by Jeffrey Lang
The thought of this moment, the anticipation, was almost as delicious as the reality. The man who had been the short-order cook smiled and walked up the three concrete steps to his front door. The sensor package recognized his biometric signature and admitted him when he depressed the door latch. He walked into the entrance hall and hung the light jacket on one of the hooks by the door. He noted that neither his daughter’s coat, nor his daughter’s caretaker’s, was hanging on a hook, though this was hardly unusual. As often as not, they left their coats in their bedrooms or draped over the back of the couch in the family room. His daughter was not mindful or tidy the way he was, a trait that often frustrated him, but, if pressed, he would admit also delighted him.
“Lal?” he called, the same as he did every day. “Are you home?” The pitch of his voice had changed, too, since the conversation with Oban. The rough, scratchy edge had disappeared, replaced by a much more refined and measured tone. “Are you in the kitchen?” He stood and waited for the ritual to play out, trying not to fret or worry.
He listened for the click of heels on the parquet hallway floor or the squeak of the kitchen door swinging open, but he heard nothing.
“Lal?” he repeated. “Daughter?” Perhaps she was playing a trick on him. Or was this a new game? Though she was an incredibly self-possessed and articulate individual, his daughter was still very young. But he considered: If this were a game, he would have expected to find some indication of what the rules were.
“Alice?” he called, raising his voice. Could they be out in the garden? No, he would have seen them as he passed. One of them—Lal or Alice—would have greeted him.
He walked through the entry hall into the living room, which was dimly lit, the curtains drawn. This was highly unusual. Lal enjoyed the morning light. Every day, she would pull back the drapes and let the sunlight in. She had, her father thought, a mild dread of darkness, which was not surprising considering the amount of time she had spent in shadow. “This is not right,” he whispered.
As if waiting for his words, a bright light appeared on the floor. At first, no wider than a few centimeters, the light quickly expanded and became a column. Edges became defined. Colors appeared and sharpened. The ethereal became solid.
A man stood where the flicker of light had been a moment before. The man, a fellow Terran in appearance, wore a well-tailored morning jacket and vest. A golden watch hung from a chain at his waist. His face, though lined with age, was well-formed and he appeared just as hale and healthy as the last time the pair had seen each other. He smiled and bowed his head in greeting. “Greetings, my dear Mister Data,” he said. “You have no idea how delighted I am to see you. Well, not ‘see’ you properly. This is merely a recording—a very sophisticated recording, but a recording nevertheless. Apologies for contacting you in this manner, but I thought it would be the most effective means of communication at this juncture.”
“Moriarty,” Data said softly.
“At your service.” The image bowed again, a bit more deeply. “Or, actually, not. Quite the polar opposite, in fact.”
“Where is my daughter?” Data asked.
“Your charming daughter and her somewhat less charming friend are, as they say, in my clutches, which is where they will remain until you have completed a task for me, a task for which I believe you are uniquely well-suited.”
“I am well-suited for many tasks, Professor Moriarty. If you would like me to assist you, you have only to return my daughter and her friend . . .”
“I think not, Mister Data. I enjoy the idea of having a bit of . . . shall we call it . . . leverage? Just in case you decide to contact your friends in Starfleet.”
“I am no longer a Starfleet officer.”
“Yes, I know. This came as a bit of a surprise. I took you for a career officer, but, ah, dying and being resurrected does so change one’s perspective, doesn’t it? There’s something we have in common, both of us turning up like a pair of bad pennies when least expected.”
“Apparently, you know a great deal more about my recent past than I know about yours,” Data said. “For example, last I heard, you were still residing in the memory core at the Daystrom Institute.”
“ ‘Residing’? An interesting choice of words, sir. I might have selected ‘imprisoned’ or even ‘languishing,’ but, no need to masticate our words. I am no longer there, as you will no doubt confirm as soon as we conclude our conversation.” The hologram tugged out and consulted his pocket watch. “Which will have to be soon, since, no doubt, you’ve instructed various and sundry tracking programs to sniff out my location. By my calculations, I have another ninety-five seconds before even the cleverest bloodhound could trace the origin of this program.”
“Professor, wait,” Data begged, his icy façade dropping. “If you could just tell me what you need, I’m sure we could come to an arrangement.”
“But my dear Mister Data, that’s precisely what I’m trying to do: to tell you what I need from you.”
“Which is?”
“As I said, something I think you are uniquely well-suited to help me find: a body. I need a body, Mister Data.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I didn’t think my request would be so confusing, sir. Let me say it again: I require a body. A solid body. Like your own, sir, though perhaps a bit taller.”
“I believe I understand, Professor, though not why you would come to me. Where am I supposed to find . . . ?”
“Ah!” Moriarty said, holding up a finger. “Not my problem at all. Not my problem.” He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew what appeared to be a calling card. “As for why you . . . why not you? You’ve always struck me as being resourceful in a dogged sort of fashion. And ask yourself, my dear Mister Data, would I be in this peculiar situation if not for you?” Moriarty paused for a comment, but Data had none to offer, so the Professor continued. “Here are some details that you may find useful.” He released the holographic image of a card, which fluttered to the ground and landed on top of the emitter. “And now, Mister Data, adieu. Send a note when you’ve made some progress. My contact information is included. And, no, please don’t waste valuable time trying to trace this transmission. We both know I’m more clever than that.”
“No, please, Professor. Please wait . . .”
But Moriarty was gone. Data was, in every sense of the word he could define—and there were so many—utterly and completely alone.
2
A year earlier (2384)—aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise
“So, Mister Data,” Jean-Luc Picard said with a wry smile, “welcome back to parenthood.” He took a small sip of his drink, swished it briefly over his tongue and palate, and then swallowed with a satisfied sigh. “While I’m not usually one for hard liquor, Geordi,” he said, turning to his second officer and chief engineer, “I must say, I could develop a taste for this.”
“I wouldn’t, Captain,” Commander Geordi La Forge replied, picking the bottle up off the small table. “Lagavulin,” he read off the label, his voice a bit slurred. “Bottled in 2273. According to Mister Scott, it’s probably the last one left in existence. He gave it to me when we launched the Enterprise-E. Told me it was from his private reserve. ‘A cache of supplies I’d put into stasis against a rainy day,’ he said. Told me I should hang on to it for a special occasion.” He poured a finger into his tumbler and then carefully re-corked the bottle before setting it back on the table. “This seemed appropriate.”
Picard narrowed his eyes. “I did get married a few years ago, as I recall. And had a child.”
“I considered it,” La Forge explained, “but it wouldn’t have fit with all the French wine.”
Picard cocked his head to the side, conceding the point, and took another sip. “I shall allow it, Mister La Forge. We’re in Mister Scott’s debt . . . again.”
La Forge nodded, the effects of the alcohol temporarily mitigated as the revelers each silently recalled their friend, now lost.
“It’s hard to believe he’s gone,” La Forge murmured.
“One never knows, Mister La Forge,” Picard replied. “He might not be.” He nodded toward his former Ops officer. “Case in point . . .”
“Which leads to an interesting question: Data, who can we tell that you’re back among the living? I can’t imagine not telling Will and Deanna, but how far does that permission extend? What about Doctor Pulaski, for example? She was quite upset when she heard you’d died. . . . Uh, Data? Hello?” La Forge waved his hand in front of his friend’s face. “Anyone home?”
But Data’s gaze was fixed on the small holographic display he had activated next to their table in the Happy Bottom Riding Club, the Enterprise’s primary social center. Biometric and engineering information crawled across the bottom of the screen, a constantly updated stream of data about the figure at the center of the image, the object of Data’s unwavering gaze: Lal. His daughter. Asleep. Her chest rose and fell slowly. He knew it was a simulation, knew Lal didn’t need to respire, but Data felt nearly overwhelmed by the twinned senses of peace and anxiety the sight provoked in him.
Part of Data’s mind monitored the myriad minor physiological responses: the flutter of an eyelid, the twitch of a muscle in her cheek, the curl of her lip, all despite the induced coma state. His daughter. Lal. Restored. Alive.
“Data?” La Forge asked again.
“It’s very good,” Data said, lifting the drink and taking a healthy sip. His palate logged the presence of a score of complex hydrocarbons and flavor compounds, as well as a healthy dose of ethanol. He was incapable of becoming inebriated, but the part of his mind that housed the memories of his father, a man who had spent part of his existence cataloging the finer things in life, was able to appreciate the rare experience.
“What’s very good, Data?” La Forge asked, sounding amused.
“The single-malt whiskey,” Data said, holding the glass up as if studying the color, though he was actually looking through the liquor at the image of Lal in the holotank.
“We weren’t . . .” He sighed. “Never mind. New parents are all the same.”
Picard chuckled and swirled the inch of liquid still remaining in his glass. “I suppose I might resent that comment, too, except I recall saying much the same thing myself back in the days before René came along to teach me a lesson.”
Worf leaned in from the shadows. The Klingon first officer had spent most of the evening lurking in the gloom, only rising occasionally to go to the bar for refills of whatever he had been nursing. He had sipped an appropriate amount of Mister Scott’s gift when La Forge had brought it to the bar, but afterward eschewed it, murmuring something about it being “not unlike mother’s milk.”
Whatever he had been drinking had clearly put Worf in a contemplative state. “The Klingon poet Kathan wrote, ‘Parenthood is the wound that never heals.’ ”
La Forge, Picard, and Data all kept their peace, each waiting for more. When Worf settled back into the shadows, the engineer lifted his glass and said, “To Klingon poetry. Brutally succinct.”
“Well observed,” Worf replied.
The captain guffawed and drank, too. Data lifted his glass, but he was not thinking about parenthood or poetry. He was recalling the movement of Akharin’s hands as they moved over Lal’s inert form, like a concert pianist playing his instrument. With perfect clarity, Data recollected the immortal’s every gesture, every tool he had used, every technique. He pictured every moment in his mind’s eye, yet Data still could not say precisely what he had observed. Had it been science at some level that Data could not comprehend, or had it been an act of inspired artistry? Or had Akharin, the old wizard, simply woven a magic spell? Data did not know. He thought that, given time, he might be able to break down the actions, unweave the spell, but at what price? To dissect is to kill, Data thought. He knew it was the basest superstition, but a part of him believed that if he tried to reproduce Akharin’s magic, he would undo the spell and his daughter would fall back into the abyss.
“Geordi raised a valid question, Data,” Picard said. “What should we tell your former shipmates and colleagues, the ones who don’t already know?”
“And what do we say about Lal?” La Forge added.
They were, Data conceded, valid questions. He was in a unique situation and a decision would be required very soon. Over the past few days, during the crises of the Tholian/Breen terrorists and the great, galaxy-consuming Machine, Starfleet had been very relaxed regarding Data’s presence, not the least because he contributed to the successful resolution of both missions, but he knew the service’s tolerance would soon be taxed. The current incarnation of Starfleet was not his Starfleet. Wars had been fought, worlds devastated, empires erased. Data and Lal had been restored when so many had been lost. Would resentment flare?
“These are very good questions,” Data replied, looking away from the holotank for the first time. “And I hope I can depend on you all for advice after I have had time to ponder them. This is all so new . . .” He let his voice falter, as if at a loss for words.
“We understand, Data,” Picard said. “These are early days. I can barely imagine what it must be like, not only to be a parent again after having lost Lal once, but, this time, to have access to a full range of emotions.” He shook his head in wonder, then pushed back from the table and stood, wobbling ever so slightly. Straightening, the captain tugged on the front of his uniform and said, “I will be happy to help in any way I can.” He nodded to La Forge. “Thank you for sharing your gift, Commander. It was more than worth the scolding I will no doubt receive.”
“From Doctor Crusher?” La Forge asked.
Picard shook his head. “No, of course not. Not Beverly—René. I missed story time this evening. We’ve been reading Watership Down. He doesn’t seem to mind missing a chapter when it’s ship’s business, but a night out socializing?” Grinning broadly, Picard headed for the door, waving his hand in salute. “I believe I may be in for a bit of a lecture over breakfast. He really wants to know what’s going to happen to those rabbits.”
La Forge and Worf exchanged knowing looks and then were both shocked when Data laughed at their expressions. The engineer said, “It is going to take some time to get used to that.”
“To what?” Data asked.
“To you laughing,” La Forge replied. “And the fact that you actually understand why something is funny. I mean, you had the emotion chip back . . . you know . . .”
“Before I died.”
“Yes. But you turned it on and off so often. It was difficult to know what to expect from day to day.”
“Expect this from now on,” Data replied and parodied a beatifically happy expression. “That’s what all parents look like all the time, is it not?” Worf laughed out loud, a rare sound on the best of days. Data felt absurdly proud. “I believe I should end the evening on that note,” he said, rising. “Always leave them wanting more.”
“I have stories about Alexander I should share with you,” Worf said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “that would smooth a lesser man’s forehead.” Data was not certain if this was an invitation or a threat.
“I look forward to hearing them. But I believe I should check on Lal’s systems now. According to the monitors, the induced coma is weakening. She appears to wish to awaken.”
“I think you should let her,” La Forge said.
“And I will,” Data said. “After I have checked her vital signs. And prepared the environment. And made sure her temporary quarters are ready. And determined how many of the crew members who knew her before are still on board. And . . .”
“Never mind. I get it. Work to be done.” La Forge shook his head. “I guess one of the advantages of never having to sleep is, well, never having to sleep.”
“True, but sleep has its pleasures. As I recall, dreaming can be quite enjoyable.”
“You haven’t been dreaming?”
“Nor sleeping. Not since my resurrection. It seemed
. . . wasteful, somehow.”
“Hmm,” La Forge said neutrally. “Well, unfortunately, I do have to sleep, so I’ll walk out with you if you don’t mind.”
“I would welcome the company, as ever.” Data looked over at Worf, who was staring out at the stars. “Worf?”
The Klingon did not respond.
La Forge shook his head ever so slightly. Leave him be.
The old friends walked quietly to the exit. La Forge flinched when the doors parted and the bright lights briefly overloaded the receptors of his ocular implants. Data put his hand on La Forge’s shoulder and guided him toward the turbolift door.
Waiting for the lift to arrive, without looking at Data, La Forge asked, “So, can I have your ship outfitted with anything before you leave?”
Data did not attempt to conceal his surprise at the question. “Geordi,” he began, “I would have contacted you . . .”
“Don’t,” La Forge said. “I understand. Better than you know. It’s not the same ship. It’s not the same Starfleet or the same Federation. None of us is the same.” He inhaled deeply, then sighed. “I’ll tell the captain we talked and that you thought it was best for Lal to leave without too many good-byes. You were afraid it would overload her holotronic matrix. She needs time. You both need time . . .” He ran out of words.
The turbolift arrived and the doors parted.
Data stammered, “I do not know how I could have ever expected to . . .”
“To slip away without me noticing?”
“Yes,” Data said, and then, “no. It runs deeper: I do not know how I could have expected to deceive you.”
“You can’t, Data. You’re a terrible liar. Also, I’m your best friend.” La Forge stepped into the turbolift. “You’re experiencing a lot of emotions right now—complex emotions—issues that even someone with years of practice might have trouble coping with. We never had a chance to talk about Rhea. If you’d like to now . . .”