Disclaimer: If Star Trek is anyone's personal property, that one is not I.

Tsi-i-ou-ou!

"Come," said Captain Picard, laying down his book with a sense of apprehension. He never looked forward to this sort of interview; though Counselor Troi's empathic powers had proven their usefulness twenty times over, there was still that in Picard that rebelled against putting a Starfleet officer on the spot for having an inappropriate emotion. Still, if the emotion had really meant what it seemed to, the matter clearly had to be dealt with.

The doors of his quarters slid open, and a slender young African woman in the uniform of a junior science officer stepped inside. "You wished to see me, sir?" she said.

Her tone was one of ready, disciplined obedience, yet beneath it lay an unmistakable note of awe that she should have attracted the attention of such a one. It was a good first impression, and Picard smiled. "Yes, Ensign Mwamba," he said. "Take a seat."

Ensign Mwamba (her first name was Claudia, Picard recalled) did so, and the Captain took the opportunity to study her more closely. Plain face, sturdy build; sharp, inquisitive eyes; a quiet, gentle manner overall, though perhaps with a hint of unusual determination about the mouth – all in all, quite a typical specimen of the Enterprise's science crew. The only unusual detail was the small indentation at her chest, suggesting something concealed beneath her uniform – a locket or medallion of some kind, no doubt.

Having processed all this, Picard leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "Ensign," he said, "you were on the bridge yesterday at 1340 hours, I believe."

"Yes, sir," said Mwamba. "Mr. Data requested that Ensign T'Plee and I be present at the spectral analysis of Chi-Rho Tauri VI; he regarded it as relevant to our training."

"Just so," said Picard. "And, during that process, Commander Riker returned from his away mission on Chi-Rho Tauri V and requested to speak with me privately; the two of us left the bridge, command of which therefore devolved to Lieutenant Commander Data."

Mwamba nodded.

"Well," said Picard, taking a deep breath, "at 0825 hours this morning, Counselor Troi reported to me in her capacity as ship's morale officer. According to her, at the moment when Mr. Data assumed command of the bridge, she felt a peculiar emotional twinge – her word – from your mind. The impression she was left with was that, for some reason unclear to her, you felt hesitant about Mr. Data's suitability to command the Enterprise."

As he spoke, he watched the young ensign carefully, hoping to find some sign that Deanna had misread her reaction. To his dismay, he found just the opposite; while discipline kept her face itself neutral, Mwamba's eyes betrayed the discomfort of one surprised in an attitude that she wasn't exactly ashamed of, but had no wish to share with strangers. (Picard knew the feeling well; Q, for one, was infuriatingly good at inducing it.)

So it's true, he thought. The last such report I should have expected to credit, and it's true after all. Oh, Data, what does this young woman know about you that I don't?

Aloud, with some difficulty, he said, "You understand, Ensign, that Counselor Troi has my entire confidence. What she perceives in the minds on this ship, I regard to be just as real as what Mr. Data perceived in the atmosphere of Chi-Rho Tauri VI – and, if that reality casts doubt on the command fitness of one of my senior officers, I have no choice but to investigate it thoroughly."

Mwamba swallowed. "I don't think that will be necessary, sir," she said. "I think I know what the Counselor perceived, and I can assure you that it has no bearing on anything that Starfleet would regard as relevant to its decisions."

"That's hardly your judgment to make, Ensign," said Picard sharply.

The look that flickered over Mwamba's face at this rebuke resembled nothing so much as an affectionate puppy scolded by its master. "No, sir," she said. "But what I mean, sir, is that I already know what Starfleet thinks about the matter, and I'm just reluctant in my own mind to accept their conclusions, for… well, for personal reasons."

Personal reasons, Picard repeated mentally, his heart sinking a few more notches. We've heard that before, haven't we? The business on the Gagarin, with Commodore Gulvarez – that was "a personal matter", too, by the Andorian girl's lights. Data, Data, Data…

He could picture the scene to himself all too clearly. His androidal Second Officer, so desirous to experience the human condition; an impressionable young woman under his command, pliant to the call of duty and clearly in awe of the Enterprise legend; a misguided wish to imitate the less savory side of some great human figure (such as had led, once before, to a replicated seven-per-cent solution of cocaine finding its way to Ten-Forward); an assignation after hours in the arboretum, or perhaps even one of the holodecks; and then…

He hadn't meant ill, Picard was sure. Data, unlike his brother, was incapable of active malevolence – but that didn't make him incapable of doing harm. Likewise, the mere fact that he had no emotions himself didn't mean that he couldn't manipulate, wittingly or unwittingly, the emotions of others. Of course this young woman wanted to protect him from the court-martial; he himself almost felt the same.

But that was a luxury he couldn't afford, if he wanted to keep looking his reflection in the eye each morning. He had to be firm; he had to get the facts; then, once he had them, he had to do… well, what he would have to do.

"Ensign," he said (and Mwamba, hearing his tone, quailed ever so slightly into the back of the chair), "in a matter such as this, there are no personal reasons. Mr. Data's command suitability affects everyone on this ship; it affects everyone on every other ship on which he may one day serve; and, insofar as each Starfleet officer's performance reflects upon the Service as a whole, it affects everyone in the galaxy who wears our uniform. I cannot permit so grave a matter to remain seriously in question; therefore," (rising and tugging at his uniform for emphasis), "I order you, as captain of the Enterprise, to tell me why it was that Counselor Troi saw a doubt of it in your mind at 1340 hours yesterday."

There was silence for the space of perhaps three human heartbeats; then Mwamba took a deep breath, and rose to her own feet as well. "Very well, sir," she said. "What the Counselor saw was a religious qualm about accepting subordinacy to one who may not have a rational soul."

Picard stood stock-still for several moments; then his eyes began to flit about the cabin, as though the artifacts on the shelves, or the viewing window, could help him better withstand the sudden and total change in his thought processes that was evidently called for.

"I… beg your pardon, Ensign?" he said.

"Must I repeat it, sir?" said Mwamba, her tone making it clear that she should very much prefer not to.

Picard shook his head hastily. "No," he said. "No, certainly not. Um… what was it, specifically, that brought you to this point of… questioning?"

"I had occasion, some months ago, to review the records of Mr. Data's hearing," said Mwamba simply. "I admired several points in your defense, sir – especially regarding the irrelevance of Mr. Data's composition to the question of his personhood – but it remains the case that you never addressed, and that Captain Louvois specifically disclaimed, what I must regard as the essential aspect of the matter."

Picard recalled the occasion, and Phillipa's words during her verdict. "I don't know whether he does… I don't know whether I do." Yes, he could see how someone of a religious turn of mind might find that inadequate. And it was natural that Mwamba should be such, hailing as she did from the southern parts of Africa – one of the few regions on Earth where Christianity, in its various forms, still held significant sway.

"Well, then," he said slowly, "if that's all…"

But then he stopped himself; that was the wrong way of looking at it. He was thinking in terms of what he had feared a few minutes before, and of his relief that it wasn't so – but to Mwamba, who (he realized) had never had the other in mind at all, there was nothing trivial in the dilemma she had confessed. In her mind, she was an immortal, an embodied spirit, as different from the rest of Nature as the angels she believed in; the possibility of being required to submit, with the ready docility that the Service required, to a mere machine, would naturally be as grotesque to her as that of the consulship of Incitatus.

Still, the mere fact that she hadn't yet resigned from Starfleet – or even requested a transfer out of Data's specific sphere of authority – suggested that she had, as yet, no reason to definitely believe that Data lacked a soul. Indeed, if she only felt qualms on the subject when he assumed general command of the Enterprise, it was likely enough that she had somehow accepted the arrangement so far as she herself was concerned, and was only distressed by it when other humanoids, who had never specifically chosen to be Data's subordinates, nonetheless found themselves placed under him.

He considered for a moment. "Have you spoken to Mr. Data himself about this?" he said.

Mwamba shook her head, looking surprised that he should have asked. "No, of course not, sir," she said. "It didn't seem appropriate – and, anyway, I didn't like to bring up a subject that was likely to so…" She hesitated, her lips forming what Picard suspected was the Swahili for "distress"; then, after a moment's thought, she substituted, "…unsettle him."

The edges of Picard's lips quirked into a faint smile: so that was why her doubts hadn't led to a transfer request. He'd been right about one thing, at least; it seemed that Data's knack for inspiring affectionate loyalty did indeed extend to this young subordinate of his.

"Well, that's commendable of you, Ensign," he said, "but I believe you ought to, all the same. If an officer's fitness for command is questioned, then, be the grounds what they may, it's only justice to give him a chance to answer them."

It was plain that Mwamba saw the reason in this; it was also plain that she was highly reluctant to act on it. Which was understandable, of course – not only because of her evident liking for Data, but also because Starfleet had not proved, in recent decades, a congenial environment in which to express Christian convictions. Nobody had precisely intended it, but it had become clear that there was a tension between the two loyalties – the conflict of Prime Directive and Great Commission, Picard had heard one chaplain call it – which had made things quite difficult for those select few who wished both to be obedient to the heavenly vision and to boldly go where none had gone before.

"Is that an order, sir?" Mwamba said softly.

A less erudite Captain might have missed the opportunity here. Picard, however, as he heard these words, recalled a certain 20th-Century novel that he had read in his youth, and that he knew to be regarded by the Christians of the former British Empire as one of their heritage's particular treasures. It was a long shot, but it could hardly hurt anything – and, if it had a chance of reassuring Mwamba that he was no enemy of her creed as such, it was certainly worth a try.

"It's your commanding officer's wish," he said, clearly and deliberately. "And that's the best kind of order I know."

His efforts were rewarded. It was startling how different Mwamba's face was when she smiled; the mask of discipline that had hitherto overlain it had given no hint of the luminous quality, the easy grace and the hint of girlish prettiness, that a momentary flash of unconcealed delight could give it. "Yes, sir," she said. "Thank you, sir."

Picard nodded. "That will be all, Ensign," he said.

Mwamba obediently turned and left the cabin, and Picard sat back down and took up his book again, reflecting on the strange convolutions of which the humanoid heart was capable. To believe that God had come to Earth, yet at the same time to long for the stars; to think oneself the crown of creation, yet to sympathize with an artifact of human hands; to profess a single, universally binding system of doctrine, yet to willingly serve an organization bound to pluralism in all things… decidedly, it was a difficult thing to be Ensign Claudia Mwamba.

Well, he thought, at any rate I've done what I can for her. The rest, Data will have to do – and, whether he has a soul or no, he certainly has the necessary influence over her to set her mind at rest. On a ship this size, I don't suppose I'll so much as hear her name again.

He was to remember this thought about a fortnight later, and to wonder greatly that, after so many years' acquaintance, he should have misunderstood his Second Officer so thoroughly.