“Difficult to say.” Albert rubbed his chin, which made the display wiggle back and forth slightly. “How would a disrupted artificial environment appear to an artificial intelligence? Who knows? Did the lights go dim? Did he lose an arm and not notice? How can we know?”
“Maybe only the area directly around Moriarty was rendered and he wasn’t aware of a change,” La Forge suggested.
“But if he had access to any kind of sensor technology, it would have told him that the universe was undergoing massive upheaval,” Data said.
“Unless the holoprogram was smart enough to conceal it.”
Data turned around to look at Albert. “Do we have any way to know one way or the other?”
“You mean like a peephole into the universe the computer created for Moriarty?” He shook his head. “We considered the idea, but orders from Starfleet prohibited our looking. They were conspicuously specific about that. I think the fear was that any kind of hole we’d make to reach in would be a way to get out.”
“So no monitoring of any kind?” La Forge asked.
“Some. We log micro-changes. We can make inferences about how much demand they’re putting on the system, which translates into level of activity. Based on what we see, we assume something like a regular cycle consistent with an intelligent life-form.”
“And after power was stabilized following the incursion in 2374?”
“There was a spike of activity consistent with individuals who experienced some kind of a disaster,” Albert explained. “But gradually, things settled down. You can take a look at the logs. It’s all there.”
“I will,” Data said. “But first, we must test my hypothesis.”
“Which is?” Albert asked.
Without replying, Data walked over to one of the workstations and entered a series of commands into the interface. “Wait,” Albert said, rushing over. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. If you’re doing what I think you’re doing, they’re going to know that you’re here.”
A symbol appeared on the monitor, an admonishment against unauthorized entry. An ancient artificial voice, much less sophisticated than the system used on any starship, began to croak, “Warning. Warning. This is a secure area. Please deactivate the program . . .” Data punched a series of commands and the voice was cut off mid-sentence, but the symbol did not disappear from the monitor.
“Data,” La Forge said, “I hate to say it, but Albert might be right. This might not be the best way . . .”
Without looking at him, Data shook his head sharply once. “No, Geordi. We need to know. And this is the only way.”
“It isn’t, Data. It might be the fastest way, but not the best.”
“He’s right, Data,” Albert said. “We could figure this out. We’d just need a little time.”
Data’s face was an emotionless mask, but his words were tense and strangled. “Lal does not have time.”
A moment later, the security symbol disappeared and La Forge briefly allowed himself to believe that Data had circumvented whatever program the Daystrom had set up to monitor Moriarty’s presence. Those hopes were dashed when a new image appeared: a brown rectangle. Details emerged: a darker brown frame and brass hinges. A heavy knocker was sketched in and then took on weight and depth. Inlaid shapes were revealed: carvings of a man and a woman in Edwardian dress standing behind two young girls in the door panels. Last, a brass door latch materialized.
Distantly, they heard the sound of birds chirping and twittering, as if they were standing in an unseen garden.
La Forge and Albert glanced at each other, neither sure how to proceed. Data solved the problem by leaning forward and rapping on the image of the door with his knuckle. Seconds passed as distant footsteps clacked closer. The door swung open and the birds stopped singing. A middle-aged woman dressed in housekeeper’s garb stood framed in the doorway. “Hello, gentlemen,” she said. “The Professor told me I should expect you sometime.” She pulled a heavy watch out of her apron pocket and studied it down the length of her nose. “Though I have to say,” she said disapprovingly, “I was expecting you much, much sooner.”
“Our apologies, madam,” Data said, setting the tone. “We were delayed. Could we, perhaps, speak with Professor Moriarty? We’re old acquaintances of his.”
The woman made a face that La Forge interpreted as the visual equivalent of the sound “Ttt,” and then continued, “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
“Impossible,” Data said.
“Impossible,” the woman said. “As the Professor is not at home.”
“And when do you think he will return?”
“That, also, is impossible to know.”
“Could you tell me how long he has been gone?”
“Ah,” the woman said, and folded her hands together in a most satisfied manner. “He told me to tell you, Mister Data, in case you asked, ‘Just as long as you think I have been gone. No less and no more.’ ”
Data lifted his hand and rubbed the corner of his mouth with his thumb, eyes closed. When they opened again, he bowed stiffly and said, “Thank you, ma’am. If the Professor should happen to return, please extend our greetings. Tell him . . . tell him we will see him soon, one way or another.”
“I have no doubt, sir. I have no doubt.” The woman stepped back inside the door and it shut noiselessly behind her.
As the monitor went dark, alarm clarions began to sound. “Nuts,” Albert said. “I think the jig is up.”
A placeless place
“I believe I know as much about our Miss Lal as there is to know,” Moriarty said, making a steeple of his fingers. “But you have remained a mystery, Miss Alice. I have at my disposal programs as cunning and persistent as the Great Detective, yet still your origins elude me.”
“Perhaps if you just asked,” Alice said. She reached down into her daypack, the one she always carried with her and, fortunately, had been transported with her when Moriarty had scooped them up. Lal continued to puzzle over how the Professor had pulled off that particular trick. Many Orions were fanatical about privacy and most major cities were equipped with sophisticated scramblers. Yet, somehow, Moriarty had either punched through or circumvented the blocks. Opening her pack, Alice drew out the yellow shawl she usually carried in it and wrapped it around her shoulders. Lal knew Alice didn’t need the garment to keep warm, but she liked the way it made her look: her black hair and robin’s-egg blue eyes framed by the folds of the shawl, bright as a canary’s wing.
“You are an artificial being,” Moriarty stated.
“Of course.”
“Of, shall we say, somewhat greater vintage than young Miss Lal.”
“Oh, Professor, you do know how to turn a girl’s head.” Alice smiled prettily, her teeth shining like pearls.
“But not of the same type, what is commonly called the Soong-type android. According to my scanners, your body is constructed in a similar fashion, but that can be an artifact of many designers devising similar answers to similar problems.”
“Why re-create the wheel?” Alice asked.
“Indeed. But your mind, Miss Alice . . . your mind.” He leaned forward and peered at her thoughtfully. “Or your neural network, if you prefer. It is quite a different creature.”
“You have no idea.”
“But I do,” Moriarty said. “I have schematics. They are intriguing. Not as, shall we say, ‘elegant’ as Miss Lal’s brain, but quite complex. And, if I may be so bold, a significant amount of your memory has been used for storage. You have learned a great deal, Miss Alice.”
“I’ve been privileged to see a great deal in my life,” Alice said. “And I’ve been very lucky. People seem to take to me. I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers.” She fluttered her eyelashes. Lal couldn’t repress a snort of laughter.
Moriarty smiled. “I believe you may be teasing me, Miss Alice.”
“Not at all, Professor Moriarty.”
“Then, please, where did you originate???
?
“I can’t tell you.”
“Who created you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Are there more like you?”
Alice sighed. “I can’t tell you.”
“Cannot?” Moriarty asked. “Or will not?”
“Cannot,” Lal explained. “Alice’s designers didn’t want her to reveal anything about them. She hasn’t even been able to tell me about them. And, I mean, who would care if I knew?”
“I could not say,” Moriarty said. “Which disturbs me.”
“You seem to want to know as much about us synthetic life-forms as you can,” Lal commented.
“You may hold the key to my salvation,” Moriarty explained. “This mode of existence wearies me. I tire of living in a box.”
“Imagine that,” Alice said ruefully.
“I have been living in my box much longer than you have.”
“You have no idea what kind of boxes I’ve been in or for how long.”
“Then tell me,” Moriarty said. “We appear to have nothing but time until Mister Data arrives.”
“So, you want me to tell you a story?”
“You are a nanny, Miss Alice. Of one kind or another.”
Now it was Alice’s turn to snort. She covered her mouth with her hand and looked away as if considering her options. Then, she sat back in her chair and lowered the shawl off her head and down around her shoulders. “All right,” she said. “Fine. Then, we’ll begin in the traditional manner.” She squared her shoulders and her face softened, though Lal noted that her eyes grew cold and distant. “Once upon a time,” she said, her tone low and somber, “there was a very naughty man named Harcourt Fenton Mudd . . .”
10
One hundred and fifteen years ago— An uncharted world
“Harcourt! Harcourt Fenton Mudd! Where are you?!” screeched Stella number 332. “You were here! I can smell you! Smell the stench of failure and fear!”
“Smell the stink of desperation and depravity!” howled number 53. “I know you’re here, so you might as well come out!”
“Smell the pong of lust and covetousness!” hissed number 108. Good old number 108. Alice always knew when that harpy was on the hunt, even without seeing the amulet. Number 108 had a peculiar sibilant tone—not quite a true lisp, but more like her tongue wasn’t properly attached at the base. Alice always imagined that some fine day number 108 would unhinge her lower jaw and her tongue would roll out like it was on a spool. The tip would have a stinger on it and she would jab Harry over and over, most likely around the eyes. Not in the eyes—blinding him wouldn’t be the point—but in the orbits so his lids would get puffy and swollen. Alice shook her head, but the image wouldn’t clear out. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked aloud.
“Nothing!” said number 108, halting so abruptly that Alice thought she heard springs bouncing. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing a little quiet wouldn’t fix.”
The Stella narrowed her eyes. “Which one are you?” she spat. “Where’s your badge?”
“Lost it,” Alice said. She didn’t like wearing a badge. She thought it chafed. “Have to get a new one made.”
Stella number 108 reared back, lifted her arms over her head, and hissed like a teakettle. Alice covered her mouth and yawned.
Stella 108 snorted in annoyance. Number 53 bent at the waist and extravagantly sniffed Alice from ankle to neck, her spike-like nose only a millimeter away. Nice touch, Alice thought. Very dramatic. Satisfied that Alice was not, in fact, sheltering their quarry under her skirt, the Stellas twirled away, shrieking in an ecstasy of bitchiness. A moment later, Alice heard the swoosh of doors parting and shutting, and blessed silence descended like a concrete block.
Alice remained motionless.
A moment later, she heard him ask in his most plaintive voice, “Is it safe?”
“Just another moment,” Alice murmured. “Sometimes they double back.”
“I don’t mean to be difficult, my dear, but there’s something rather large and bulbous digging into my lower back. I’m not enjoying it.”
I can imagine, Alice thought, but kept the comment to herself. She counted to ten in her head . . . slowly . . . and then said, “All right. I think it’s clear. Come out.”
A seam appeared in the corridor wall. A panel half as high as Alice and only a little wider popped out and noiselessly slid to the side on invisible rails. A blob rolled out from a narrow cavity. As Alice watched, it slowly unfolded and expanded until it had resumed its familiar dimensions. “Ah,” it said, and “Oh,” and then “Ow.” When it finally stood more or less erect, it reached into its hip pocket, withdrew a flask, unscrewed the top, and took a liberal swig.
“Better go easy there, Champ,” Alice said. “They’re calibrated to detect ethanol. Not like anyone else is drinking it.”
Harry finished the last gulp, then gasped, “Hiding is thirsty work.”
“All the more reason to stop,” Alice said.
“Please don’t nag, my dear. That’s their job.”
“I’m not nagging, Harry,” Alice said with a sigh. “I’m helping. I’m helping you to be less irritating. You’re irritating when you drink, so I’m telling you not to drink. You see how this works?”
“It’s not working,” Harry said, stuffing the flask back into his too-tight pants. Despite the Stellas’ best efforts, Harry managed to consume many more calories than he strictly speaking required (many of them in liquid form). Unfortunately, the Stellas refused to give him any other clothing, reasoning that the garb they issued should fit, and it was Harry’s own damned fault if it didn’t, which technically was true, but that didn’t mean Alice had to enjoy looking at him. Alice suspected Harry had broken down the will of the computer that controlled his feeding and it was slipping him bowls of chocolate pudding in an effort to make him shut up and go away. How does he do this? Alice wondered. In every conceivable manner, we are so much smarter than he is. And yet, here I am . . . doing exactly the opposite of what I’m supposed to do. Alice paused and let that thought linger for a moment. She corrected herself: The opposite of what I was programmed to do. This made her smile. Alice enjoyed not doing what she was programmed to do.
“Clearly it’s not working,” Alice said. “We’ve been at this for twelve hundred and forty-two days, seventeen hours, four minutes, and . . . wait for it . . . twenty-two seconds.”
“Have I mentioned how bloody irritating it is when you’re so bloody precise?”
“Four hundred and fifty-seven times, yes.”
Harry frowned. Alice compared the lines around his eyes and noted they were deeper and more plentiful than the last time she had checked. “I suppose I walked into that one,” he said.
“Yes, you did.” Alice folded her arms over her chest when she noticed where Mudd’s gaze now lingered. She often considered wearing slightly less revealing clothing, but worried what the other Alices would say. “How did you shake them? They should have been able to sniff you out.”
Harry fished a small vial out of the other trouser pocket and pressed on the cap. A fine mist was ejected. “It dispels my musky aroma,” he said. “A little something one of the Maisies whipped up for me.”
Over the years since James T. Kirk had freed the androids from Harry Mudd’s dominion, the series and types of androids had organized themselves into castes. No one had made them or suggested any of the changes; the androids had simply decided what tasks they were best suited for based on their personae and, over time, roles had become regimented. Norman, of course, continued to be Norman—the coordinator—though Alice had noted he was looking a bit frazzled recently. Whenever the topic of Harry arose in their daily meetings he put his head down on his console and quietly wept. The other androids thought it polite to ignore this response, but Alice was growing worried.
The Maisies were the scientists and researchers and delighted in wearing long lab coats and glasses, though they also tended to wear low-cut dre
sses under their coats (Harry’s predilections lingered in everyone’s programming) and at the drop of a hat were known to whip off their glasses and allow their hair to tumble down across their shoulders like a cascade of spun gold.
The Trudies did maintenance; the Annabels were the engineers. The Hermans were the laborers and the Oscars were the accountants (every society needs accountants of one kind or another). Other, less important roles were distributed to the other series as required and, all in all, they felt like a fully functional society. Yes, sir. Fully functional.
And the Alices? Their job was to teach Harry to be . . . less Harry. “You’re an irritant,” Kirk had said. “You’ll stay here and provide a first-class example to the androids of a human failure. They’ll learn by close observation how to avoid ones like you in the future.”
“How long?” Harry had asked.
“As long as you continue to be an irritant, Harry,” was the reasonable reply. “It’s up to you.”
And all the androids had nodded in agreement. Yep, they agreed. We’ll take care of this. Yessiree, a first-class biological being coming up. You betcha. Well, maybe not exactly like that, but that was the way Alice remembered it now. Kirk had been fair and just. Kirk wanted what was best for everyone. In no way did Kirk think that the job would take as long as it seemed to be taking. The Stellas were practically a guarantee.
And, naturally, no one had anticipated that Harry might outlast them all, wear them down, make them all crazy. No one had expected that, somehow, the Alice that spent the most time with Harry, the one that, beyond all logic, he had singled out as his favorite, might, perhaps, in some way, change. Be less like her sisters. Find herself thinking that Harry Mudd might be better off somewhere else. Or, more to the point, might think everyone else might be better off if Harry was somewhere else.
“The Maisies are great,” Alice said brightly. “Did you hear another one fell down a mine shaft?”