NEW: The Sound of Truth TNG, Data, PG 1/2

[Melinda J Loges]

D
Disclaimers and other assorted stuff:

PARAMOUNT owns the Star Trek universe, Data, Picard, Troi, Bajor,
Cardassia, etc., etc. (But they don't own Terra, hah!) I'm just mucking about
in their playground for fun-not profit. No copyright infringement intended.

This is my first posted story, so if I've violated any sacred format rules, please
be gentle. I've tried not to. I welcome any comments; send to my e-mail.

Historical note: This is set near the end of the seventh season of TNG (i.e.
pre-emotion chip) and does rather eradicate the continuity thereafter. Oh well.
It makes specific reference to "The Measure of a Man" (season 2) and "The
Offspring" (season 3.)

"The Sound of Truth" and characters created specifically therefor: Copyright
1997, Melinda Loges.


The Sound of Truth (Part 1 of 2)

Captain Picard shifted fitfully behind his desk. Several data PADDs
already filled with completed reports dotted the desktop, and he desperately
wanted to add this last one before morning. He lifted a hand to rub his eyes,
then passed it over his scalp instead. A half-empty mug of cold tea sat on the
desk, and he debated getting another one. It would drive off sleep. And sleep
he needed.
A Cardassian outpost on the verge of Federation space. A distress call.
The impassioned plea from Cardassia. It had been the right decision, never
mind the casualties, never mind his own memories. He pushed his chair away
from the desk, began to circle the empty floor in front of it. Eleven people dead.
His people. Eleven letters to families, explaining that their loved ones had
given their lives in the course of duty, in defense of the enemy-No! He would
not allow that thought. Cardassia was not the enemy; there was a treaty, and
whatever else he believed in, he had to believe in that. He shoved his
memories and his newfound malice toward the Maquis deep into the back of his
mind. Let them surface later; Troi could lecture him for avoiding his feelings
then.
He stood before the replicator, wishing for a steamed milk with
nutmeg, and requested an Earl Grey instead. Tomorrow began a new mission,
and tonight was still for the dead.
Mug in hand, he concentrated on the last report he had to write.
Lieutenant Atyo Netil's had been easy enough to compose; a letter to the
Bajoran provisional government was still a letter to the government, a creature,
not a face. But his wife, Sylvannia Bergelli, had a family. To them, he had to
explain the couple's decision to grant custody of their only child, Jasal, to a
stranger. All was proper, on record, and he feverishly hoped they would
understand. That the guardian in question had commanded the away team on
which the parents had lost their lives was not the problem. The family had
seen Starfleet service before, and the risks were a catechism. No, it was not
who he was, but what he was, that caused the problem.
And he wondered what the guardian himself thought of the solution.
He began to write, then the door chimed and he set the PADD down.
"Come."
"Sir, the night watch has begun. You asked that I see you before going
off-duty."
Picard rose, and moved around the desk. "Yes, Mr. Data, please come
in, sit down."
Data crossed to the couch, and sat, hands folded on his knees. Serene,
complaisant. Picard had often admired the android's composure, envied his
fortitude.
"How are you-outside of normal parameters?"
"I am fine, sir. Your concern is appreciated, Captain, but you realize
that I am not able to feel grief."
Picard leaned back against the desk, hands gripping the edge. "You
may not feel grief, Data, but you do understand it."
"Yes, sir." He paused. "Since returning to the ship, I have reviewed
my actions at the outpost. I have run 263 simulations, using different rationales
as inputs. I have reached the conclusion, sir, that, given the initial dearth of
information, I made the only decision possible. Do you concur with that
verdict, Captain?"
"Yes, I do. And I've noted such in my logs."
Data nodded. "Thank you, sir." He looked down to the floor. "May I
make a personal query?"
"Of course."
"Would you be having this conversation with Commander Riker?"
"Probably." Data looked up, and blinked several times. "It touches
anyone, Data-human, Klingon, or android. Second-guessing oneself when one
has sent a comrade to their death is a universal affliction. It's a part of
command, the part that never gets easier."
"Do you believe I am suited for command, sir?"
"Certainly. You have courage, loyalty, integrity." Data opened his
mouth to speak. "Don't argue my assessment, Commander." Picard smiled. "I
am your friend, and your commanding officer. As such, I have the final word."
A trace of-was that amusement?-crossed the android's eyes, and he tilted his
head in Picard's direction.
"As you wish, Captain, the assessment stands."
"I have another matter to discuss with you." He stopped, unsure of
how to broach the subject. Data had said nothing. Did he even know what they
had asked of him? How could he not know? "You were... close to both
Lieutenant Atyo and Lieutenant Commander Bergelli." Data nodded. "I
understand that you stood for their daughter during the Bajoran naming
ceremony."
"Yes, sir."
"Are you aware of the Bajoran customs surrounding that honor?"
"Yes, sir. When Netil requested my presence, I reviewed all available
records on Bajoran culture. I believed myself competent to fulfill the primary
functions of the post; it is similar to the human concept of a godparent. Of
course, there are certain responsibilities that I assumed they would not..." His
words faded, and he stared at Picard's neutral expression.
In an equally neutral voice, he stated the obvious conclusion. "They
have named me as Jasal's guardian."
Picard nodded.
Data moved his head, first in one direction, then another. Picard had
come to realize that Data was at his most synthetic when he was confused... or
distraught.
"I was not aware of their wishes, Captain." He looked up and Picard
saw appeal in the amber eyes. "Jasal is partially human, and Sylvannia had
mentioned living relatives on Earth. I concluded that they would not require
that duty of me."
"Perhaps you should have given the matter more careful
consideration."
"Sir?" He paused. "Perhaps. However, I did attempt to discuss these
issues with Sylvannia at the time. She assured me that any objections I had
were... unfounded." He looked away. "I did not realize that they had such faith
in me," he said softly.
Picard smiled. "Most of your friends do, Data."
Data shook his head. "Not to the extent of asking me to raise their
children, sir. That is a level of trust beyond all expectation. I am not certain
that I am worthy of it. I must question my capacity to be a successful parent to
a half-human, half-Bajoran child."
Picard nodded. "I can understand your concerns. I'd have to question
my ability to be a successful parent at all. I'm amazed that they didn't tell you
their plans."
"It would seem apparent that Netil assumed my assent based on my
performance of the naming ritual. Sylvannia must have guessed that I might
not agree to such an arrangement. She was... a resolute person. If they thought
that I would be the best candidate, I can well believe that she might have taken
the decision from my hands, as it were." He stood and paced toward the other
side of the room. "However, whatever their motivations, their decision leaves
me with a substantial quandary." He turned back to Picard. "I cannot, in good
conscience, ignore their request, and yet, it is concern for the child that must be
paramount now. I am not adequate to the role they have given me. Jasal
deserves to be with her natural relatives."
Picard tugged on his uniform and returned to his chair. "I have
checked Commander Bergelli's personal files." He sighed. "Her parents are
elderly, Data. There are two cousins, both on distant colonies. I doubt if the
child has even met them." He leaned back and regarded Data's profile. "Your
concerns are justified. You've been handed an enormous responsibility and it's
not to be accepted lightly. But I urge you to give yourself the benefit of doubt."
"Sir, I can care for her. I can provide attention, protection, perhaps
even guidance. But I cannot give her love." He approached the desk and
placed his hands on the edge. "That would seem to be essential."
Picard was silent for a moment, a small smile playing at his face.
Softly, he spoke to the desk. "Attention, protection, guidance..." He looked up.
"Data, if there exists a formula for love, you've just given it. Don't
underestimate yourself. Discuss the matter with Counselor Troi, take some
time before you come to any decision."
Data nodded, and focused on the reports stacked on the desk. "Have
you completed your letters to her family, sir?"
"No, I haven't."
"I would like to include a personal communication-if you approve, sir."
"Yes, do so. Have it ready by tomorrow. Dismissed." Data turned to
the door. "And, Commander..." Picard stood as Data glanced back to him. "I
have every confidence in you."
The corners of Data's mouth lifted. "I take it I am not to argue that
assessment, either?" Picard smiled. "Thank you, sir. Good night."

*****

The classroom had changed since his last visit. He examined the new
scene from behind the window in Mr. Brant's office; a mural spanned one
length of the classroom wall, crowded with the handprints and erratic
signatures of all the young children on the Enterprise. They had each chosen
their own colors, their own medium; the effect was strangely compelling,
forcing the eye to continually focus and retract, in order to make any sense of
the whole. Finger-painting was a favorite diversion of this age-group. He tried
to imagine the stimulus of wet paint on his fingers, the dry fibrous touch of the
canvas to the receptors in his palms. Perhaps he should experiment with this
genre. An image formed, overlaying the canvas-Geordi's face, an astonished
response to the sight of the second officer, hands covered in pigment, busily
contemplating the aesthetics of color dispersal in a landscape of fingerprints.
Unique fingerprints. Was synthetic skin porous to oil-based paints? Would
tinted fingers violate some part of the ship's dress code? He tried to still his
spiraling thoughts-perhaps he should consider implementing some restraints on
his artistic abandon-but as his sight returned to the classroom, to the slight
form of the dark-haired girl, he silenced the illusory objections. Jasal would
understand.
She had not, as he had expected, sequestered herself from the other
children. She was animated, participating, but he sensed something... in her
demeanor, her expression... that spoke of withdrawal. That spoke of fear.
She sat next to a fair-haired boy of six years, Eliott Maxson, son of
Stefan and Melanie. Astrophysics and operations management. Melanie
reported to him, he knew her well, but he had only met their child once. Jasal
paused with her hands poised above a computer terminal, then reached for a
book-did that serve as a systems readout?-and passed it to Eliott. She tapped a
button on her sweater and delivered her message to the air.
Make-believe. The word provoked a resonance in his pathways-a
refrain from his own life. Make-believe that you understand, make-believe that
you belong... He shook his head abruptly, trying to expel the thought. It was a
dishonor-to his friends... his father... himself.
She was speaking to another child now, issuing orders, if he read her
expression correctly. The hazel eyes veered back to Eliott. The color of her
eyes was exquisite, in harmony with the deeper browns in her hair, the subtle
flow of the ridges at the bridge of her nose. The ridges were less defined, less
constricted than Netil's had been. A watercolor to his pencil sketch. Eliott
answered her-who was he today? Commander Riker? Captain Picard? He
pulled on the hem of his shirt, gave a crisp nod, and walked to the table. Either
role was possible.
He watched Jasal pretend to run scans, reporting to Eliott over her
shoulder every few minutes, playing out some small portion of his daily
activities. She always chose his position. He had been startled when Netil had
first informed him that she was always operations manager when the children
played 'Enterprise.' She had performed the act for him on a few occasions. She
never imitated his peculiar, android mannerisms. And yet, when he watched
her, he saw, he wanted to see, some echo of the person he strove to be. She
humanized him. The recognition engendered a concord in his systems that,
were he less disciplined, he might call gratitude.
The free period over, the children assembled for lunch at the tables
lining the room. Soon it would be time to face her. He looked to the far corner
with interest as Mr. Brant quelled a minor mutiny. The class voted on the
lunch menu, and then trays began to appear in the replicator bays.
He let his focus shift as she received her tray, the reflection of his face
in the window becoming sharper, the classroom blurring. He opened the
transmission interface to his memory core, random images filling his eyes, as
his autonomous circuits demanded file access, delivered encoded memories to
his central processor. He closed his eyes, drifting...
To his quarters, discussing some obscure insight of Vulcan philosophy
with Netil; to the remains of the Cardassian medical facility, his away-team
buried beneath the wreckage; to a recital two years before, Jasal's eyes trying to
follow every movement of the bow in his hand; to holodeck-4-a Bajoran temple
created for the ritual to name the howling infant in Sylvannia's arms...
His mind faltered.
Where was he? The room looked familiar, but skewed... His lab, he
knew it now, but the angles were wrong, distorted. He was standing in the
diagnostic stall, facing away from the door, terrified. He could not feel the
terror, but some vestige of what she had perceived colored his vision-he saw
through her eyes. He tilted his head to the left as a sound touched him-
breathing, he was not alone. He stilled his own breath, listening for the
inhalation patterns, trying to place the cardiac rhythms. Counselor Troi. But
the heartbeat was accelerated-she was distressed... angry. He looked up to see
his own face, intent on the space behind him. He heard voices murmuring
around him, but the sound was muffled by the echoed beat of his heart. No, that
was wrong-there was no heart within him. His fluids circulated by a
pressure-regulated valve system, electronic gates-opening, closing...
There was silence now-only vibrating shrieks from failed circuits,
impulses rebounding down convoluted pathways, careening into electrical
barriers, lost. His central processor was bombarded with error messages. There
was pain. From somewhere beyond the cloud of his vision, he heard his voice-
'I wish I could feel it with you...' Now he was speaking, but he could not
distinguish the words-partial auditory failure. An assault of images stunned
him, chaotic, blurring one into the other, tumbling before his eyes-memories,
her memories of life... Panic irrupted within, ocular sensors ceased to transmit,
a grey void encroached... He was falling, internal stabilizers off-line, this was
vertigo, this was death... He reached out, desperate to hold on, sensations
dissolving into paralysis... fading to anesthesia... pain moving into peace...
*No!*
His processors screamed. She should not have died. Why did she have
to die? Why did they have to die?
The vision retreated slowly; her memories, downloaded to his systems.
He opened his eyes. Counselor Troi's reflection watched him anxiously from
the window.
"Counselor." He turned to her. "I am sorry, I was unaware of your
presence. My external sensors were off-line. Have you been waiting long?"
"No, Data, only a few moments. You... you seemed to be in a private
place. I didn't want to interrupt you."
He softened the line of his mouth into a slight smile. "I was
experiencing one of Lal's memory files." Troi laid a hand on his forearm and
he accepted the gesture. Though it had been more four years since the android
he had constructed had ceased to function, he still encountered a sense of
discord in his systems when his thoughts strayed to her. He turned back to the
window.
"She is not eating."
"She's in shock, Data. It will take time for her to face this severe a
loss."
He nodded. "Have you made any provisions for her immediate needs?"
"No, I-she stayed with me last night..." She hesitated. "I wasn't sure if
you were..."
"Prepared?"
She released a breath. "Yes."
"If the arrangement is to become permanent, some adjustments will be
required. However, I believe I can accommodate her in my quarters for now."
"Data, you... we should discuss this before..."
He turned to her, taking her hand in his own. "Counselor, I assure you
that I would very much appreciate your guidance. I would like to hear from
Jasal first." Her eyes shifted to the window; she looked troubled. He needed to
make her understand.
"Counselor... Deanna." She turned startled eyes back to his face.
"Netil and Sylvannia were very important to me. I have a responsibility to
them-to their memory-to do everything in my power to ensure that Jasal is
provided for. I pledged an oath to protect her, to always stand beside her. I can
do no less."
Her eyes searched his face-what was she looking for? She gripped his
hand tighter. "It wasn't your fault."
"I realize that." He tried to offer her a reassuring smile. "I would
welcome any suggestions you might have as to how I might begin to console
her. Perhaps you could accompany us to my quarters?"
She nodded, her expression beginning to lighten. "It would be my
pleasure."