Chapter 21: Datalore — Part 2
[USS Enterprise-D — Main Engineering — 2364, Day 80]
Cole caught the switch because of prune juice.
Two days after Lore's activation, "Data" appeared in Engineering for a routine diagnostic cycle—standard procedure, performed weekly, the kind of unremarkable task that attracted no attention from anyone except the engineer assigned to monitor it. Cole was that engineer.
"Data" sat at the diagnostic station. Fingers moving across the console with mechanical precision. Posture perfect—the same engineered exactness that characterized every movement the android made. To anyone watching casually, nothing was wrong.
Cole was not watching casually.
"Good morning, Data. How's Lore settling in?"
"Fine." A beat. "He's adjusting well."
Contraction. "He's." Data doesn't use contractions. Data says "he is." Always. Every single time. That's not Data.
Cole's heart rate spiked. He controlled it—the Enhanced Physicality's neural stability keeping his face neutral while his pulse hammered. His energy perception extended, probing the figure at the diagnostic station.
The energy signature was wrong. Subtle—anyone without Cole's specific perception would never have caught it. Data's positronic brain produced a consistent, identifiable energy pattern that Cole had memorized across weeks of friendship and research partnership. This pattern was similar but shifted—the same architecture, different calibration, like two instruments of the same type tuned to different keys.
That's Lore. Lore is sitting at Data's station, wearing Data's uniform, pretending to be Data. Which means the real Data is—
Somewhere. Drugged. Deactivated. Hidden.
Cole returned to his station. His hands shook—not with fear but with the effort of not acting immediately. Every instinct demanded confrontation. Every calculation demanded patience. If he accused "Data" now, with no evidence beyond a contraction and an energy signature that no instrument aboard could verify, he'd reveal his abilities to the entire Engineering department and gain nothing but Lore's focused hostility.
He needed proof. Human-verifiable proof.
"Data." Cole kept his voice conversational. "I was reviewing last week's diagnostic protocols. Your subspace field variance analysis was excellent—especially the section on warp field resonance. Did you reference the T'Prelar-Markov equations?"
"Yes," Lore said. "Standard methodology."
Wrong answer. Data's analysis had used a modified Chen-Sullivan approach that he'd spent twenty minutes explaining to Cole over prune juice in the library last week. Data would have corrected Cole instantly—not because he was pedantic, but because accuracy was his fundamental operating principle.
Two lies in thirty seconds. That's not Data.
Cole excused himself from the shift. Normal departure—logged out, handed off station four, walked to the turbolift with the measured pace of a man finishing a routine morning. The turbolift doors closed. He leaned against the wall and breathed.
Okay. Lore has replaced Data. Real Data is hidden somewhere aboard—probably Lore's assigned quarters or a maintenance area. Lore's plan, per canon: summon the Crystalline Entity, feed the crew to it, escape. Timeline unknown—could be hours, could be today.
He needed allies. Fast.
Wesley was in the science lab, running stellar cartography simulations. The teenager looked up when Cole entered, his face carrying the particular intensity of a young mind fully engaged with a problem.
"Wesley. Does Data seem different to you?"
The question landed in the exact right place. Wesley's expression shifted—from engaged to uncertain, from certain to troubled. "Actually... yes. He used a contraction this morning. I asked him about it and he said he was 'experimenting with linguistic variation.' That seemed... wrong."
"What else?"
"He didn't remember our chess game from Tuesday. We were mid-match—Ruy Lopez opening, his suggestion—and when I mentioned resuming, he didn't know what I was talking about. Data doesn't forget anything."
"No. He doesn't." Cole pulled up a chair. "Wesley, I need you to listen carefully. I think that's not Data. I think Lore switched with him."
Wesley's face went through three stages in two seconds: disbelief, calculation, horror. "Lore's positronic signature would be almost identical on standard scans. But not exactly identical—there would be calibration differences in the emotional processing subroutines."
"Can you document those differences?"
"Mom has medical scans of Data from his last maintenance checkup. If I can compare those readings to 'Data's' current signature..." Wesley was already reaching for his PADD. "Give me an hour."
"You have thirty minutes. I don't know how long we have before Lore makes his move."
Wesley's jaw set. Not the eager kid trying to impress the captain—the determined young man who'd carried the Traveler to sickbay and hadn't flinched. "Data's my friend. I'll do it in twenty."
Cole left Wesley to his analysis and headed for deck eight. The corridor was quiet—mid-shift, most personnel at their stations. His energy perception swept ahead: no one in the immediate vicinity. No surveillance beyond the standard internal sensors.
Tasha's door chimed at his touch. She answered in uniform—on duty, technically, her shift covering the command rotation that put her on call for security incidents.
"Coleman. This isn't a social visit."
"No." He stepped inside. The door sealed. "Lore has replaced Data. He's impersonating him. I don't know where the real Data is or what Lore's planning, but I'm certain about the switch."
Tasha's expression didn't change. The professional mask—the one she wore like armor, the same one she'd lowered over Saurian brandy three weeks ago. But behind it, her mind was working. Cole could see it in the minute shifts of her posture, the way her weight settled onto her back foot—a fighting stance disguised as stillness.
"Evidence?"
"Behavioral inconsistencies. He used contractions—Data never uses contractions. He failed to recall a specific conversation from last week. He misidentified an analytical methodology during a diagnostic. Wesley's running a comparison of positronic signatures from Dr. Crusher's medical scans."
"Behavioral observations and a teenager's scan analysis." Tasha's voice was neutral. "That's thin."
"I know. But Tasha—" He held her eyes. The trust they'd built over brandy and honesty and the slow accumulation of crises survived together. "You told me you trust my judgment. I'm asking you to trust it now. Something is very wrong, and if we don't act, people are going to get hurt."
Three seconds of silence. The ship hummed. Tasha's jaw tightened—the same motion she'd made in the security office, the moment before she'd decided to believe him about his abilities.
"You've been right before." She moved to her desk. Pulled up internal sensor logs. "If Lore drugged Data, there might be a chemical trace in the environmental systems. Let me check the air recycler logs for Data's quarters and Lore's assigned cabin."
She found it in four minutes. A trace chemical signature in the air recycler intake from Lore's cabin—a compound consistent with the ionic disruption agent that could deactivate a positronic brain. The kind of substance that no legitimate crew member would possess and no standard scan would detect unless someone was specifically looking for it.
"There." Tasha pointed at the reading. "That's a positronic inhibitor. Not standard Starfleet issue. Someone synthesized it aboard."
"Lore."
"Lore." She stood. Her phaser was already on her hip. "I'm taking this to Riker. You and Wesley continue building the case. If the positronic comparison confirms the switch, we'll have enough for a formal security alert."
"Tasha. One more thing." Cole caught her arm—brief, deliberate. "Lore assessed me when he first activated. He knows I'm suspicious. If he sees a security response forming before we're ready to confront him—"
"He'll accelerate whatever he's planning." Tasha's expression was grim. Professional. The Security Chief who'd learned on Turkana IV that the most dangerous enemies were the ones who knew you were coming. "I'll be discreet. Twenty minutes. Get me that comparison."
She left. Cole stood in her quarters for three seconds, processing the cascade of actions he'd set in motion. Data was somewhere on this ship, deactivated, helpless. Lore was wearing his face and planning something catastrophic. And the window between discovery and disaster was closing with every passing minute.
His PADD chimed. Wesley: Comparison complete. Positronic signatures differ by 0.3% in emotional processing band. Consistent with a different Soong-type android. It's not Data. It's Lore.
Cole typed back: Good work. Stay in the science lab. Don't approach "Data" under any circumstances. Tasha is briefing Riker now.
He headed for the turbolift. The corridor seemed longer than usual—or maybe the urgency made every meter feel like a kilometer. His energy perception was running at maximum—fifty meters in every direction, tracking crew movements, searching for Data's familiar positronic signature.
There. Deck 34. A faint, irregular energy reading in Maintenance Bay 7—the stuttering pulse of a positronic brain running on emergency power, fighting through a chemical inhibitor that was slowly dissolving its neural connections.
Data. Alive. Barely.
Cole changed course. The turbolift carried him to deck 34 in forty-five seconds—forty-five seconds during which his perception tracked Data's failing signature and his mind ran calculations about positronic inhibitor half-lives and neural degradation rates.
Maintenance Bay 7 was locked. Cole's Assimilation read the lock mechanism in two seconds—standard security seal, nothing Lore had modified. He keyed his Engineering override and the door opened.
Data lay on the floor behind a stack of hull plating. His eyes were open—half-open, the dim glow of emergency processing visible beneath the lids. His body was motionless. The positronic inhibitor had shut down his motor functions, his speech, his primary cognitive systems. But the emergency backup—the core consciousness, the fundamental identity that Soong had built to survive—was still running.
Cole knelt beside him. His hand found Data's—cold, synthetic, unresponsive.
"I've got you." His voice was steady. His hands were not. "Tasha's coming. Wesley proved it. We caught him."
Data's eyes flickered. A fractional movement—the barest indication that somewhere inside the compromised positronic brain, the real Data was aware. Fighting.
Cole opened his Engineering kit. The inhibitor was chemical—a compound designed to suppress positronic activity through ionic interference. Standard neutralization required a specific counter-agent that sickbay could synthesize in minutes.
He hit his combadge. "Coleman to sickbay. Medical emergency, Maintenance Bay 7, Deck 34. I need a positronic inhibitor counter-agent. Compound analysis being transmitted now." His tricorder scanned Data's neural pathways, identified the inhibitor's chemical structure, and sent the data to Dr. Crusher's terminal.
"Acknowledged, Lieutenant. Counter-agent will be ready in four minutes."
Four minutes. Cole sat beside Data in the maintenance bay and waited. His energy perception tracked two things simultaneously: Data's weakening signature below him, and Lore's steady presence on the bridge—still performing, still smiling, still wearing his brother's face.
"Data." Cole leaned close. "I should have pushed harder. When I warned you. I should have—"
Data's finger moved. A millimeter. A twitch. Not a word, not a gesture—just the barest physical expression of a consciousness fighting to communicate through a chemical prison.
It was enough. Cole gripped his hand and held on.
Tasha's voice came over the comm ninety seconds later: "Yar to Coleman. Riker's convinced. Security team mobilizing. We're moving on 'Data' now. Is the real one—"
"Alive. Maintenance Bay 7. Counter-agent incoming. He'll need time to recover."
"Understood. Good work, Cole."
She used his name. Not Coleman. Not Lieutenant. Cole.
He filed the warmth of that under things worth protecting and turned back to Data, whose eyes were beginning to brighten as the emergency backup fought the inhibitor with everything it had.
"Hang on. Help's coming."
On the bridge, far above, Tasha Yar walked toward the thing wearing her crewmate's face with her phaser set to maximum stun and the particular expression of a woman who'd survived Turkana IV and had no patience left for predators who preyed on trust.
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