Star Trek: The Next Generation: Starfleet Academy #6: Mystery of the Missing Crew (3 page)

Nothing.

Of course, he could do things that humans could not. He could solve mathematical problems as quickly as any computer. He could perform feats of strength and quickness that far surpassed those of any organic being. And, given the durability of the materials used in his creation, he would likely remain a functioning entity long after his flesh-and-blood companions had died of old age.

Yes, he was different, all right. So much so that he wondered if it had been a good idea to enroll at Starfleet Academy in the first place.

Unfortunately, it was a bit too late for doubts. The
Yosemite
was already well on its way to Earth, where Data and a handful of other new cadets would be trained the same way as every other generation of Federation starfarers for the last two hundred years.

Abruptly another conversation caught his attention. He line-tuned his hearing, focusing in on it—more eager to hear about
this
topic than about the paleness of his skin.

“You know this sector hasn’t been mapped out yet, don’t you?”

“Sure I know. Why do you think I volunteered for long-range sensor duty all this week? If there’s something new out there, I want to be the first one to find it.”

“Can you imagine doing this all the time, Daniel? Being on an exploration vessel like the
Stargazer
, for instance, which does nothing but travel uncharted space?”

“Not only can I imagine it, I’m going to do it. That is, just as soon as there’s an opening. I spoke with Captain Rumiel, and he promised me I’d be the first in line.”

Charting unexplored regions of space. The chance to see what no one else had seen before. The prospect of confronting the unknown. These were the things that had drawn Data to Starfleet service originally.

Replaying a memory, he could see Captain Thorsson of the
Tripoli
eyeing him across the desk in his ready room, where they had just finished a game of three-dimensional chess. As always, the android had won.

“You know, Data,” said the captain, “when we took you away from Omicron Theta a couple of weeks ago, I had no idea what kind of prize you’d be. You’re already about twenty times as smart as anyone I’ve ever met, and you can still ply a fellow with questions from morning till night.”

Thorsson had leaned forward then. And he had smiled, something he ordinarily did not do. “You know where you belong?” he had asked.

Data had replied: “No, I do not.” Truthfully, he didn’t.

“In Starfleet Academy, son. That’s where they answer every question you’ve ever thought of, and maybe a few you haven’t.” He nodded sagely. “In Starfleet Academy, no doubt about it. And if you need a recommendation, look no further than Jon Jakob Thorsson.”

Unfortunately, even Captain Thorsson’s support had not been enough to gain the android entry into the Academy—at least, not right away. First, the Academy had a decision to make. It couldn’t admit anyone who was not a sentient life form, and there was some question as to whether Data fit into that category or not.

Of course, it hardly made sense that anything
other
than a sentient life form would apply for admission. But then, that was the nature of a bureaucracy. What made sense was not always taken into account.

As a result, the android was subjected to examination after examination—more than a thousand in all—as scientist after scientist poked and prodded him and analyzed every last minute detail of him. They measured everything from his shoe size to his ability to memorize complex mathematical formulas. They gauged his capacity for enduring hostile environments one day and his preference in desserts the next.

And when he thought they could not possibly devise any more tests, they still managed to come up with a few more.

Finally the Academy’s board of directors ruled that the android was both sentient and alive. However, that did not guarantee him a place on the roster of cadets. It took additional time for his abilities to be tested and weighed against those of other applicants.

It was not until three years after Data’s discovery on Omicron Theta—three years of living as something of a curiosity on the
Tripoli
as well as several different starbases—that he was granted the chance to become a Starfleet cadet. By then he had been striving toward his goal for so long, he had not thought to question it.

But he was questioning it now.

Before he knew it, he had arrived at his destination: the
Yosemite
’s main transporter room. Standing in front of the doors that led inside, he waited patiently for his presence to be announced, so that whoever was inside could authorize his entry.

However, no one did. A moment later a readout set into the bulkhead beside the doors lit up. It told him that access to the transporter room was denied. Data considered the information.

He clearly recalled the transporter chief’s invitation to join him for a demonstration of the transporter facility. And it wasn’t just the android he had invited. He had opened the demonstration to the four other new cadets as well.

Right on cue, the Yann turned a nearby corner and headed for the transporter room. As always, the four of them moved in a group, never straying more than a few feet from the company of their comrades.

Physically, the Yann were quite human-looking. Except for their utter hairlessness, the bumps at the outer corners of their brows and the faint, blue streaks that ran from their temples down the backs of their necks, they could have passed for natives of Earth.

However, when it came to social interaction, they were quite different from humans. More than any other race with which Data was familiar, the Yann derived comfort and confidence from one another’s presence.

And why not? They seemed so alike, looking at one’s fellow Yann was almost the same as peering into a mirror.

Some time ago Yann society had come to value the ability to genetically engineer each generation to be exactly like the one before it. As a result, they had become a race of clones, each individual born identical to every other. If not for the fact that some were male and some were female, it would be virtually impossible to tell any of them apart.

“Hello,” said Data, addressing all four of his fellow Academy entrants at once. Under the circumstances, it would have been difficult to address them individually.

Almost at exactly the same time, the Yann inclined their heads in response. “Hello,” they chorused. Then, looking at the transporter doors, one of them asked: “Why haven’t you gone in yet?”

The android cocked his head slightly. It was as close as he could come to a shrug.

“It is not my choice,” he explained. “The doors will not open.”

Testing his observation, the Yann surrounded him. Again, the readout on the bulkhead flashed, advising them that access was denied. A couple of the Yann grunted. One of them was the only female in the group.

“It seems Chief Griffiths is late,” she concluded. She turned to look at Data. “I don’t suppose you’ve checked with the ship’s computer as to his whereabouts?”

“I have not,” the android admitted. “However, I will do so now.”

“No need for that,” bellowed a voice from the farthest point in the corridor. As they turned, they saw Transporter Chief Griffiths lumbering toward them.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, rumbling into his red beard. “But our diagnostic program in Transporter Room Two ran a bit longer than I expected.”

“That is all right,” returned Data, doing his best to be courteous. “We were not waiting long.”

Mumbling something by way of an answer, Griffiths made his way past them to the doors. Before the readout could light up again, he said: “Clearance alpha-gamma-epsilon, Griffiths, Herbert T.”

Without hesitation, the doors
swooshed
open. Leading the way inside, the transporter chief headed for his control console. The board was dark, inactive. That meant it would take a while before Griffiths could conduct his demonstration.

The Yann had naturally positioned themselves in a cluster at one end of the room—separate from both the android and Chief Griffiths. Data found, himself envying their unity, their sameness. After all, he mused, when everyone is exactly the same, there is no possibility of anyone’s being left out.

The android, on the other hand, was hopelessly unique, the only one of his kind in the galaxy. Perhaps that was another reason he had wanted to join Starfleet, he realized, in a sudden flash of insight. So that he could wear a uniform like every other officer.

It was an attempt to belong to some larger group, to be part of something that was greater than himself. Certainly, there wasn’t anything wrong with that, was there?

Data glanced in the direction of the Yann. Maybe he didn’t have to wait to become part of a larger group. If he could speak with his fellow cadets, he might be able to make some friends even before he arrived at the Academy. In any case, it was worth a try.

Moving over to where, they stood, he smiled at them. They smiled back, though they didn’t really appear to put their hearts into it. Their eyes, a more genuine reflection of their feelings, seemed to ask what he wanted of them.

“I am looking forward to this demonstration,” he told them.

Two of them nodded. “Yes. It should be very … er, interesting,” said a third. The fourth, the female, just looked at him.

Not a very promising beginning, noted the android. However, he was not going to give up so easily. “Have you ever been on a Starfleet vessel before?” he asked.

This time only one of them nodded. A second one spoke. “Another ship, the
Agamemnon
, brought us out from Yannora to Starbase Ninety-Three. That’s where the
Yosemite
picked us up.”

“Ah,” said Data. “I see.” He searched for words. “The
Agamemnon
is an Apollo-class vessel, is it not?”

The Yann just looked at him. Finally one of them replied: “I don’t know. Is it?”

The android nodded. “Yes. It is.” He tried to think of something to add. “The
Yosemite
, by contrast, is Oberth-class.”

One of the Yann cleared his throat. They all looked a little uncomfortable. “You don’t say,” one of them responded at last.

Data could see that there was little use in continuing the conversation. The Yann were clearly more at ease talking amongst themselves than with a being from such a different background.

Admitting defeat, he backed off a couple of steps and turned toward the control console, where Chief Griffiths was still making some adjustments. He would be ready any moment now.

“Mr. Data?”

The android turned at the sound of his name and saw the female Yanna standing beside him. Her companions were watching her with no small measure of surprise on their faces.

“That is what you’re called, isn’t it?” asked the female.

Data nodded. “Yes. That is what I am called.” He paused, wondering if this was the overture it appeared to be. “What is
your
name?” he inquired.

She smiled. It was a sincere expression, not like the one she and her comrades had given him before.

“Sinna. My name is Sinna.”

The android considered it. “It is … a very nice name,” he said. Not that he was a very good judge of such things, but it seemed as nice as any other.

“On my world,” she went on, “a lot of women are named Sinna. It’s very common.” Her smile quirked into something a bit less pleasant. “In fact, all names on Yannora are very common.” With a tilt of her head she indicated the three males who stood behind her. “Their names are Lagon, Odril, and Felai. I apologize for their reticence, but it is the way we are all brought up.”

“To keep to yourselves,” Data observed.

“Yes,” admitted Sinna. “That is why, until recently, my world did not take part a great deal in interstellar commerce. However, our government has resolved to change that. And Starfleet has agreed to help us take a step in that direction by accepting the four of us into the Academy.”

“I understand,” said the android. “You are attending the Academy to learn to coexist with other races.”

She nodded. “Among other reasons, yes. Of course, that doesn’t—”

Chief Griffiths cleared his throat loudly. “All right, we’re ready to roll. Gather ’round, people, and we’ll familiarize ourselves with a real, live, working transporter. It’ll be some time before you get to lay your hands on another one.”

Data and the four Yann did as Griffiths recommended. After all, while this was not part of their studies, strictly speaking, it was something in which they were all interested. If it hadn’t been, they probably would not have been headed for Starfleet Academy in the first place.

“Now, you see,” the chief began, “a transporter is made up of four major elements—an upper pad, a lower pad, a pattern buffer, and an emitter array. The pads contain all the machinery needed to analyze an object’s molecular structure and break it down. By the time the pads are done with him or her, a person’s nothing more than a stream of matter.”

Data knew all this already. However, he also knew that it was not polite to interrupt when someone was speaking, so he let Chief Griffiths go on.

“Once that’s done,” said the bearded man, “the object—which isn’t an object anymore, really, but a bunch of molecules in magnetic suspension—is temporarily stored in the pattern buffer. What’s more, it can linger there for up to—”