"He asked you."

"Not directly. I recognized a learning situation, and should have waited, giving him the opportunity to act in an appropriate manner for a Starfleet officer-in-training."

"I, on the other hand," Yar a.s.sured him, "learned that particular lesson years ago. Besides, on this bridge, you are in command."

Data gave his slight, pleasant smile. "You are one officer who has never challenged my rank."

"Why should I? You've earned it, or you wouldn't have it. Starfleet is hardly prodigal with promotions."

"There are many who think it was prodigal with mine," the android replied. At her questioning frown, he added, "It is a matter of record. The question of whether to promote me beyond Lieutenant was actually brought before a meeting of Starfleet Command. Nor was the final decision unanimous. There are those who feel that an android has no place as a line officer frequently placed in charge of a starship and with the potential one day to command one."

"Is that what you hope to do, eventually?" Yar asked, fascinated by the turn in the conversation.

"No," Data replied. "That is Commander Riker's dream, not mine. I was not designed to command humans." He sat back in his chair, with the characteristic slightly mechanical movement of his head that, paradoxically, indicated that he was as confused as any human. "I do not understand the desire for power, Tasha. All my life, since I first came to consciousness, I had a.s.sumed an android could not experience such a drive: we are designed to serve, not to rule. And then ... we found Lore."

"Lore was a mistake," said Yar. "You're an improvement on him, Data."

"Perhaps. But what if my design flaws are simply not so immediately obvious?"

"Then you'd be just like the rest of us," Yar told him, "striving to overcome our flaws and make ourselves better." At his look of surprise, she laughed. "I know you want to be human, Data-"

"No," he said.

"No? But I thought you had said-?"

"Commander Riker said it that way, and at the time it was not appropriate to challenge his terminology. I wish I were human," Data corrected. "To want the impossible is self-defeating and can end only in frustration. To wish for an unattainable goal, however, may mean achieving possible ones that one might not otherwise consider."

Yar nodded. "I like that-I'll remember it, Data, because you've voiced something I've learned myself, only I never could put it into words. I've sometimes questioned my own goal of becoming ... the ideal Starfleet officer. Perfect. Never a wrong decision or a breach of honor. There is no such thing, but at one time I thought there was."

Data again gave her his smile, this time teasing, "n.o.body's ... perfect?"

"No, not even you," she laughed. He did not; light humor, especially irony or even whimsy, was within the android's range of emotions, but the indefinable humor that caused people to laugh was still beyond him. Yar had no doubt, though, that one day experience would bring Data the gift of laughter ... and then he would be more human than just about anyone else she knew.

Data appreciated the company of Tasha Yar. For a considerable time-ever since the event which "never happened"- he had wondered if she was deliberately avoiding his company. He understood that humans sometimes experienced a disagreeable feeling called "embarra.s.sment" concerning s.e.xual activity, but it was another of those emotions he could only observe without partic.i.p.ation or comprehension.

However, Tasha seemed at ease with him here, so he decided their lack of interesting discussions before now was due simply to the fact that their varied duties kept them out of one another's paths except on the bridge and a few busy away team a.s.signments.

After a while Tasha grew hungry and dialed up a menu of what was available from the shuttle's provisions console. "What is this?" she demanded. "Aldebaran wine? Quetzi ramekins? Oysters?!"

Data was concerned to recognize anger in her voice. He turned, explaining, "All the standard programs are there as well. I simply added those because they are foods I knew you liked."

She stared at him for a moment, anger and astonishment warring with her careful control. Then, suddenly, amus.e.m.e.nt won over both, and she laughed. "Of course, Data-you couldn't know the implications of those foods."

"Implications?" he asked blankly.

Tasha blushed, but plunged on. "You installed the programs for the items I had in my room the time I ... invited you in. You had no way of knowing that they all have the reputation of being ... aphrodisiacs."

If Data could have blushed in turn, he would have. "I-I'm sorry," he stumbled.

"It's all right," Tasha said. "Do you like any of this?"

"I do not know. I never got the chance-" Data stopped again, dismayed. This, he suddenly recognized, was embarra.s.sment. Perhaps later he would feel pleasure at comprehending another human trait. For now, he had absolutely no programming to cope with a sensation that was disagreeable indeed. All he could think to do was parrot what he had once overheard William Riker say, to himself rather than to the woman in question, in a somewhat similar situation: "Oh, d.a.m.n."

Tasha stared at him for a moment, and then burst into giggles. Quickly, though, she forced herself sober, and a.s.sured him, "It's all right. All my fault." She took a deep breath. "What shall I program up for you?"

"Any combination of proteins, carbohydrates, and electrolytes suitable for humans can be made use of by my nutritive fluids."

"But don't you have a preference?" Tasha persisted.

"A chicken sandwich, an apple, and a gla.s.s of milk," he replied, falling back on the combination he had learned to dial up years ago at Starfleet Academy, so as not to draw stares or comments from his fellow students.

"Mm-hmm," said Tasha. "Standard Starfleet misfit camouflage."

"What?"

"When you're as strange as you or me, you learn every way possible to avoid calling attention to yourself," she replied.

"Now you are practicing telepathy," he observed. "But," he added, "you are not strange, Tasha."

"I was then," she explained. "When I entered Starfleet Academy I was eighteen years old, but only three years civilized. Barely. It was a very thin veneer. I'd crammed a whole education into those three years, with no time for social graces."

Data blinked at her. "Why?" he asked. "I mean, I know your records, that you were rescued from New Paris when you were fifteen-but why did you feel you had to push so hard at education?"

"Starfleet," she replied. "It was all I wanted, Data. Surely you know the feeling. You were also rescued by Starfleet; you must have wanted to become a part of it as much as I did."

"Starfleet is the only place I can function to my full capacity," he told her.

"Yes," Tasha agreed with a nod, but Data sensed that she meant something far more profound than he did. Therefore he kept silent, waiting for a further response.

The food dispenser pinged, and Tasha removed from it a tray covered with small containers. No wonder it had taken so long to complete the program; this was definitely not a chicken sandwich, an apple, and a gla.s.s of milk!

"I decided to try some new items," said Tasha. "How about you?" She frowned. "It's not all the same to you, is it, Data?"

"Oh, I can distinguish the various tastes, textures, and aromas," he replied, "probably better than you can. However, I do not have inborn likes or dislikes. I simply seek to balance the nutrients."

"Oh." Data saw that Tasha was disappointed, but trying to hide it.

So he added, "I have found, though, that over time I have come to a.s.sociate certain foods with certain events. Stimulating lessons, intriguing problems, pleasant company. When I later encounter similar flavors, I find that I have developed a preference for them." He smiled. "I expect I will develop a liking for all these foods."

Tasha gave him an acknowledging grin, and began to eat.

But to Data's disappointment she dropped the topic of their individual choices of Starfleet, to speak in general of the sector of s.p.a.ce they were traveling through. Out here, that was the equivalent of "talking about the weather" on a planet: a neutral topic of conversation that would not stir any strong emotions to disturb digestion.

Intriguing. Data let his attention wander as he nibbled at the food. He required few calories to maintain the organic nutrients that served him in lieu of blood, but he understood meals as social interaction.

Data had no strong emotions regarding his choice of Starfleet or his years at the Academy-although if he had been as aware of human sarcasm then as he was now, he might have developed some. Obviously Tasha had. Data had thought her experiences completely positive. She always spoke of being rescued by Starfleet, and her loyalty to its ideals resembled the devotion of a true believer to a deeply satisfying religion.

Curiosity was Data's great failing. When he had first become conscious, it had been indiscriminating-records of four centuries of baseball statistics had held the same fascination as the history of a star about to go nova.

Eventually, though, he had learned to place priorities on what he learned-and recently a personal priority had become the understanding of those people he had come to call his friends. He sensed now that there was something he had never guessed concerning Tasha Yar and Starfleet-and instantly he wanted to know it.

So when they had finished eating, as he gathered the containers and put them in the disposer he said, "Although it was quite nutritionally sound, a meal like that would draw stares for both of us in the Academy mess hall."

"It wouldn't bother me today," Tasha replied comfortably. "I was a wild thing when I was admitted, Data. It was only a probationary appointment, and as I think back I really don't know how I managed not to get shipped out that first year. I failed the Ethics and Moral Principles course-I simply could not accept, even as a hypothesis on which to base a reasoned argument, the belief that Life is sacred. Everywhere."

Data stared, tilting his head. "I also failed that course in my first attempt," he replied. "I found it impossible to challenge that tenet, even when the instructor a.s.signed me to take the opposite position in debate."

Tasha frowned. "You learned to challenge it?"

"To challenge it, yes-for each challenge met merely strengthens its truth. Only after I understood that was I able to pa.s.s the course."

Tasha nodded. "It met my challenges-as soon as I started questioning instead of a.s.suming. Where I grew up, life certainly wasn't considered sacred. It's hard to give up the beliefs instilled by childhood experiences."

"I would not know. I was simply programmed with the belief." Data frowned. "As my brother was not. Lore thought ... that made him more human than I."

"He was wrong!" Tasha said vehemently. "When I was rescued from New Paris, right through my first term at the Academy, I was less human than you are, Data. If it weren't for Darryl Adin-" She stopped, grimacing slightly, her skin paling. Her fists clenched. "I still can't accept-"

But her words trailed off, and Data recognized that she did not intend to go on.

However, he had accessed the records of the entire crew the moment he came aboard the Enterprise, and so he knew, "Darryl Adin, Security Chief of the U.S.S. Cochrane, exploratory vessel which rediscovered the lost Earth colony of New Paris. He headed the away team that rescued you. He returned you to Earth, and arranged for your care and education while he was a.s.signed to other missions. You were in your final term at Starfleet Academy, when Adin returned to Earth for a course in the latest developments in starship security. You-"

He stopped, as the raw data suddenly coalesced into meaning, a tragedy of love and betrayal, made even more profoundly sad by the fact that its chief player was the woman before him, a person he regarded as a friend.

Inwardly, he d.a.m.ned his eager memory banks, turning up information with no regard for its emotional impact. For, all unwitting, he had accessed and blurted out facts that could not help but stir up painful memories for Tasha Yar.

When she had changed the subject, why had he not respected her obvious wishes and let well enough alone? Or at least kept silent until he had accessed the entire file on her relationship with Adin? Then he would have known better than to say anything.

Now he could do nothing except stop, with a mumbled apology.

Tasha was blinking, fighting tears. "It's not your fault, Data. I should have realized you had all the records anyway. Now you know why I don't talk much about my days at Starfleet Academy. It was so wonderful there, learning to live the ideal I hadn't dreamed possible-safely breaking out of the sh.e.l.l of cynicism and disillusionment I had grown to survive on New Paris. And then it all came to an end, when the very person who had made me want Starfleet-the man who meant Starfleet to me-betrayed everything I had learned to believe in."

She fell silent. Data looked over at her, and saw her staring out at the stars ... but he could tell she was seeing something else. Something from long ago.

Chapter Three.

STARFLEET CADET TAHSA Yar lay on her belly in the mud, beside a rushing river. A few meters away she could see something that ought not to be there: a boat. Not a primitive dugout or bark canoe, but a large, modern lightweight synthetic craft with a powerful automatic propulsion system.

No such contrivance should exist on Priam IV; its presence was in direct conflict with the Prime Directive.

Which meant it did not belong to Starfleet-but by order of the Federation Council only well-briefed and carefully disguised scientific observers were allowed on Priam IV. Permissible visitors, in fact, did not include one battered, exhausted, hungry, insect-bitten cadet, but Yar was not here of her own choice.

When the scoutship U.S.S. Threnody broke up in an ion storm, she had survived with two other cadets in an escape pod-but when its navigational sensors failed they had crash-landed more than a hundred kilometers from the legal landing site where-if their last frantic message was received-Starfleet would look for them.

T'Pelak and Forbus died in the crash of the escape pod. Only Yar survived-and tried to find her way to the site where Starfleet would look for survivors. To add to her isolation, the crash beacon had not survived the crash either, nor had any of the other electronic equipment. The final explosion that had thrown Yar free cracked the main storage battery. Forbus was crushed, T'Pelak electrocuted, and their phasers, communicators, tricorders, radio, and all the mechanized survival equipment turned to useless junk by that final power surge. Yar was alone and unarmed except for a machete ... but she was far from helpless.

The environment was changed, but her position was little different from what she had known on New Paris. Yar had little doubt she would survive; it was whether she survived as a member of Starfleet that concerned her. Without a communicator, her only chance of being picked up was to reach the landing site. If she missed the search vehicle, she would miss continuing with her cla.s.s into her final term of study.

She'd have to seek out the Federation scientists "gone native" on Priam IV. She knew the radio frequency that would silently place her message on the hidden console they were supposed to check daily-but the frequency did her no good without a working radio! So she'd have to identify them some other way, and arrange to be picked up with them, possibly years from now.

And in the meantime she would have to live as they did, among jungle primitives-the same strength-over-all, might-makes-right existence she had left New Paris to escape.

No. She was determined to reach the landing site, a desert area never visited by the natives because of high levels of natural radiation harmful to them but, at least for a few days of exposure, not to humans.

But her determination wavered as each day threw more obstacles in her path, and after six of the planet's days had pa.s.sed she found herself only half-way to her destination. What if the search vessel had already come and gone? She had lost hours to hiding from stalking animals, two days to throwing up her guts when despite routine inoculations her body reacted to the planet's bacteria, and she could not say how much time was lost to physical weakness after that attack.

Finally, she reached the river that would lead her to the landing site. But there were native settlements along the water, and the Prime Directive said that a lithe blonde human female could not be glimpsed in her true form by the green-haired, chalk-white-skinned natives. Besides, Prime Directive or no, they were at a level of culture at which they were most likely simply to kill such a strange-looking being on sight.

So she had spent the past two days resting while the local insects tried to eat her alive, and the nights creeping past the villages, cursing her luck that the river was at flood stage, not navigable by any vessel short of the technological marvel she now stared at ... and l.u.s.ted after.

Who could it be but Starfleet personnel looking for survivors?

No. If Starfleet sent a rescue party, they would be disguised as natives. But far more likely than risk exposure, they would contact the Federation scientists gone native here, asking them to look for survivors.

So whose boat was that?

Yar crawled through the mud, so covered by it that if she saw anyone in the pale light of dawn she could surely "disappear" simply by holding still, another mound of mud on the river bank. Slowly, slowly, she crept nearer the side of the boat away from the cl.u.s.ter of native huts, and pulled herself up and over the side, beneath the sun canopy.

The controls were of the sort found in any Federation ground craft. There was a small onboard computer, which booted to a chart of the river. The landing site was clearly marked-but the few words were not in English or other familiar language. There were three menus, presumably saying the same thing. One script looked vaguely Vulcan, one some system she did not recognize at all-and one menu was in Klingonaase.

Well, the Klingons were members of the Federation now.

Recent members. This craft, or its computer program, could predate the alliance.

And the Klingons used to be allies with- Yar suddenly had more than her own survival at stake. This was not just some free trader defying the warning beacon; it was an invasion by non-Federation personnel. Starfleet had to be warned! Now she had even more reason to reach the landing site in time-and her best hope of doing so was in this boat.

After all, the local natives had already seen it.

"Computer-" she whispered.

There was no response. Yet she recognized the voice-activator grille. What the h.e.l.l?

Oh, d.a.m.n-of course. Her universal translator had shorted out, right along with her communicator and all the other electronic equipment. This computer would respond only to one of the three languages displayed on its screen. The not-quite-Vulcan script must really be Romulan, and even her Vulcan p.r.o.nunciation was execrable at best. Breathing a prayer to the spirit of the inventor of the universal translator, she tried to call up enough sleep-taught Klingonaase to make herself understood.

It took three tries before the computer responded with what she hoped was Klingonaase for "Working."

"Not so-" Oh, h.e.l.l, what was the word for "loud"?

And while she racked her brain for it, the computer repeated itself-louder.

"Shhh!" Yar said- -and was rewarded with a klaxon and flashing lights!

The huts on sh.o.r.e erupted with white-skinned, green-haired natives!