Metamorphosis - Jean Lorrah [130]
Data had no innate body modesty, but had learned in his twenty-seven years among humans a variety of meanings to being clothed or unclothed. Here nudity was the norm, so he removed his boots, then peeled off the rest of his Starfleet-issue clothing, carefully laying it so that his combadge, with its open channel, was unimpeded in its function. There was curiosity, but no prurient interest in his anatomy from the watching crowd. He had deliberately not resealed the synthoskin tilde of his chest after he and Geordi installed the thought transmitter, but as his skin was all of one color the lines would not show from a distance, and up close appeared to be either thin scars or natural markings. No one paid them any attention. The Konor were obviously more interested in what they thought was his soul than in his body.
If only they were not so terribly wrong in the interpretation of their mental communication!
The crowd again sent warm thoughts to Data.
Welcome, Brother of our souls!
But then the Council of Elders continued, We are Konor, created by Providence to have dominion over
the land, the water, the plants, the animals, and the Ikonor. We would gladly care for the Ikonor and treat them well if only they would accept that they are soulless beings provided as our servants.
Providence guide them to truth! responded the gathered crowd. The Chief Elder turned to Data.
Brother of our souls, you have brought us a great opportunity. You hold much influence with the Ikonor who inhabit the great ship you came in. Do they accept their role? Are they the servants of the Konor of your race?
Here it comes, Data thought, and turned to face the gathered multitude. No, my colleagues aboard the Enterprise are not my servants, nor am I theirs, Data responded, and pushed on before they could ask him to take over the ship for them, as he knew without any mind-reading would be their ultimate demand.
The people on the Enterprise are my friends.
But we are your brothers and sisters, the crowd replied, giving Data the perfect opening.
Are you? The rapid-fire transmissions hardly let one wave of pain ebb before another began, but he forced himself to go on. Am I Konor? You speak to us, soul to soul.
But I am not one of you.
Providence provides. Wherever we go, we will meet our brothers, like you.
But the way Providence provides-it is the work of Ikonor that is provided for your use? As the catechism continued, Data’s sensors warned him that the transmitter was overloading. There was not only pain, but the danger of real damage.
Our use, brother. You are one of us, the Konor answered his last question.
Even though 1 am different?
You are different only in body. In soul you are one of us. But that which is made by Ikonor, that is property, Data persisted through the static of pain, striving to turn the litany in the direction he needed before his transmitter shorted out entirely. Ours, to do with as we wish, as are the Ikonor. Then, Data said, sliding fingers into the unsealed seam down his chest and pulling it open, what am I?
There was sudden mental silence, then surprise, and the transmission from those close by to those farther back in the crowd of Data exhibiting not a gruesome view of heart, lungs, alimentary tract, but diodes, circuits, memory boards, sensory mesh, and conduits for his organic fluids. Amidst all that, the telepathic transmitter sprouted the connectors that Data’s sensors warned him were overheating. He. dishad to cut his dramatic demonstration short, or risk damage that could disable him. The moment’s respite from pain was delicious relief, but Data had no choice but to go on. Am I Konor? he demanded again.
Yes!
But I am not a man. I am a machine. I was not born, like you. I was built. You claim what is built by Ikonor is property. Searing heat threatening to short him out at any moment, so he played his trump. I was built by those you call Ikonor.
Confusion and shock went through the crowd, but 364 they were accustomed to demand proof of the mind, not the body. We