Gulliver's Fugitives - Keith Sharee [6]
But he wasn’t about to change his overall command style. He’d gotten this far with it, and doubted he would ever be capable of showing his feelings as easily as Troi.
Ensign Wesley Crusher and Lieutenant Commander Data sat at their consoles on the Enterprise bridge, waiting while the ship’s sensors scanned its surrounding space. Though Data, an android legally defined as “alive,” was third in command of the ship, and Wesley, a teenager, was just beginning his career with Starfleet, the two were close friends. Wesley had always accepted Data as a person, not a sentient machine. And Data himself was in the midst of a kind of adolescence, still trying to understand the mysterious humanoid species which had accepted him as an equal.
The main viewscreen showed them a stationary starfield. So far, they’d found none of the anomalies the captain was looking for.
“They might be inside the ship,” said Wesley.
“Worf is conducting a thorough search,” replied Data.
“Maybe they’re hiding right here on the bridge,” Wesley said. He twitched at the thought. He’d heard that Troi’s encounter with the aliens, the “Other-worlders,” had been harrowing. He looked over at Data and for an instant envied the android his imperturbability and patience—as much as Data envied the human capacity for emotion, even fear.
Data touched his keypad, resetting the external sensors for a new arpeggio of frequencies.
“There. We must now wait for this sequence to complete. Perhaps this is a good opportunity for me to present you with my gift. You do seem in need of distraction and uplift.”
Data stood, looked down at Wesley, then at the infinite view presented by the screen. He assumed a heraldic pose, one hand on his hip, the other in a frozen gesture at the stars on the screen. He spoke.
“The teachings of macaroon erotica doin’ a little thing we call three-toed minty-fresh logo tissue.
Quest for the Golden Aphids where they call the wind ‘Mr. Conceited-B-Gone.’
I walk down Spanked Mandrill Strasse with gently yielding fun-bladder under warranty.
Prometheus indicator-light blinking through the hydrogen eternity boo-boo.”
Data was still for a moment, allowing a silence to round out his verse. He lowered his hand slowly.
Then he looked back at Wesley. The ensign was bowed over his console, face in hands.
“Wesley! What’s wrong!”
The ensign’s shoulders shook.
“Are you crying? Were you … moved?”
The young ensign looked up. He was laughing so hard he had to gasp for air.
A puzzled, almost sad look crossed Data’s face.
“That was not the reaction I had anticipated, or hoped for,” said Data. “I had thought I had composed my first serious artistic poem.”
“Data, I loved it. Don’t be upset. You know how long you’ve been trying to make humans laugh.”
“True,” said Data. “But it usually seems to happen when I do not intend it.”
Suddenly Data looked down at his control panel. The indices were changing rapidly.
“We have found something,” said the android.
“The recorder marker from the U.S.S. Huxley was not what we were looking for,” said Captain Picard, “but it’s a major find, nonetheless. That ship has been lost for a decade. I wish I could say I was happy about what the marker is telling us.”
The others in the conference room—Data, Troi, and the handsome, bearded, young First Officer Riker —listened raptly to the captain.
The Huxley’s Captain Bowles had been one of the fleet’s great explorers, as Picard was now. The fate of Bowles and his ship had been one of the major unsolved puzzles in Starfleet’s history.
“We’ve already recovered the marker. It’s badly damaged and has yielded few facts. But it seems the Huxley was deliberately attacked, and the attack occurred in the rho Ophiuchi system. Quite nearby, but right in the middle of a nebula thick as bouillabaisse. You can see the nebula out the port, there. Counselor, you have a question?”
“Is there an indication that the Other-worlders were involved in the fate of the Huxley?”
“Inconclusive, but I’d guess not,” said the captain. “The marker’s damage has been