Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [61]
No. That would have been a serious violation of Impriman law, perhaps serious enough to end their economic alliance. And though Picard himself might have cared a good deal more about Riker than about relations with the Imprimans, the Federation wouldn’t have seen things quite that way.
So we wait. And hope.
Data was thoughtful as he made his way to engineering. But his mind was not on the engine enhancement program to which he and Geordi had been assigned.
He was still thinking about curveballs.
Unfortunately his research had failed to turn up anything conclusive. Over the years numerous authorities, ranging from physicists to mathematicians to philosophers, had tried to explain the behavior of the curveball. And none of them had posited a more credible theory than those put forth by Geordi.
Just after the end of the twentieth century a Californian by the name of Ray Sparrow, who identified himself as a priest in the Church of the Center Field Bleachers, speculated that the pitch performed as it did because the ball’s spin approximated that of the free electrons in the Mind of God.
While original, that theory didn’t help the android much. It was difficult enough, sometimes, for him to interpret the intentions of the captain, without trying to understand the thinking of a divine being.
As the doors to engineering slid aside at his approach, Data gave up his ruminations, or at least assigned them a lower priority in the positronic heirarchy of his intellectual functions. After all, duty came first, and the captain himself had asked him to work on the engines.
Engineering was unusually quiet, he noticed. Normally it was one of the more affable sections on the ship—no doubt a reflection of Geordi’s personality, just as the security section was shaped by Worf’s intensity, and sickbay by Dr. Crusher’s dedication.
Just now, however, the only sound here was the drone of the engines. Hardly anyone looked up to see him enter. And those who did looked distracted, almost grim.
Nearing Geordi’s office, he saw that its doors were open and that the engineering chief was inside, hunched over his personal work station.
Geordi did not appear to be working. His screen was alive with power-transfer schematics, but he was paying no attention to them.
Data knocked on the door frame as an alternative to catching his fellow officer by surprise. It was something he’d seen done by Commander Riker on more than one occasion.
Geordi turned partway in his seat and looked at him. “Hi, Data. I guess you’ve heard, huh?”
The android regarded him. “Can you be more specific?”
Swiveling around the rest of the way, Geordi cursed under his breath. “Of course. How would you know? You haven’t been on duty.” He got to his feet, crossed the open space between them, and put a hand on Data’s shoulder.
“Commander Riker’s been hurt,” he said.
The android cocked his head. “Hurt?”
“Knifed. I didn’t get all the details, but apparently it’s bad. Very bad.”
Data absorbed the information instantaneously, but it took a while for the implications to strike home.
“Do you think he will die?” ventured the android.
Geordi looked as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “I don’t know. I don’t think anyone does—not even Dr. Crusher, and she’s with him.” His Adam’s apple moved up and down. “I called the bridge a couple of minutes ago. That’s when I got the news.”
Data nodded slowly. “I see.” He paused. “That is, I comprehend.”
He wanted to say more. He wanted to be able to say he was worried or fearful or anguished—and mean it.
But he couldn’t. He was only an android.
“Wesley was right,” said the chief engineer. “He was telling us how dangerous that place can be. Besidia, I mean.” He shook his head. “And the worst part is that I made fun of Wesley’s concerns. I told him Commander Riker could