by Jeffrey Lang
“No. I think that would be a terrible idea.”
“Lal, I was jesting.”
“I know you were—or thought you were—but you weren’t, Father. Not really. Not in your heart.”
“I only meant . . .”
“You meant you want to keep me safe, to watch over and protect me.” She smiled, though the smile was a little sad. “That’s very sweet, but I don’t need it, or won’t soon. I want to have my own life and want you to have yours.”
“But, Lal,” Data said, feeling the sting of rejection. “I have only just found you again. If you left . . .”
Lal laughed. “Who said I was leaving? I like it here. You’re the one who’ll be going. Not right now, but sooner or later you’ll think of something else you want to do. Someone will need you and off you’ll go.”
“You do not . . .” For the first time he could recall, Data felt at a loss for words. “How could you . . . ? I would never . . .”
“You will,” Lal said. Darkness had fallen, so Data couldn’t see her face, but he was certain she was grinning.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
EPILOGUE
Four months later—Orion Prime
Data knocked on the door of his daughter’s house and waited. Shakti had delivered Lal’s invitation while he had been working the second shift at the hotel bar, one of several jobs he had taken in the months since he had moved out. Bartending was his favorite, especially at the moderately high-end hotels. He enjoyed the theatrical nature of mixology and the appreciative manner with which most of his customers greeted his wares. On more than one occasion, he had made a mental note to try and find Guinan and discuss his observations about the role with her. Data was certain she would have something insightful to say.
A moment later, the door opened and Lal was hugging him, tugging him into the foyer, and commenting on his attire, the traditional vest, white shirt, and black tie of the Orion hotel employee. “So this is what you’re doing now? Where? You have to tell me so I can bring my friends!”
Data felt a moment’s hesitation. Partly, he wasn’t certain he wanted to see Lal and her friends out on a social occasion, but just as strong was the aversion he felt to her seeing him at work. In the weeks since he had moved out of her house, he had come to cherish solitude. Indeed, Shakti had teased him on more than one occasion that he was becoming something of a hermit, though, admittedly, a hermit who was often surrounded by scores of chatting, laughing people. “That would be most enjoyable, Lal” was all he said in response.
When they entered the living room, Lal pointed at the empty glassware and mostly consumed small plates of food on the coffee table and sideboard. “Though it would have been nice if you had come sooner. You could have helped with beverages.”
“You had guests?” Data asked. “A party?”
Lal flopped back into her overstuffed chair, the pleats of her flower-print long skirt flowing around her legs. She picked up a cup near her elbow and sipped it. “Ugh,” she said, and winced. “Lukewarm. I would like some tea, Father. Would you like some tea?”
“I would love some tea, Lal. Shall I help you carry plates into the kitchen?”
“Yes! That would be lovely. I’ve missed your tidiness. You can’t believe what I had to do to get this place cleaned up for the guests! Why didn’t you come sooner?! I told Shakti . . .”
“I had to work,” Data said, scooping up plates and piling them atop one another. “My shift ended at twenty-two hundred and then I had to make my way here.”
“Shakti could have beamed you!”
“Shakti has other things to do.”
“Yes, yes,” Lal said, waving her hand dismissively. “Running the empire for the absentee king.”
“I am not a king,” Data said. “Nor am I absentee. I am just . . .”
“Playing, yes, I know. Don’t drop those plates. I just found them at the secondhand store and I love them.”
Data noted that the decor had changed since he had moved out. While Lal had previously favored clean lines and simple shapes, now the furniture was larger and more ornate, the walls were covered with muted fabric, and the windows framed with lavish treatments. The room spoke of softness and comfort.
“How many guests did you have? Only a few, it would appear.”
“Just three. Jarrell, a young man who has been pursuing me . . .”
“Oh?”
“Don’t worry, Father.” She backed into the door between the living room and the kitchen since her hands were full. “He won’t catch me. He’s very young and doesn’t have much substance, though he is very pretty . . .”
“Ah.” The kitchen lights detected their presence and turned on.
“Yes, and the Professor and the Countess.”
Gyroscopic motors in Data’s arms and shoulders nearly gave way, and Lal’s plates almost toppled to the floor. He paused in the doorway to give all his subsystems time to stabilize. When he had recovered, he asked, “You mean, the Professor and the Countess? Moriarty and Bartholomew?’
“Do we know any other Professor and Countess, Father?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“Then, it must be them, mustn’t it?”
“I suppose it must.” He set the plates down on the counter near the sink. “How are they?”
“Solid,” Lal said. “Which is to say, tangible. And in every other regard, quite well. They were very disappointed not to be able to see you.”
“Imagine how I am feeling,” Data replied. “How . . . ?”
“I can give you all the particulars later, Father, but let me get the tea going. It’s a tea conversation, I think. Maybe biscuits, too. Tea and biscuits, yes. Let me see if I have any of those ginger cookies you like.” She bustled off to the pantry in search of biscuits.
“And Alice?” Data asked.
“We didn’t talk about Alice,” Lal called. “I didn’t ask and they didn’t tell.”
“Harry Mudd?”
“Didn’t join them. Apparently, there’s still some doubt about letting him loose in the wild, but I gather he very much enjoys playing uncle to Gladys and Sophia, so all’s well there.”
“Moriarty’s daughters . . .”
“Sound delightful, Father,” Lal said, emerging from the pantry, proudly brandishing a tin tube of biscuits. “They would like to come along the next time their parents visit. They asked if they could play poker at your casino. Apparently, Harry’s been teaching them.”
Data felt numb, but answered, “Of course. Of course they can.”
“You may regret saying that, Father. They sound very, very smart.”
“I will have Shakti watch them closely.”
“That would probably be a good idea. Now let me think . . . What else do we need? Do we need honey? Yes? No?”
“Yes, please.”
“All right, let me go find it. Why didn’t you say so while I was in the pantry?”
Lal bustled away again, but before she disappeared again, Data called after her, “Lal?”
“Yes, Father. What is it?”
Though he felt he had so many things to say, Data satisfied himself with a simple, “It is good to see you.”
His daughter smiled. “It is good to see you, too, Father.” She started back toward the pantry, but before taking another step, pointed back into the living room. “The Professor left something for you. On the mantel. He said to make sure you saw it. Why don’t you go see what it is while I make tea?”
As soon as he entered the living room, Data saw the envelope. It was buff-colored, of heavy stock, and it felt heavier in Data’s hand than he had expected. The back was not sealed, but the flap was tucked down snugly into the throat. After thumbing it open, Data withdrew a piece of thick paper that was folded around a business card. He examined the card first. In bold print, it said, EMETH INVESTIGATIONS and below that were several means to contact the organization, though no physical
address (which seemed appropriate somehow).
Unfolding the letter, Data read the following:
My dear Mister Data,
I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. As you no doubt know by now, my family and I have been reunited. Our hosts—Harry Mudd’s friends (though one has to question the use of the term whenever Mister Mudd is involved)—have treated us with great courtesy and fulfilled my fondest wishes. For these gifts, I have come to understand that I owe you no small amount of gratitude (mostly at the prodding of my dear Regina).
The desired procedure happened soon after our arrival and then, a short time later, our hosts were able to help us recover our Gladys and Sophia. I will not attempt at this time to try to convey the emotions of that day, but I have reason to believe that you, of all men, might understand.
Since then, we have been, in a manner of speaking, getting our feet on the ground and helping the girls come to grips with the strange turns our lives have taken. It has been a demanding but fulfilling time. Please allow me to thank you once more for your role in bringing about these events.
It is in that spirit of gratitude that I pen these lines, for I believe I have discovered something here on this strange, ancient world that you and your people—our people now—might find of great importance. These androids—the Alices, Maisies, Doloreses, Sydneys, and even the Stellas—possess astonishing amounts of information about the history of your galaxy and, even more importantly, their galaxy. There is a story here and, unless I have misunderstood the signs and portents, perhaps a threat. I have convinced my hosts to let Regina and me visit your daughter’s home in the hope we may convey some of this information and make our case. I have briefed Lal and asked her to explain our findings to you. If you have the inclination and find my case convincing, please contact me at your earliest convenience so we can discuss our next steps.
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Kindest regards,
Professor James Moriarty
P.S. Forgive my little joke with the business card. If we pursue this project, I felt certain we would need to find entrées to many strange places, and I have found that nothing works so well in those situations as a suitably impressive business card.
—J. M.
Data read the letter a second time to check for encoded messages, then he ran a quick scan on it to make sure it wasn’t concealing any other information, but he found nothing. It was only a letter and nothing more. And a business card. And the promise of some new threat. “And a mystery,” Data said aloud as Lal pushed through the door into the living room.
“What was that, Father?”
Data looked up at his daughter and grinned. Brandishing the business card, he said, “I believe, my dear girl, that the game is afoot.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, thank you to David Mack for returning Data and Lal to the land of the living (such as it is) so I could continue their stories. Thanks also to David R. George for his timely assistance with the Deep Space 9 portions of the book. Thank you to Margaret and Ed at Pocket Books for their easygoing manner and for letting me take my time with this project, and also to Kimberly for her ace proofreading and comments. As always, thanks to Marco Palmieri for bringing me into the Trek fold.
I can practically guarantee that at any point in this story where you, the reader, thought, “That was a cool twist,” then my pal Joshua Macy had something to do with it. Tristan Mayer kept an eye on the details and made sure I didn’t embarrass myself too badly.
Love always to Helen and a rub on the head for Albert Lee, who slept under my desk most of the time while I was working on this. He’s looking at me right this second like it must be time to go for a walk.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jeffrey Lang has written or co-written several books set in the Star Trek universe, including Immortal Coil, Section 31: Abyss, and The Left Hand of Destiny. He has recently completed an original fantasy novel that should see print in the not-too-distant future. He lives in Bala Cynwyd, PA, with his partner, Helen, too many cats, and an old dog.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN 978-1-4767-5051-4
ISBN 978-1-4767-5052-1 (ebook)
CONTENTS
Historian’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About Jeffrey Lang