Immortal Coil - Jeffrey Lang [7]
Riker’s eyes shot up and his hand rose to his temple, almost as if he had forgotten the wound and only this moment remembered it. “Oh … this? It’s nothing, Captain.”
“Let me guess: some sort of bar brawl?”
“Captain!” Riker replied in mock indignation.
“Then, what? Anbo-jytsu? Karate?”
“Mok’bara, by any chance?” Lieutenant McAdams asked. Grinning, she stepped toward Commander Riker and took his arm, a movement that Picard initially interpreted as a sign of affection, but then he saw that McAdams was applying a slight pressure to Riker’s elbow so he would have to bend forward. Standing on her toes, McAdams carefully inspected Riker’s forehead with all the concern of a worried mother checking a child’s skinned knee. “Are you feeling better, Commander?” she asked.
“Yes,” Riker said resignedly. “Much better, thanks.”
“Ah, yes. Now I remember,” Picard recalled. “Dr. Crusher mentioned this at breakfast. Something about a small scar reminding you not to underestimate your opponent because of size, I believe.”
McAdams released Riker’s elbow and the first officer straightened. “Dr. Crusher has a strange sense of humor sometimes,” he said.
“And a well-honed sense of justice,” Troi added.
“Malpractice, I’d call it,” Riker muttered as he turned his attention back to the bay threshold.
“So, Lieutenant,” Picard said, turning to McAdams. “You’ve studied mok’bara? I hope you’ll someday have the opportunity to meet Commander Worf. He won several tournaments, both on the Enterprise and in formal competition.”
“So Deanna was telling me,” McAdams replied, smiling innocently. “And Commander Riker mentioned him, too, while I was helping him to sickbay.”
Riker opened his mouth to respond, but stopped when Picard’s combadge trilled. “Shuttlebay control to Captain Picard.”
“Go ahead.”
“Captain, Commander Data’s shuttle is on its final approach.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Picard replied, shifting his attention to the view beyond the shuttlebay force field. Riker activated his badge and spoke into it softly, asking to listen in on the channel between the control deck and the shuttle. As prescribed, the shuttlebay control officer formally requested, “Shuttlecraft Turing, this is the Enterprise. I have you on the beam. Are you satisfied with your vector?”
Data was overheard to say, “Enterprise, this is Turing. Approach vector is satisfactory. I am turning over control to you.” The shuttle made a minor course correction, then reduced speed as the Enterprise’s automated systems took over. Picard knew that Data would be sitting back now, hands only lightly touching the control panel, monitoring the approach in case he had to quickly switch over to manual. Odd, Picard thought, that we trust one machine to bring the shuttle in safely while a different machine—one infinitely more sophisticated—is holding himself in check. Then, he realized what he was thinking and chided himself for his lack of consideration. Data was much more than a machine, as Picard himself had proclaimed on countless occasions. I even went to court to prove it.
The telltales above and below the shuttlebay door changed from green to yellow as a klaxon sounded, indicating that the field density was changing to allow the Turing to enter. The shuttle’s passage through the invisible membrane was nearly silent, the impulse engines having been shut down just before landing, so the only sounds were the pings and pops of the hull adjusting to the temperature and pressure of the shuttlebay. Even as the Turing settled onto the turntable and rotated, the craft’s aft hatch slowly opened.
When he saw Data’s face, Picard was alarmed, but he could not say precisely why. The android wore his usual neutral, relaxed expression, but there was something slightly off about it, as Data had been forced to think about how he should look rather than just looking that way. He filed the thought away for later consideration. “Welcome home, Mr. Data,” Picard said. “It’s good to have you back.