by Jeffrey Lang
“Lal is composed of tripolymer composites, molybdenum-cobalt alloys, cortenide and duranium. Her sheath is composed of bioplast sheeting and her . . .”
“I’m aware of her specs. And you’re being deliberately obtuse, which is new and will take some getting used to.” La Forge stretched and yawned. “I’ve been sitting too long.” He rose and paced around the small cabin, studying the consoles. “And I didn’t sleep much last night. Which one of these makes coffee?”
“Shakti,” Data said, “please make Geordi a cup of coffee. He prefers Ethiopian beans. Two sugars, no milk.” He cocked his head in a manner that nearly bowled La Forge over with a wave of nostalgia. “Correct?”
La Forge nodded. “Thanks. But back to your story. After you left the Enterprise?”
“Shakti, make that two coffees, please,” Data replied and leaned back into the chair. A moment later, two steaming mugs appeared on the table in a swirl of congealing atoms.
“Wow,” La Forge said. “There’s a nano-compiler built into the table?”
“Yes. I find it convenient for manufacturing tools and small parts. And food.”
“You eat now?”
“I do not require sustenance, but I enjoy it.” Data picked up his mug and inhaled deeply. He tapped the side of his nose and then touched his forehead. “My father chose to vacate his consciousness from this body so I could occupy it, but I have found he is not entirely gone. Memories linger, as does his love of tactile experiences. When I eat or drink, I feel an echo of his pleasure.”
“That must be distracting.”
“On the contrary: I find it quite comforting.”
“But we’re digressing again.”
“No,” Data said. “A segue: My father’s memories guided me, perhaps even compelled me. I needed to find a place where my daughter and I could build a life together, a place where we could learn about each other, and where she could discover the world in a controlled fashion. My concern was that her holotronic matrix failed due to the stress of too many novel experiences.”
La Forge retrieved his mug and sipped the brew. Shakti made good coffee. “So you wanted to take Lal somewhere she wouldn’t be over-stimulated. I can see that. Where did you go? A bucolic backwater? Or a satellite like the one where we found Arkharin?”
“We went to Orion Prime,” Data said.
La Forge almost spit out his coffee. “Orion? Really? Not the first place that comes to mind when you think of low-stress environments.”
“I own a building there,” Data explained. “Several buildings, in fact. And a casino. Rather, my father did and I inherited them.”
In the abstract, material wealth held very little interest for La Forge, but, from a practical, engineering perspective, the sheer volume of assets Data was describing in a couple of sentences was staggering. He whistled appreciatively. “Wow. Again. That’s two wows in about two minutes.”
“I appreciate your ability to assess the situation so succinctly. I, too, have had difficulties coming to terms with my . . . how do I describe it?”
“Your estate.”
“Yes,” Data agreed. “My estate. I have had moral quandaries, but I cannot deny that there are distinct advantages to having access to resources.”
“Not unlike being the captain of a starship when you come right down to it.”
“But with no regulations,” Data added. “No oversight. No governing principles. Capitalism can be terrifying, Geordi. Especially capitalism as it is practiced on Orion, but that is a discussion for another time. My point is this: By the time I arrived on Orion, I had an entire building outfitted to accommodate Lal’s unique needs. I created an environment in which I was able to monitor and maintain her without fear of anomalous stimuli disrupting her development.”
“That sounds ideal, Data. How did things unfold?”
“She hit me, Geordi,” Data said, rubbing a spot on his upper arm. “Very, very hard.”
A placeless place
“We pointed our craft in a random direction,” Moriarty said, “and flew away. I shall never forget that first glimpse of the stars through the shuttle bay doors, how they slipped away beneath the bow. The only thing more radiant than those stars was the glow in Regina’s eyes.” Moriarty smiled at the memory. “We knew we had a universe to explore, but, anxious as we were to begin, we were aware of the idiosyncratic nature of our situation. After we were certain the Enterprise was not following us, we stopped to review our options.”
Sixteen years ago:
In orbit around a nameless moon
Moriarty pushed himself up out of the pilot’s seat, careful not to brush up against the control surface. Behind his eyes, he felt the information about which panel controlled what system residing in roughly the same part of his mind that housed much older, more comforting information. He could, he knew, ride a horse or steer a carriage. He was a passable oarsman and an above-average sailor of small craft. And he knew, too, that he possessed the ability to steer this machine, this spaceship (the word sent a thrill of anxiety down his spine), anywhere he wished (accounting for fuel and interstellar distances), but this knowledge felt like information, not ability. Moriarty knew that all of it—including his belief that he had known how to ride horses since he was a boy of three—was entirely artificial, entirely scripted, but he couldn’t make it fit together with the newer skills.
Standing awkwardly, Moriarty realized he was rubbing his thumb over his fingers. Had they always felt this rough? And warm? He was sure he could feel the pulse of blood in his veins. He glanced over at Regina, trying very hard not to stare. She was removing her gloves as if she had just come into the parlor after a brisk walk. “Tell me what you’re thinking, James,” she said.
Though he knew the shuttlecraft interior environment was carefully modulated, Moriarty felt his face flush. “Thinking?” he replied, barely avoiding a telltale stammer. “I don’t know that I am, frankly. My mind is awash in wonder. Something miraculous has occurred, and, please bear in mind, I’ve never believed in a supreme deity.”
“How sad for you, James. Life is so much more interesting when you leave room for the unaccountable.”
Moriarty bowed at the waist. “I defer to your superior understanding of the cosmos, ma’am.”
Leaning back into her chair, Regina grinned. All through their exchange, she was unable to tear her gaze away from the panoply of stars outside the main portal. “Accepted. Now, be a dear and ask this machine to prepare a cup of tea. I feel the need to pause and reflect.”
Moriarty nodded. Of course: tea. Just as he was starting to feel his mind whirl out of control, Regina found the perfect solution. “Computer,” he said, “two cups of tea, please.”
“A pot, please,” Regina asked. “With proper tea and hot water to pour over it.”
“I’m not sure it works that way,” Moriarty replied.
“Then we will have words, this computer and I.”
Moriarty repeated the request and, a moment later, with a swirl and a rush of air, a proper ceramic teapot materialized on a small shelf. He lifted the lid and saw black leaves inside. The computer beeped and Moriarty watched as a steaming kettle appeared. “Please be careful,” the computer admonished. “The water is heated to ninety-three degrees Celsius.”
After wrapping his handkerchief around the kettle handle, Moriarty carefully poured the steaming water into the pot. No sooner had he set aside the kettle than it dematerialized. “I don’t think the computer has much faith in our ability not to scald ourselves.”
“Have you ever been scalded, James?” Regina asked.
“Well, of course,” he said. “Working in the laboratory, it’s difficult to avoid. There are always hot surfaces and direct flames. Why, one time I nearly immolated myself with a compound of . . .”
“No, James,” Regina said, now staring at him fixedly. “Genuinely scalded yourself. Felt the skin blister. Watched it turn red and then peel away. For real.”
Moriarty looked down
at his hand, at the perfect, unblemished flesh. “As I said, there was the time . . . A compound of phosphorus and . . .” He faltered, letting the true meaning of her question permeate. “No,” he finished. “Of course not.” He laid the palm of his hand on the round surface of the teapot and felt the heat radiating out. “Or drunk tea. Or felt the fog on my face. Or . . .” Moriarty felt his innards twist into a knot of anxiety. “Or anything at all really.”
Regina shook her head. “Nor I.” She tugged at the cuff of her sleeve and studied the veins in her wrist. “How is this possible? We raced from the Enterprise as soon as we could, like children running outdoors into the first warm day of spring, neither of us considering what it meant or how the transformation is even possible. Look at me, James.” She held up her hand. “Look! I’m flesh and blood where before I was only light and . . . and . . . memory. How did this happen?”
“Their machines, Regina. They are wondrous. You saw the pot of tea blink into existence. If one is possible, why not the other?”
“Don’t be a fool, James,” Regina rejoined, standing and sweeping her arm to encompass the interior of the shuttle. “Clay and iron and water? They’re as nothing compared to creating a living, thinking being. Only the Creator . . .” She faltered, uncertain how to complete the sentence.
“Then which shall I believe in? The machine or the ineffable? Or is there an ineffable machine?”
“You know as well as I that there might well be.” Regina poured the tea into one of the small bone cups that had materialized with the pot. “Indeed, are not you and I proof that there could be such a machine? And, if there isn’t, how would we know the difference?”
Moriarty accepted the proffered cup and inhaled the aroma of the infusion. It prickled his sinuses, smelling of orange and coriander. Though Moriarty knew he had never experienced exactly this sensation—he had memories of similar moments and their memories—the remembrance of teas past calmed him. “Then how are we to proceed?”
Regina sipped her tea, winced, and asked the computer for a jug of sweet milk. Only after it materialized and she added the milk to her cup did she answer his question. “We proceed cautiously . . . and it doesn’t matter. Wherever we are, whatever our condition, we must learn more about this new world before we can begin to explore it thoroughly.”
“I agree. We have resources, so let us use them.” Moriarty leaned forward and touched the control surface of the computer console closest to Regina.
Regina placed her hand on Moriarty’s. “There are a couple other issues I feel we must address,” she said. “Now—before too much time has passed and we become complacent.”
“Of course,” Moriarty said, kneeling beside her. “Speak, my love.”
She stroked the curve of his cheek and he heard the rasp of his whiskers against her thumb. How long ago had he last shaved? Moriarty couldn’t recall. “I was made for you,” she said. “Quite literally. I am quite aware of this fact: I was meant to complement you, to be your peer and companion, your . . .” Her voice trailed away and a very becoming blush crept into Regina’s cheeks. “But I am also very aware that those versions of us were somehow tied to the holographic environment where we were born. Now free, I am mindful that we may not remain the same people we were. Whether we are real or not, we are meant to believe we are, which means we will grow and change. We could grow old. We could even grow away from each other.” She sighed deeply. “James, I cannot now imagine ever being with anyone else. You are my world, but I understand that this may not always be the case. You might . . .”
Moriarty leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth. It started as a tender, even tentative kiss, but quickly grew more intense. Feeling Regina’s lips move against his own sent a primal surge through Moriarty’s being. His head grew light and his breathing quickened. Through the haze, he was gratified to hear Regina inhale deeply, then gasp. She pulled away, touching her fingertips to her lips. Her pupils, Moriarty noted, were dilated and he felt for a moment like he might fall down into their inky depths and never be heard from again. “James,” she murmured and pushed herself away.
“My apologies, Regina. I should never have . . .”
“Don’t be an idiot, James,” she said, rising and taking his hand. “I was just going to say that there has to be some kind of bed in here somewhere. Help me look. Or should I tell the computer to make one for us?”
“Regina!” Moriarty stuttered. “Are . . . are you sure? I mean, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m taking . . .”
“I already told you not to act like an idiot, James,” Regina said, patting the several nondescript panels as if expecting a Pullman bed to unfold from the wall. “You’re not taking advantage of anyone. After all, I’m a very modern woman.”
“And this is the future,” Moriarty added helpfully, entering into the spirit of the banter.
“Precisely.” She stopped and looked at him very seriously. “Though there is one thing about our current situation that may take some getting used to.”
“Yes, my love?”
“Tea.”
“Tea?”
“It does go right through one, doesn’t it?”
“Yes?”
“Yes. Before we do anything else, I think I must find the ladies’.” Regina walked toward a very likely looking door at the opposite end of the cabin. “I will return in a moment. Please make good use of your time.”
Moriarty did as he was bidden and, when Regina returned, they made even better use of it.
When they awoke, they were famished and ordered the computer to make them breakfast. As they ate, they planned for the future, and, soon after, set to work.
5
September 2385—Orion Prime
Data stepped into his private turbolift and waited for the security system to complete its scans: retinas and the pattern of creases on his face and hands. Subsonic waves bounced off his frame and the program listened to the echoes. Satisfied, the computer asked, “Home, Mister Soong?” Since his father’s death, Data had not bothered to change the computer’s responses. It pleased him that the machine confused the two of them. After all, he was Mister Soong. Just not the Mister Soong.
“Yes, please.” The lift rose, though the motion was all but imperceptible. Data looked down at his jacket lapel and studied the all-but-invisible stain left when the inebriated casino patron had crashed into him, spilling her beverage. Data could have completely avoided being sullied, but it would have involved a standing broad jump of some three meters that would have no doubt alarmed any customers who witnessed it. It had been far simpler to avoid the worst of the collision—and the resultant damage to the patron—by simply twisting about in a comic, though well-timed, manner, avoiding all but the single drop of purple fluid.
Data fingered the spot. He knew the cleaning program in his armoire could remove the stain, but, for some reason, it bothered him. Just that morning, Lal had told him how much she liked him in this suit. “How smart,” she had said as he emerged from his dressing room. “Very stylish. Every inch the executive.”
He had nodded, pleased by her attention, though now, replaying the conversation in his mind, Data was plagued by worry: Had Lal been teasing him? She was doing that more and more recently. “Computer?” he inquired. “Is Miss Lal in her room?” Once, it had pleased Lal to hear her father ask the computer about what “Miss Lal” might like or need, but—another example of changing behavior—these days she scowled at him when he called her that, as if his daughter thought he was mocking her.
“No, Mister Soong, Miss Lal is not home.”
“Computer: Cease ascension. Scan the building. Locate Miss Lal.”
“Checking. She is in the casino, sir.”
“How was she able to leave the residence without my knowing?”
“I have no record of her leaving the residence, Mister Soong.”
Of course it didn’t. “Return to the casino floor.”
“She is at the blackjack table, sir.”
“And?”
“She is losing, sir. Rather a lot, in fact.”
“Of course she is,” Data said, acutely aware of the stain on his lapel. “Where is the fun in winning?”
* * *
Each of the twenty gaming floors in the Sjoko-wan was devoted to the diversions and amusements of a different culture, but the Terran room was consistently one of the most popular. While games of chance from all worlds shared fundamental characteristics, Data had learned since taking control of the facility that casinos on many worlds were somber, sober places where players were expected to keep their emotions under tight rein.
In contrast, Terran casinos—especially those modeled after the North American and Western European tradition—broke that mold, relying on a unique combination of high-spirited tackiness and understated elegance that sentients from other worlds found intoxicating. So, as usual, the main floor of the Lode Stone was as packed and as crowded on a Wednesday evening as it was nearly every other hour of the day. Lights flickered and blazed. Bells, whistles, and other more shrill sounds, some outside the hearing range of many humanoids, simultaneously beckoned and baffled the patrons. Pit bosses, dealers, and robotic matrons (who doubled as security bots) called to the players while tastefully underdressed servers carried beverage containers and plates back and forth from the kitchens to the tables.
As he cruised through the crowd, a part of Data’s brain efficiently calculated the movement of specie from players to pit bosses while another part gauged how well the staff was tending to the customers’ needs. Overall, he was satisfied, though Data noted players who appeared to be either a little too lucky or unlucky. He was well aware that it was impossible to completely protect the games from cybernetically enhanced individuals, the sort who could bend the odds. Data—and his father before him—had tutored the staff on the common tells of rule-benders (After all, who could know better?) and the methods to disrupt their attempts at odds manipulation.
Of course, none of this could prepare any of them for Lal, who cared less about winning than playing . . . or appearing to play. As she had said on more than one occasion, “All the money belongs to you, Father, so what does it matter if I win or lose?”