Immortal Coil - Jeffrey Lang [93]
Vaslovik appeared to be genuinely confused by the question, but after thinking about it for a moment, he laughed and clamped Data on the shoulder. “Why?” he asked. “Why would I have? There was never any need. You were doing a fine job keeping the opportunists at bay. Noonien knew what he was doing when he made you, Data.” And with this, he squeezed Data’s shoulder, then released it. Data, for his part, was surprised to discover that he felt a bittersweet sadness about the fact that at no time in his life had he ever known anyone who felt like they could pat him on the shoulder that way.
Troi was not prepared for the waves of conflicting emotions she felt rolling off Captain Picard when he reentered the observation lounge. He had just safely ensconced Sam in a vacant VIP cabin, then escorted Admiral Haftel to the transporter room where, Troi was certain, their argument about Sam’s fate had continued every step of the way.
Picard was worried, naturally, for Data and McAdams, as he would be for any of his crew who were in harm’s way, but mingled with the concern was a tight ball of black anger. This troubled Troi, not only because Picard was so rarely angry, but because she was unable to determine precisely at whom the anger was aimed. There were so many candidates. Was it McAdams, whom Picard had come to genuinely like and trust in the short time she had been aboard? Was it the android bartender Sam, who seemed to be responding to the potentially deadly events as blithely as he would a story unfolding in a holo-novel?
Of course, the anger might be directed at Haftel, who was, Troi decided, revealing himself to be more of a conservative, old-school Starfleet admiral at every turn. His gut reaction had been to throw Sam into a holding cell and call in the “experts.” Of course, who those experts were precisely no one knew. Maddox? Perhaps … and perhaps that would be the best solution. The conservative solution frequently was, or, at least it was the path that involved the least amount of risk. But there were too many unknowns here, too many blank variables to consider. It was always times like these when Data was the most valuable member of the command staff. His ability to catalog the capricious, to sort those elements into some kind of order …
And then the last possibility struck Troi. Perhaps the captain was angry at Data. The always faithful, always dependable Data had gone and done something unpredictable: he had fallen in love, or, at least, something very close to it. She had heard Will’s report about what had happened on the planet’s surface and had to consider the possibility that Data’s decision to face the Exo III androids unassisted had been motivated by a desire to protect (possibly even impress?) Rhea McAdams.
Picard sat down heavily in his chair, let out a sharp breath through his nose, and looked around at the faces of his remaining command crew. Both Will and Geordi appeared calm, though exhausted, and ready to undertake any task their captain should lay at their feet. Then, he glanced at Troi and, to her surprise and relief, he smiled wryly. “The answer, Counselor, to the question plaguing you is ‘Myself.’ I’m angry with myself.”
Surprised by his perspicacity, but pleased by his openness, Troi responded, “You have no cause to be, Captain. You’ve handled events as well as anyone could—better, I expect, than any of the participants could have anticipated.”
“Have I?” he asked dryly. “Then why do I feel like I’ve been stumbling down a dark alley and being rapped on the back of the head by every scoundrel and charlatan who feels up to taking a shot?” The captain reached up and lightly scrubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. He needs sleep, Troi decided. How long has it been since he rested? Picard looked at her again and said, “And, yes, I do need sleep, though I’m afraid tea will