Free Star Trek: TNG: Cold Equations II: Silent Weapons by David Mack Page B

of knowing one was being seen through a parent’s all-forgiving eyes. Knowing all that his father had ever said was not the same as hearing what he would say now if he were alive. Memories were no substitute for the man himself.
    Lost in this wilderness of maudlin reminiscence, Data was three-tenths of a second slower than normal to realize that he was being followed. It wasn’t the first time he’d had this feeling since arriving on Orion. It had happened on the night he’d arrived, and shortly before both his meetings with Hilar Tohm. Unable to corroborate his suspicions, he had tried to dismiss them as mere paranoia, the product of an emotional misfire in his positronic matrix. Now it haunted him again—the sensation of being watched. Of being hunted.
    He quickened his pace, hoping that if he could get off the main thoroughfare and into the service corridors, he could either confront his pursuer or evade him long enough to beam back to the Archeus and get off the surface. Once out of orbit he would be free to engage his ship’s cloaking device and resume his hunt for the Immortal once known as Emil Vaslovik.
    The crowd ahead of him thinned as he turned a corner. At first it felt like an opportunity: open ground, free of obstacles. Then he saw it for what it was: a danger zone. An area devoid of camouflage or cover. The nearest escape points ahead of him would be too far to reach in time if his pursuer had a beam weapon. At the risk of hastening the confrontation, he chose to stop and double back into a more densely trafficked part of the starport. He flipped up his collar and lowered the brim of his hat to hide his face, then tucked his hands into his pockets and lowered his chin as he rounded the corner, returning the way he’d come.
    As soon as he made the turn, he heard the bark of an angry masculine voice.
    “Commander Data! Drop to your knees and place your hands on your head!”
    A dozen Starfleet personnel in black commando uniforms had emerged from concealed positions along the corridor, and ten more looked down from the level above. They all aimed their combat rifles at Data, and a clatter of running footsteps behind his back told him that he was surrounded. Civilians scattered, screaming in panic, as the Starfleet security force advanced on Data, slowly shrinking their perimeter around him. A male Bajoran seemed to be the one in charge. Data froze as the man shouted, “Commander! This is your final warning! Drop to your knees and place your palms on your head!”
    With careful, slow movements, Data lowered himself first to one knee, then he tucked the other knee under himself. Before removing his hands from his pockets, he clutched the quantum transmitter he’d concealed in his pocket, and which held a prerecorded message he’d saved in its transmission queue as a hedge against an unforeseen emergency. A single tap on the finger-sized metallic cylinder sent the SOS to the one person Data knew he could trust to answer it. Then he took his hands from his pockets and placed them atop his head.
    “Hold your fire,” he said. “I surrender.”

7

    The door signal was so understated that it barely rose above the ambient background hum inside Picard’s ready room. The captain closed the crew evaluations he’d been reviewing to fill the time between Worf’s increasingly bleak reports on the search for the Sirriam . “Come.”
    With a faint hiss, the door to the bridge slid open. Chief engineer La Forge entered holding a small metallic cylinder the size of his finger. Worf was close behind him. Both men wore stern expressions. Holding up the device, La Forge said, “Captain, you need to hear this.”
    Picard stood and stepped around his desk to meet his two most senior officers. In addition to serving as the ship’s chief engineer, La Forge had accepted a promotion several months earlier and was now the ship’s second officer, third in command of the Enterprise . It had been a long overdue recognition,