Synthesis - James Swallow [48]
“I must admit, this isn’t what I expected,” said Deanna. She approached one of the angled walls that came to a point over their heads. More panes of milky windows looked out and up into a sky dominated by the baleful red eye of the Demon planet. She traced her finger over a fine working of lines etched into the metal supports. “I thought it would be just… functional. Sheer lines, no variation. But this is…”
“Aesthetically pleasing?” offered Dennisar.
“Data painted pictures,” Riker reminded his wife.
“Maybe this is a Sentry’s idea of artwork.”
Melora touched the surface of a window, scanning it with her tricorder. “That’s interesting. This isn’t glass. It’s a form of force-grown crystal, actually a different kind of metal.” Suddenly, she jerked up in surprise. “I think we have company.” The Elaysian pointed.
Outside, eight small craft approached. They resembled the minnowlike vessels that had shadowed the Titan on its arrival, and arranged themselves with speed and precision to circle the landing platform. Ringlike frames emerged from the edge, and each ship dropped into an open cradle. In unison, iris hatches opened on the ships, and a disparate group of mechanical forms exited, one from each craft. They crossed the platform and moved in toward the away team.
“It’s a robot parade,” murmured Dennisar.
No two of the machines were alike. Riker searched for any commonality between them and saw very little, perhaps some similarity here and there in pieces of design or framework but nothing that suggested uniformity or even a preference for bilateral symmetry.
One was a large gold sphere with a glowing red band around its equator, moving on a humming impeller field. There was a steel-colored construct resembling the skeleton of a snake; an ornate thing of convex lenses and brass; a gray tetrahedron the height of two men, clicking forward on clawed feet; a battered and pitted ovoid on heavy wheels; a delicate frame like two tripods around a brass cube; and finally, a mechanism that resembled a humanoid form but with a head that emerged from the chest rather than the shoulders. The machines filed into the chamber and halted, all except the spherical one.
It drifted closer, lights collecting along the point where the band faced Riker’s group. “White-Blue,” it began, “your existence was considered terminated.”
“Red-Gold,” replied the other AI, “that designation was premature.”
“We have digested the linguistic data/communications protocols of these wetminds,” it continued. Riker thought he could detect a note of arrogance there. “Simplistic but nuanced. It is an amusing diversion.” The device called Red-Gold pivoted, and Riker got the impression that it was sizing him up. “Interrogative: Where is your vessel, organic?”
“My name is Captain William Riker,” he replied. “And my ship is up there.” He jerked a finger at the sky overhead.
“We arrived here by means of matter transport,” White-Blue responded.
“That technology is theoretical,” said the tripod construct. Its voice was high and tinny.
“Not for us,” answered Deanna. “I am Commander Troi.”
“I am FirstGen Zero-Nine, active remote,” it replied. “You are of the alien coalition known as the United Federation of Planets.”
“That’s right,” said Riker. He introduced the away team one by one, watching the machines carefully.
“It is difficult to believe your technology surpasses ours in any area,” ventured the egg-shaped AI.
“And yet here we are,” said Melora.
A shimmer moved across the windows, and they became opaque with static. “The organics possess matter-transport science.” The voice echoed from the walls as the windows became streams