NEW: but for the grace of god... [R] TNG; Data, Lore; Chap 1, 1/8

[mlo...@ic.sunysb.edu]

RATING: R, for adult themes, profanity (Chapter 3: NC-17, for sex and
violence)

DISCLAIMER:
These characters, their ship, and their universe belong lock, stock and
barrel to PARAMOUNT-VIACOM. I am bending them to my will for fun only,
not profit (unless you consider the release of writer's angst to be
profit.)

Please see intro for the rest of the stuff.

Please keep headers intact.
*****

but for the grace of god...
by Melinda Loges

Chapter One: In the Wake of the Fire

'respond, vibrate, feed back, resonate
sun dogs fire on the horizon
meteor rain stars across the night
this moment may be brief
but it can be so bright
reflected in another source of light
when the moment dies
the spark still flies
reflected in another pair of eyes'

"Chain Lightning"
Rush

The door chime cut through the Mozart Concerto. Data glanced up from his
computer console and ignored his rather incessant desire to order whoever
it was away. He knew he could not maintain his solitude indefinitely.

"Enter," he stated.
-----

The door opened and Geordi came in, grinning. He walked up to the edge of
Data's desk. "Thought I'd come drag you out of forced retirement." He
laughed for a moment, until he noticed that Data hadn't joined him. "That
was a joke, Data. I just wanted to reassure you that you don't need to
hide. You don't look that scary."

Data smiled and the edges of his synthetic skin creased as his facial
mechanisms moved. The replacement cybernetic eye had not yet arrived from
the Daystrom Institute and he had not refitted the missing portions of his
skin.

"I believe it was Commander Riker who remarked upon my resemblance to
Frankenstein; I found the comparison... compelling." Data stood and,
with a few fingerstrokes, placed his console on standby. "However," he
continued, walking past his friend to the replicator, "while I appreciate
your efforts to reassure me, I was not actually concerned about my
appearance. Would you like something?" he asked, gesturing to the
replicator. Geordi shook his head, and Data nodded. "Data supplement
number eleven."

He took the glass that appeared and sat down on the couch opposite the
door. Geordi followed him and took a seat at the table. He glanced at
some of the schematic models that lay there. "So, why haven't I seen you
since we got back? Outside of duty, I mean."

"I have been working," Data replied, taking a sip of his drink.

"What on?"

"Improving the efficiency of cell-based bio-feedback circuits. Most of
the technical specs are there." He indicated the pile of data padds that
Geordi had noticed. The engineer took a closer look and whistled. "Damn,
these are really impressive, Data. I've never seen a model as intricate
as this before." He gave Data a sideways glance and said softly, "You're
much more creative these days."

"Perhaps." He spoke to his glass. "I have considered this model for
several years now, however. I could not solve the problem of electron
resistance across the mechanical barriers of the circuits. The techniques
that the Borg used on me gave me some new ideas."

Geordi nodded, replacing the padd he had been holding. He sat back and
watched as Data placed his empty glass on the table in front of the couch,
next to a vase full of wildflowers. He picked out marigolds and
snapdragons before he abandoned the analysis. He was silent for a few
moments, wondering whether to pursue the subject on his mind. Captain
Picard had stated only that the Borg had attempted to assimilate Data and
failed. He gave Data credit for saving the ship, including a
commendation, but Geordi suspected that much had been left unsaid. Data
himself had added nothing, beyond the explanation for his missing skin.
But that was what left Geordi so confused-a graft of human skin, a human
eye even, and Data had nothing to say? Geordi wanted to ask, but, at the
same time, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Data simply sat there and watched him, then jerked his head to the side.

"It is all right to ask me, Geordi. You are my friend."

Geordi started and stared at Data, almost transfixed by the blinking
lights on the side of the android's face. Data rarely guessed what his
friends were thinking.

"It must have been a horrifying experience," he said, pulling his eyes
from Data's face.

"It was... intriguing," Data answered softly.

"Only you could possibly find assimilation intriguing."

Data stood abruptly and walked to the other side of the room. He fingered
Spot's favorite ball of yarn. "They were not interested in assimilating
me. She wanted other things."

"The Queen?"

"The term is not entirely accurate, but for lack of a better one, yes the
Queen."

Geordi shifted in his chair to watch Data pace slowly just beyond the
sensors of the door. He hesitated. "You and the Captain must share a
unique bond now."

Data shrugged. "To a certain extent. The Captain experienced mental
rape, in a very real sense. I did not. I never lost control of my
faculties. I was not forced to act against my will."

"But I thought-I understood that you were actually connected to the Borg
consciousness."

"I was. I was receiving and was capable of sending all of the subspace
signals that constitute Borg communication. But the Borg consciousness
was not controlling my neural net responses. I remained an individual."

Geordi smiled. "So, they couldn't tap into a positronic brain. That's
reassuring."

Data paused in his pacing. "I did not say that. I am certain that they
could have controlled my programming entirely if they had wished it." He
shot a sideways glance at his friend. "As I said, that was not what she
wanted."

Turning away, Geordi frowned. He studied the brocjiek plant in the
corner, admiring the shifting colors as the plant sensed the slight
thermal changes in the room. He said carefully, "So, what *did* she
want?"

"A mate."

Geordi swung around to stare at the android. "A mate?"

Data shrugged again and returned to the couch. "She wanted a partner. In
conquest, if you will. She wanted to share her desire to control, to
consume."

"And she chose you? I thought the Borg considered you obsolete."

Data gave a small, tight smile. "I believe I was second choice."

"Who was first?"

Data raised his existing eyebrow. "Picard, of course. Locutus." He
smiled again. "'Nor hell a fury...'"

"Huh?"

Data laughed. "I am sorry. A quotation--'Nor hell a fury like a woman
scorn'd.' From Congreve."

"You're far too literary for your own good."

"I like to be well-rounded."

Geordi rolled his eyes. He was quiet for a moment and then he pushed back
to the other subject. "Did she succeed?"

"In sharing her desires with me?" Geordi nodded. "Yes."

Geordi looked at his friend in surprise. "You don't sound too upset about
it." Data remained silent. "You almost make it sound... I don't
know-intimate?" His raised the pitch of his voice, asking.

"Is that an accusation?" Data asked in return.

"An accusation? Data! I don't...I mean I--" He stopped. "I didn't mean
to accuse you of anything," he said softly. "It was a question."

Data shook his head. "It amounts to the same thing."

Geordi glanced at the brocjiek plant, feeling his own color rise. "Over
half of the ship's complement died," he muttered.

"I am well aware of the casualties, Geordi."

Geordi looked back to the couch. "I'm sorry, Data. I didn't mean to
imply that you were responsible. It's just-" Data held up a hand and
Geordi fell silent. Data studied the flowers in front of him for a few
moments and then begin to speak, very softly.

"We were intimate, on many levels. You wanted to know what happened. I
joined with her, I became her lover. We shared the memories of...
millennia. I manipulated her trust. I lied to her. And then I killed
her." He looked up. "And now you know."

Geordi stared, horrified. "You made love to it?"

"She was entirely female." Data smiled to the wildflowers.

"Did you-did you enjoy it? Being with her?"

"Immensely." Data stood up and turned toward the alcove where his
computer waited. "And now if you will excuse me, I have only a few hours
before I return to duty and I would like to finish the plans that I was
working on." He waited. Geordi sat unmoving at the table.

"Geordi?" He looked up. Data sighed and walked over to the table. "I am
sorry if what I have said troubles you. However, you did ask and I will
not lie to you."

Geordi stared at him and then looked down to the pile of schematics.
"Does the Captain know all this?" he asked.

"Yes, he does."

Geordi stared for a moment longer. Finally, he nodded. "I'm sorry I...
intruded."
-----

Data sat down at the table after Geordi left. He reactivated his emotion
chip and closed his eye against the tears that surfaced as impulses raced
down his neural pathways. He reached forward and grasped one of the
schematic models on the table. His hand contracted, he crushed it. He
shuddered at the release and opened his eye. After inspecting the damage,
he sighed and returned to his console.

"Computer, resume program."

*****

The new eye arrived a few days later. After its installation, Geordi laid
out the neural relay for Data's face and Doctor Crusher replaced his skin.
She stood back to admire her handiwork. "There--now you look human
again."

Data raised his eyebrows.

"Well, you know what I mean."

He laughed. "I look normal again. But thank you for the compliment. I
think."

She smiled in return. "So, have you decided where you're going yet?"

"I was rather hoping to hide out on the holodeck. I do not think I will
be allowed to get away with that, however."

Geordi looked over. He had been subdued throughout the procedure, and
Data knew that he was still upset, although they had tacitly agreed not to
discuss the subject. Now he looked surprised. "Shore-leave?" Data
nodded. "I thought you weren't going."

"Counselor Troi insisted. As did the Captain."

Crusher snorted. "Hypocrite. We practically have to get a directive from
Starfleet Command to get him to go."

"I gather that is essentially what happened. Deanna insists that he go,
and therefore, I must go as well." He grinned. "Misery loves company."

Crusher looked at him for a moment, then turned her head to check his
neural responses on the monitor. "From what Deanna said, you... well--"

"I need it. Yes, I know; she keeps telling me that. I still do not
believe it will help, but she suggests that a change of scene will give me
a new perspective. Personally, I thought that sounded rather redundant."

Geordi laughed. "So, where are you going?"

Data shrugged. "Do you have any suggestions?"

Crusher snapped her fingers. "The beach."

"The beach?" Data asked, skeptical. "You are not going to suggest that I
go swimming?"

"After all the work I just put into you? Heaven forbid. But it's a great
place to relax--you know, wriggle you toes in the sand, listen to the
birds, smell the salt-air. You need to commune with nature --get in
touch with your inner child."

Geordi broke out laughing, and Data pressed his lips together, vainly
trying to avoid his own giggles.

Crusher glared at them. "Go ahead and laugh. I'm telling you the beach
is a truly mystical place."

"I do not doubt you, Doctor," Data said. "However, I doubt that I am
well enough equipped for mystical experiences." He gave her a shrewd
glance. "Perhaps if I were to borrow your Tarot cards?"

Her mouth parted. "Now, just how the hell do you know about that,
Commander?"

"Wesley told me, years ago."

"Why that little--" She broke off, muttering under her breath. She
looked at Data. "And so you just decided to hold on to that little
tidbit, did you?"

"Actually, I did not give the matter much thought. As I recall, I simply
treated Wes to an hour-long lecture on probability dynamics, including all
the reasons why the accurate prediction of future events was highly
unlikely."

Geordi chuckled. "What'd he say?"

"Nothing," Data said, trying very hard to keep a straight face. "He fell
asleep."

"Served him right," Crusher said, switching off the monitor. "O.K.,
Data, you're readouts are normal."

He nodded, and in a meek voice, he said, "I presume I am dismissed,
Doctor?"

"Yes, smartass, you're dismissed." She waved her hands at him. "Go on,
get out of my sick-bay." As he headed for the door with Geordi, she
added, "Give it some thought though, you might just surprise yourself."
She grinned. "Even without the Tarot cards."
-----

In the end, he took her suggestion.

*****

He found himself roaming a deserted stretch of shore just north of San
Francisco.

The sun was pacing itself on its journey to the horizon, seeming to
accelerate as it neared the edge, and the strands of clouds took on the
deeper hues of sunset. Crowds of birds, seagulls, patrolled the
coastline, mounting the cliffs that edged the paltry meters of sand. They
looped through the uneven juts of rock, crying out their magnificence.
The swirling atmosphere of the evening echoed their conversations, and he
smiled, briefly, at this demonstration of their lives. He felt some of
his tension slip away and laughed inwardly, making a silent concession.
*You were right, Doctor.*

When a pair fifty meters above him began to circle and then to spiral
headlong towards the water, he stopped his steady pace and gazed, awed by
their precision. They swerved and skimmed the water, seeming to bounce
back into the air, trails of mist intersecting, and then they dove in
unison. When they emerged moments later, they regrouped and headed back
to the cliffs, the night's dinner hanging from their mouths.

He stood motionless for a moment, his eyes tracking their path, recording
every nuance of their smooth formation. He analyzed the symmetry of these
creatures, hallowed the simple elegance of their existence. Programmed
only to eat, to procreate, to survive. With a subtle ache, he recognized
envy in himself. He had once known such simplicity.

A paragon of form and content. And now the content was a travesty of the
form.

For an instant, he struggled against the feeling of self-loathing that
gripped him, never very far from his consciousness. He resisted the
reflex to deactivate the emotion chip. He was alone. He surrendered his
control, let the surge engulf him. There was simplicity to death as well,
he knew, and he had never truly been alive before. He lived in the mercy
of his pain, and her voice filled him, as it always did. As it always
would.

*You are one of us.*

He stared out to the ocean, tempted to walk into the depths and wither and
die. He would not, of course. The water he absorbed would corrupt his
servos, the salt would disrupt the balance of his electrolytes, but
nothing in the sea could bring surcease to the winding shadows of his
thoughts. He dwelled in her presence, mourning the loss he knew no one
would ever understand. Or forgive.

He had considered turning himself off for the duration of his mandatory
leave. To make use of the famed 'android alarm clock.' But he had
discovered the full consequence of emotion in the two years since he had
installed his chip. He had only been deactivated once in that period, and
then only for a few hours, but it had cost him. He was familiar enough
with mental anguish, but the sudden onslaught of consciousness had been
palpable, tangible, as close to real physical pain as anything he had ever
experienced-on his own. It was a chasm, without dimension, without
parameters-from the moment when he was reactivated. His processor
rebooted, major regulatory subroutines coming back online, and his
chronometer was there, to calculate to the nanosecond the time he had
lost. A minuscule crack within his consciousness.

He did not think he could face the loss of seven days.

And deep inside, some part of him cringed at the thought of losing
twenty-six years.

His eyes roamed the surface of the waves, he noted the pattern of the
crests, some unconscious routine calculating the speed of the air currents
responsible. With slight trepidation, he pulled away his last modicum of
control and activated his dream sequence. Let his thoughts take him where
they will, with her voice, as she had taken him.

He dreamt.
-----

Fire burned at his arm and he grasped it to him, terrified, exhilarated,
angry. Long since discovered that he was a coward, but that this, this
perversion of the gift, should paralyze him before her. And she was
laughing.

The sensation rode up and down his arm and he felt tears form in the
sockets--but he would not cry for her. Not here, even the coward in the
game had rules, and he was--he was... Starfleet.

He felt... he felt it everywhere, places that had always been dead and
dying--but he could feel her heat and he was melting now and all that was
real was the pain and the blood in his hand... she was closer. She was
pulling him toward her with her voice and the soft melody that was
starting to sound somewhere deep inside and the memory of that moment
eight years ago when someone else had pulled him closer.

He backed away, willing the feelings to cease, but he recognized the
futility inside him. He could not resist that which he desired. He felt
the need escalate, overriding all the systems that might prevent collapse,
and he embraced the relief that surfaced when he finally reached out for
her and pulled himself into her depths.

And then she was with him, and they were everywhere, everytime, the
combined thrust of their wills cascading through his mind, as his thoughts
intertwined with her memories, her conquest. He felt power surge within
him.

And the voices spoke.

*You are one of us.*

And he answered them.

*I am one of you; we are Borg.*

Resistance is futile, my Queen.
-----

Dimly, he was aware that the dream had changed.

The heat, confusion, of his betrayal slipped away, her voice receded, he
was in a cold place, clinical, and he did not feel.

His body lay before him, in pieces.

He felt fear insinuate itself into the memory files, artificial and dry.

With a sudden movement of time, he was facing himself, and the phaser felt
strong in his hand. His anger was real.

He recognized this place, this moment, the only other time in his life
when he had killed knowing that he was closing a chapter of his own life.
Knowing his betrayal.

A curtain fell on his thoughts and he returned to death, the anger fading
into a memory. And still he waited, knowing that his counterpart would
turn to fire, knowing that the murder would then be justified. A coward
justifies all deaths. He fired.

And the words, when they came, were without meaning. He did not need to
hear them, he could not feel them.

But now they were shouts. Now they were real.

*I love you, Brother.*
-----

By the time he woke, the sun had fallen. The gulls were silent, the tide
withdrawn. He left his regulatory subsystems off-line, and waited for the
sunrise, watching the waves push at the shore. Standing without pride, he
trembled only slightly within, and barely noticed the moment when the
tears began to fall.

He did not know for whom he cried.

*****

He returned to the ship and his duties at the end of the week, with little
resolved but the need to keep his misery hidden from his friends. That he
was successful was of little comfort. That he felt himself to be
overwhelmed in his own melodrama was, if nothing else, amusing.

Life continued.

He attended the promotion ceremony for Commander Riker with surprising
good cheer, menacing the victim in his role as a rather convincing
torture-master from the Inquisition.

He attended his own ceremony with forbearance, managing at least a
semblance of geniality. He turned the chip off for the occasion, brushing
off Counselor Troi's concerned approach when he reached the holodeck. He
had known that she would sense the void that always formed in the absence
of his emotional programming and had prepared himself to forestall her
questions. She would bring it up later, of course, but he was prepared
for that too. Even in the absence of the sensations, he could discern his
general emotional state, and he was a good enough actor to pull off a
convincing performance. Still, he accepted his promotion to Commander and
First Officer with real pleasure, and found some reserve of grace with
which to receive the commendation that Captain Picard had forced him to
take.

Four weeks after her return from the past, the __Enterprise__ departed
McKinley Station for Starbase 19--to deliver Captain Riker to his new
command, the _Triumph_, and to pick up the last of her replacement crew.

-------------------==== Posted via Deja News ====-----------------------
http://www.dejanews.com/ Search, Read, Post to Usenet

[Melinda J Loges]

On Thu, 8 May 1997, Pamster wrote:

> Where are chapters 2,3 and 6 of this story? I cannot find them, but I am
> using AOL's wretched newsgroup handler, and it's not uncommon for them to
> do stuff like this. Any chance of you emailing them to me? I'd appreciate
> it greatly!
>
> Pam...@aol.com
>
> "He's always got an answer, even if he don't know..."
> Ashley MacIsaac, 'What an Idiot He Is"
> ___________________________________
> "He has occasional flashes of silence that make his conversation perfectly delightful."
> Sydney Smith
>
>
Pamster,

Yikes, that was quick! I just posted it this morning. So far only
chapters 1 and 6 are showing up on my server, but I checked Dejanews and
they were all there--so they did get through somewhere. Give it a few
days, and if it still has shown up, I'll be glad to mail it to you.

Lemme warn you though, everytime I run a file through UNIX (to get to my
e-mail) the formatting goes berserk. And, alas, I'm not a computer whiz, I
don't know how to fix it...

And so it goes...

Thank you for the interest. :)

Melinda