Survivors - Jean Lorrah [56]
It was. But there was someone at the computer.
He knew several dozen ways to render her unconscious but unharmed … but he dared not risk crossing the space to do so. If she turned and saw him, even if he stopped her before she sounded an alarm she would never be persuaded that she had simply fallen asleep at her work-and Nalavia would guess that Data had accessed the computer.
Data ducked back into the lavatory, where he waited for almost an hour before the woman logged off, turned out the lights, and left. Almost instantly, he was in the seat she had vacated, sorting through the routines of the archaic instrument until he got through its security codes, then erasing all evidence that he had done so.
Since he did not know what other insomniac computer user might appear at any moment, Data did not linger in the computer room. He determined the communications frequencies the computer was capable of, chose one not presently in use, adapted the modem in his tricorder to that frequency, and deleted all evidence of his tampering.
Then he returned to his suite of rooms as he had come. When he had replaced the floor, he almost left the bath at once … until it occurred to him to check his appearance. He switched on the light, adjusted his vision to humanoid spectrum-and found that he was filthy!
He had a spare uniform, of course-but he could neither put this one in the closet nor ask the palace staff to clean it without risking questions as to how it had gotten into this condition. Fortunately, Starfleet’s latest uniforms were nearly indestructible and could be cleaned by almost every method known, including soap and water.
Data stripped, stepped into the shower, and washed both himself and his uniform. The uniform he left hanging in the bath, where it would dry in an hour or two.
Then he gave his full concentration to his tricorder, ever alert for safeguards or for other computer access. Nalavia’s was an old computer design with limited memory; Data could not draw information from it at normal speed, but had to wait for it to feed at its own baud rate. At one point someone else accessed the system for a check of palace security, and Data shut down his search lest it perceptibly slow the other user’s access.
The slow data feed gave him time to analyze some of the information as it flashed by-at least enough to recognize a pattern. Orders to Nalavia’s army indicated that the “terrorists” in those raids they had been shown were neither rebels nor the henchmen of a warlord: Nalavia’s own troopers had committed those atrocities.
When he had finally stored everything from the tricorder, Data needed time to analyze it. He expected that a servant would come to “wake” him in the morning. Therefore he slid beneath the bed covers, so as to appear as normal as possible to someone unaccustomed to androids, and add credence to the lie that he was “recharging” should he be disturbed before he had finished his analysis.
By morning Data had reached one significant conclusion: Nalavia was lying on almost every count. Far from the duly-elected and benevolent President she claimed to be, Nalavia was a cruel and power-mad tyrant. He could not understand why the people had not risen against her en masse.
Just as he was beginning to sort the data into a form that would be comprehensible to Tasha, the door to Data’s room opened and a servant entered with a tray. “President Nalavia will meet you in half an hour, sir, in the reception hall.”
“Thank you,” Data responded automatically.
The man set the tray on a table, uncovered several dishes, and then left. Data got up, ignored the food he did not need after indulging his curiosity to taste a large variety of dishes last evening, dressed, and went to knock at Tasha’s door.
The guard in the hall said, “The young lady’s gone already, sir.”
Data felt himself frown. It was not late; if Tasha had been up early, why hadn’t she contacted him? He tapped his combadge. It chirped but the channel did not open. Still,