#elaleph // agnes jurati

[my-timing-is-digital]

@elaleph continued from [ x ]

Despite his ostensible reprimand, the android scratched the synthetic feline affectionately behind the ear, ruminating over Agnes’ issued concerns; constructing accurate interpretations relative to human rationality far exceeded his field of expertise, regardless of having co-existed with them for approximately 40 years, prior to his destruction in the Bassen Rift. Perhaps Altan’s threat was, indeed, depleted of substance, of solidity, but on the other hand, if Spot’s acute hunting propensity was propelled by a deficiency in her algorithm, Altan might take her offline until he had resolved the problem...

A soft melodic hum vibrated in his vocal processor, diverting his attention to Agnes.

‘That is difficult to determine — I have discovered that Altan has a proclivity for utilising ambiguous semantics. However, it is a conceivable probability,’ Data mused softly, glancing back down to the feline. ‘But that is the thing, Agnes, it is not; she is an artificial lifeform programmed to emulate the behavioural patterns of an authentic feline. Her algorithms can easily be... tweaked if desired.’

Frankly speaking, he did not approve of his own phrasing, but it was true, and the only way to circumvent such modifications that would deprive Spot of her feline qualities was to prevent her from obliterating, from mauling Altan’s valuable butterflies. Data liked the synthetic cat precisely as she was; she frequently initiated evocations of the Spot he had had back on the Enterprise, and who had exhibited a similar impulse to cause deliberate destruction...

Agnes’ reminder regarding the challenge, and the subsequent proposition regarding the time limit, momentarily distracted him from Spot’s irrevocable penalty should she violate Altan’s directives one more time.

‘That sounds like a reasonable time window,’ he agreed, nodding his approval. ‘Spot, you are coming with me — no more chasing after butterflies for you today,’ he added definitively.

He looked down at the cat, her pupils were dilated and fixed on a focal point that resided outside the android’s peripheral vision (another butterfly perhaps?). A small smile, barely discernible, lingered on his lips for a fraction of a second before he pressed a soft kiss to Spot’s cranium.

‘I sincerely hope our new or altered inventions will appeal more to her than Altan’s butterflies,’ Data said, his chartreuse eyes darting back up to Agnes.

[my-timing-is-digital]

@elaleph continued from [ x ]

Intriguing... It appeared an external factor, be that a yet-to-be-determined cosmic force or a technological impairment, had interfered with the transportation sequence, and had consequently flung them into a temporal distortion of some kind — at least, that explained the industrial qualities their present environment exuded. However, the circumstances were dire and did not permit him to ponder the mystery pivoting around the query how did they arrive here? and what had precipitated it? Where lay the core of this conundrum? Questions he would have to postpone to a more opportune moment, for they were on the brink of involuntarily engaging in the shenanigans of a band of British thugs. And just when he thought the infelicitous matters could still be averted, Murphy’s Law singlehandedly dislocated all his hopes and dreams for a more propitious outcome.

The bag that was unceremoniously snatched away from under their noses constituted the epiphany of the human colloquialism “being screwed,” for it contained their ticket home — if the device inside could even be modified to facilitate the adaptations that were necessary to navigate safely through the fabric of space and time to their respective timeline. Regardless of the astronomical setback, Data’s eyes remained glued to the boy scurrying like a rat down the sewers in search of scraps of discarded sustenance, until he lurched around a corner and into an obscure alleyway. Technically, the android could still outrun the thief, neutralise him, and retrieve the bag, but not only would that divulge his unearthly qualities and increase the subsequent risk of annihilation in the town square — again —, his departure would likewise result in abandoning Agnes, which ultimately entailed severe trauma or her untimely demise. The android squared his shoulders, but maintained his equanimity; he saw no reason to further agitate the criminals prowling the puddles of mud and excrement in front of them.

The phaser, with which he had equipped himself prior to their departure, prodded in his right side, it weighed heavy as he contemplated whether to reach for it and nullify the miscreants, or play along with their anarchic games and disable them manually. His priority was to protect Agnes, and he would employ any form of combat appropriate to circumvent an escalation.

‘The bag is not your property, sir; you had no right to obtain it without prior consent,’ he spoke composedly, but his subroutines were ready to strike. ‘I suggest you call back your friend and return our possessions to us.’

This earnt him nothing but scornful laughter.

‘An’ ’o d’you think you are, eh? Givin’ us orders? Are you one of ’em idiots workin’ for Scotland Yard?’ a tall, muscular thug chimed in.

‘No, I am not,’ Data replied innocently.

‘Y’know whot? You can 'ave your bag back, if you beat Little Charlie over ’ere,’ the short man sniggered, indicating “Little Charlie” with an inclination of the head.

“Little Charlie,” however, was a living understatement; the man had the circumference of a full-grown Klingon, he was at least 0.5 times Data’s height, and the android surmised that Little Charlie could easily render his opponent unconscious by delivering a singular blow to the cranium.

‘I accept your terms,’ he said determinedly, catching the thugs completely off guard. ‘I will face your... companion in combat.’

‘You sure, mate? ’cause most of the people ’e fights end up in the gutter. Dead.’

‘I will not revoke my initial agreement to your proposition, sir.’

‘Alright, then. It’s your funeral.’

‘It would be injudicious to underestimate your opponent,’ he warned the man, who simply smirked darkly and gestured Little Charlie to advance...

[my-timing-is-digital]

@elaleph continued from [ x ]

The android’s countenance did not exhibit signs of agitation at the discharge of the scientist’s unorthodox response; it maintained its natural poise; a layer of inscrutability laminated his synthetic features as he scrutinised her. It had not been his intention to kindle perturbation — if disquietude had been the architect of her reaction —, but he was of opinion that it was his moral duty to apprise her of the profundity aiding him would entail if she were apprehended...

During the interlude of silence that perfused between them, Data’s chartreuse eyes were fixed on the yet-to-be-identified Daystrom employee, but his positronic brain was dispersed, all over the place, attempted to locate connections that eventuated in this peculiar experience. His inability to recall how he had arrived here, and what preceded and could possibly have precipitated this occurrence was still a convoluted mystery to him. In a sense, this event was reminiscent of a similar incident that had transpired in 2367, when Doctor Noonian Soong had activated Data’s homing device and temporarily suspended his primary objectives and altered them with the unquenchable urge to find and navigate his way back to the cyberneticist’s coordinates... However, Data was uncertain this was the case at present; given the unequivocal fact that a considerable portion of his mnemonic subroutines had been corrupted he deemed that possibility most unlikely. And then, there was the matter pertaining to the ban on synthetics that persistently forced itself to the foreground of his consciousness and continually impeded his thought processes and problem shooting...

He blinked back into reality upon the exclamation issued by the scientist. Doctor Agnes P. Jurati... Her name was not compatible with any of the identity files he had stored in his databank, but then again, if it was true, if he had been offline for almost 2 decades, it was only logical to assume that he was not acquainted with anyone bearing that name. Nevertheless, the approximation of a small smile decorated his pale lips as he acknowledged her introduction.

‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Agnes,’ he said reverently.

Unbeknownst to him was the fact that Dr Jurati was already concocting a method to usher him safely out of Daystrom without the risk of detection. Therefore, when she distributed her question, his head involuntarily twitched to the left, his subroutines attempting to fathom her cryptic formulation. Swiftly and with astounding finesse, the android ran through the possible correlations her query might embody, and although he found himself confounded, grappling for comprehension, 7 solid seconds ticked by before he managed to catch on.

‘Raincoat and glasses? You mean, as a disguise?’ his synthetic visage insisted it manifested a rendition of inquisitiveness intertwined with eagerness — he had never been a partisan of engaging in clandestine activities, but these were extraordinary times... ‘That sounds like an acceptable course of action, and Agnes, may I suggest contacting Captain Picard on a secure frequency afterward — I am positive he will provide us with the assistance we require.’

It was feasible the Captain was enjoying his retirement on his emergence soil, France, whereas his other friends were most likely still in service of Starfleet. Therefore, relaying a message to the Captain would pose less of a risk to them than informing the others of his resurrection — if that was an adequate way to describe his inexplicable appearance...