on it.”
For the first time since the android had barged in on him, Riker smiled.
“No,” he said. “Not your thumb, Data. Your finger. You can’t put your finger on it.”
The android’s eyes opened just a little wider. “Ah. Of course. My finger-the generic term, rather than the specific. I shall endeavor to remember that.” A moment later, he had switched back to his discourse mode. “In any case, the fact remains-there is information I cannot interpret.”
“Then by all means,” said Riker, “call up an example. Let me see what I can make of it.”
Tap. Tap. Tap. Two figures in the foreground. One lying prone on a table, armored to the waist and naked above it, except for a heavily bandaged shoulder, The wounded one was large and muscular, with the bluish flesh tone of a Pandrilite.
The other foreground figure was a female-slender, with light brown skin and delicate, dark features. A human. Apparently, she was the one who had done the bandaging; she was just finishing as they looked on.
“The individual being administered to has been identified as Jorek Tovin-the helmsman of the Gregor Mendel,” said Data. “The other individual is Dani Orbutu, listed as zoologist and second medical…”
Riker stopped him. “Orbutu? Are you sure of that?”
The android confirmed it. “Why, sir?”
The first officer realized he was on the verge of betraying the captain’s confidence. “It’s nothing. Sorry to interrupt.”
Data picked up as if he’d never left off. “Note that even though they occasionally glance at one another, they do not converse. They served on the same ship, yet they have nothing to say to each other.”
Riker considered that. “Perhaps conversation is prohibited.”
“A logical assumption,” said Data. “Yet my studies have shown that this is not the case. The conscripts seem free to speak with one another almost whenever and wherever they please. And the medical facilities are no exception.”
Riker leaned closer to get a better look. “Can you amplify the woman’s face for me?” he asked.
The android complied. The projection flickered for the briefest instant, and then Dani Orbutu’s attractive countenance filled it from edge to edge. Of course, the quality of the image suffered as a result-he could now see the individual lines of color that comprised it.
But it was clear enough to show him what he needed to see. Specifically, her eyes.
There was no recognition in them. Not even when she looked directly at her crew mate’s face. Mostly, she seemed distant. Preoccupied.
Lost. As if she’d forgotten something-something important.
Like… who she was.
Riker squirmed a little at the thought. “Could it be,” he asked, “that they no longer know each other? That they’ve been deprived somehow of those memories?”
Data’s eyes grew larger than normal. Under other circumstances, Riker might have thought it comical.
“Of course,” said the android. “If they did not remember serving on the Mendel together… they would hardly have a reason to converse. They would seem as strange to one another as any other two beings in the conflict zones.” His brow creased again. “But then, the same would be true of our away team. Even if they met, they would not know each other. Not even on the field of battle.”
Suddenly, the room was too cold for even Riker’s liking.
Up close, the edifice seemed even more ominous, more foreboding than at a distance. The walls, constructed of large blocks of dun-colored stone, were taller than he had guessed. The only gates were made of a metal as dark as the stone; they were