Star Trek: The Next Generation - 116 - The Light Fantastic

  “Really?” Harry asked absently, shaking his flask to see if there was another drop or two left inside. “How awful. Yes, that’s really terrible.”

  “Some of the others think she might have jumped.”

  “Huh.” Harry sucked on the neck of the flask. “Imagine that.”

  “Yes. Imagine. Any chance it might have been Maisie number 64 who you pestered into giving you the . . .” She hesitated at calling the spray mist a deodorant. “The hormone suppressant?”

  “I’m not really sure, my dear,” Harry said absently. “It very well might have been, but, you know, they all look alike, don’t they?”

  “They do,” Alice said, as she touched her throat where her amulet used to be. There had been a number on it. She had forgotten the number. “Say, Harry,” she continued, “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Yes, my dearest one,” Harry said, suddenly losing interest in the flask. He moved closer and wrapped his arm around Alice’s shoulder. “What have you been thinking?”

  Alice shimmied away, suppressing a shudder. “I’ve been thinking . . . I’ve been thinking . . .” She looked up and down the corridor desperately wishing a Stella would swish into view, but knowing none would. They weren’t scheduled for another pass for four minutes and twenty-two seconds. “I think I know where you might find a ship.”

  Harry’s brow furrowed and he tipped his head to one side. The earring that hung from his left lobe jingled. He opened his mouth to speak, but then had to pause to lick his lips. “You . . . what? You know what?”

  “I said that I think I know where you can find a ship. A spaceship. One that can get you off this planet. I’ve been doing a little poking around and I found a hangar. The little ship you came here in . . . it’s there and someone . . . probably one of the Maisies . . . must have fixed it . . .”

  Harry crushed Alice to his chest. Her internal structure was stronger—so much stronger—than his flesh and bone, yet, for a moment, she worried that he might crush her. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you, my dearest one. I knew I could count on you.” Grasping her shoulders, Harry held her at arms’ length and grinned, eyes atwinkle and the tips of his mustache curling ever upward. “When do we leave?”

  Three days ago—Orion Prime

  “When will you be home?” Lal asked. Her father had already begun to transform into Davey, the identity he adopted when he was working at the diner. His face was rounder and his back and shoulders slumped. The worn, greasy shirt he wore bulged slightly around his middle.

  “At the usual time,” Data said. “My shift ends after the early-morning rush. I do not anticipate any need to stay longer unless the first-shift short-order cook is late and Oban requires assistance; however, I believe Kevar is working tomorrow morning and he is an extremely reliable person.” It was strange to hear her father’s perfectly formed sentences emerging from the stubble-covered face of a near-stranger.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked. Lal was curled up in her favorite chaise on the porch, the one positioned so she could watch the widest swath of the street, peering between the fronds of the giant ferns arranged around the perimeter of the front yard.

  The transformation was almost complete and the man who vaguely resembled her father tipped his head to the side in a manner that she would instantly recognize no matter what face he was wearing. “What do you mean, daughter? Am I enjoying myself at this moment? Yes, I am. I always enjoy our conversations. Or are you inquiring whether I am enjoying the work I do at the diner?”

  “Both,” Lal replied, pulling her hair back over her ears. She had let her hair grow out again, but she hadn’t quite gotten accustomed to the sensation of it tickling the back of her neck. “And neither. You choose.”

  His tone softened. “I enjoy the smell of fried potatoes and onions and kanar. I find myself endlessly fascinated by the thermodynamics of cooking eggs and bacon. I have piloted starships through the interstellar void, but, somehow, right now, I find the process of managing a busy weekend breakfast rush more compelling.” He assumed the gruff voice of the fry cook he played four mornings a week. “What do you think a’that, little girl?”

  “I think it sounds like fun,” Lal said. “Maybe I should get a job as a waitress.”

  Her father’s expression darkened and he resumed his normal tone. “I am not sure that would be wise, Lal. Despite what you might think, waiting on tables can be quite stressful. It could provoke a reaction, and the stabilizer is too large to easily transport.”

  Lal sighed. “Father, I haven’t needed to use the stabilizer for thirty-two point five days. My positronic network has been . . .”

  “It has not been placed under any significant stress,” her father interrupted.

  “You’ve never been out in the evening with Alice when she is being pursued by Orion salarymen.”

  Her father narrowed his eyes and did not respond for several seconds. “I believe,” he said tersely, “that this might be one of those areas that it would be best if you did not delve into greater detail.”

  Lal realized (too late) that her father was correct. After they had moved into the house, they had worked out an arrangement about how much and what kind of information they wished to share about their lives when apart. One of the primary tenets of the agreement was Lal did not go into detail about the adventures she and Alice encountered on their forays into Orion nightlife. Not that Lal had much to tell—she possessed only the mildest appetite for companionship—but Alice’s escapades were epic. Lal considered herself to be the Sancho Panza to Alice’s Don Quixote. Part of the reason her father had taken a job where he worked overnight was, Lal suspected, so he wouldn’t be left rattling around the house when the women were out. In response to his comment, she said simply, “You’ll be late if you don’t leave soon.”

  “That is entirely true.” Her father leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, a habit he had adopted after moving into the house. She enjoyed the warmth of the gesture, as well as the aromas that clung to his work clothes—a mingling of cooking oil and honest perspiration. “Where is Alice? Did she go somewhere without you?”

  “No. In her room. She said she was resting, but that’s ridiculous, of course. I think she might be primping. Or continuing her investigations. One’s as likely as the other.”

  Her father frowned, an expression she found especially troubling on the face he was wearing. Lal didn’t like the way it made the flesh around his cheeks and neck fold. “She had not found any additional information,” he said, the inflection making the sentence a statement rather than a question. Clearly, her father had been investigating, too.

  “I wish both of you would relax,” Lal said, folding her arms and sighing. “We don’t really know what happened. From what I’ve heard, neither of them was particularly tied to Orion, so they could have simply up and left of their own volition. And neither Proxima nor Clea was very careful about concealing their true natures. Not that I think it’s really all that important myself . . .”

  “We have discussed this, Lal. I find the idea of any other artificial intelligences knowing of our presence here troubling enough. But when they disappear in that manner, unaccountably . . . Perhaps we should consider moving back to the tower.”

  “No.”

  “Daughter—just for a short time. Until we have assessed the status of your friends.”

  “Proxima and Clea were not my friends, Father. I barely knew them. And what I did know, I didn’t particularly like.”

  “That is not the point.”

  “And Alice has been checking every source she can. I’m actually a little surprised at how diligent she’s been . . .”

  “It is her job, Lal.”

  Lal cocked an eyebrow and made what she hoped was a suitably wry expression. “There are days, Father, where it feels like I’m the bodyguard and she is my charge.”

  “Alice is not a bodyguard. She is a . . . caretaker.”

  Rolling her eyes, Lal said, “You reall
y are going to be late now.”

  Her father patted his belly, checking to see how much mass he had redistributed to his midsection. “We will continue this discussion when I return. If you go out tonight . . . perhaps it would be best if you didn’t . . .”

  “Good night, Father.”

  “Good night, Lal.”

  No sooner did the front door close than Lal heard Alice emerge from her room on the second floor. She padded down the narrow stairway, each footfall barely making a sound. Poking her head into the room, Alice asked, “Is he off?”

  “Yes.”

  “Asked about the girls again, didn’t he?”

  “How can you tell?”

  “You look ruffled. And you only get ruffled when he brings up moving back to the casino.”

  “He’s worried about prowlers sneaking into the house and sweeping us away.”

  Alice flopped down into the other large chair. She was wearing her voluminous robe, the one that was big enough that she could wrap herself in its folds. She did this now, curling into a ball and pulling the hood up over her head. Lal thought it made her look childlike and vulnerable, which, she imagined, was the point. “He might be right,” she said. “I just had another message from my League contact. No one has heard from either Clea or Proxima for nine days. They missed a check-in they had arranged with their sponsor. Both of them were fruity little nutjobs, but they knew better than to miss a meeting they asked for.”

  “Father would be displeased if he knew you were talking to the League.”

  “I don’t know why—they seem to think very highly of him. It’s hard to have a conversation with another android without having to listen to their questions about the famous Mister Data.”

  “He has occupied a unique role in the history of our people,” Lal replied, not a little proudly. “But I believe he is more interested in maintaining his privacy these days. It’s a phase. He died and then came back to life. He lost his father and his first love all in the space of what must have seemed a few days. I think that’s why he was content to lock himself away in his tower for so long: He controlled every inch of it. There was no such thing as kismet or chance.”

  “It’s a casino. It’s supposed to be all about chance.”

  Lal looked askance at her friend. Currently, only her blue eyes were visible through a narrow open strip. “You’ve worked in enough casinos to know that’s never the case.”

  Alice shrugged. “I guess. But, hey, you died, too. Why aren’t you being all introspective and broody?”

  “Coming back to life is easier when you’ve barely had a life.”

  Alice folded her hands and bowed her head. “Teach me, sensei. You know so many truths. Can’t you spare a couple?”

  Lal threw a pillow at her and Alice tumbled extravagantly—and in slow motion—out of her chair. “Ow,” she said after she had uncurled onto her back.

  “Poor, dear girl,” Lal said. “Are we going out tonight?”

  Alice pinched her lips together. “Not sure. Maybe. I don’t know if I have anything to wear.”

  “You have more clothes now than I am likely to wear over the course of my entire life.”

  “I like to be stylish. And I meant I don’t know if I have anything I want to wear.”

  “Wear your robe.”

  “But then no one will know it’s me.” Lal picked up another pillow and prepared to throw it. Alice covered her face with her arms. “Perhaps Data has a point. It might be safer to stay home tonight.”

  “Then I shall go alone.”

  “Unthinkable. Orion’s nightlife shall never recover if you’re seen in public without me.” She sat up and rose gracefully to her feet. “I shall investigate the pile of clothing in my room and try to find something acceptable.” As she disappeared up the stairs, Lal heard another set of footsteps climb the steps to the front porch. She wondered if her father had forgotten something. More likely, he had continued to fret and was returning to issue another warning/request.

  Aggravated, she walked to the front door and yanked it open before her father could grasp the handle. “Really, Father, you just need to learn to relax. We’ll be . . .”

  But it wasn’t her father standing before her. The only things that registered on her consciousness in the next moment were the figure’s size—he was considerably broader than Data—and the expression of mild surprise on his face. Apparently, he hadn’t expected anyone to open the door at that precise moment. “I’m sorry,” Lal began. “I thought you were someone else . . .”

  “I get that a lot,” the man said as he pulled a small device from his jacket pocket. Then, he covered his eyes with a gloved hand and depressed a button on the top of the device. Lal’s world exploded in a flash of white light that immediately contracted into a pinprick of black.

  The last thought she had before succumbing to the darkness was, Oh, dear, Father is going to be upset about this.

  11

  The Present—The Daystrom Institute

  “What are your security protocols?” Data asked, turning to the main console. The screen had gone blank after the clarion began to drone and the interface had gone dark. La Forge mentally noted that the tone of the alarm was nothing like the Red Alert klaxon on a starship. It was a low, benign sound, more like a friendly warning instead of an alert that disaster had struck.

  “They’re not my damned security protocols,” Albert groused. “But we’re locked out of the network. Doors are probably sealed . . .”

  La Forge tapped the control stud beside the door and it made an apologetic blurp, but did not open.

  “Do you have security guards? Mechanical or human?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Albert shouted. “I just work here! Why did you do that? We could have figured out another way to check whether he was still in there.”

  “I do not think so,” Data said calmly and tapped the surface of the bracelet he wore on his left wrist. “Shakti, can you get a transporter lock on us?”

  “Not yet,” came the pleasant, soothing response. “There’s a transporter scrambler over the entire campus now.”

  “How long will it take you to break through?”

  “Working on it. At least a couple of minutes. Oh, my,” she said with a tone of mingled pleasure and awe. “These are some smart people, Data. We should come back here sometime.”

  “I am not entirely certain we will be welcome.”

  “Well, whose fault is that?”

  “You can come back without me,” Data replied. He lowered his wrist and turned back to Albert. “Moriarty meant for me to receive this message. Any probe we would have made, no matter how careful, would have set off the alarm. He is taunting me.”

  The alarm suddenly ceased. Outside in the hallway, La Forge heard multiple voices calling to one another. He adjusted his eyes to read heat signatures and studied the blue and red blurs. “Data,” he called. “We have multiple persons on the other side of the door. I’m reading at least one . . . no, two . . . with phasers.”

  “I hear them. They are discussing tactics. I get the impression that they do not have many opportunities to deal with these sorts of incursions. One of them seems very enthusiastic about using a stun grenade.”

  “Will that work on you?”

  “I do not think so, but it will on both of you.”

  “I don’t want to be stunned,” Albert said.

  “If Shakti’s estimate is accurate, it should not be a problem. They are still debating.”

  “Did I ever say I wanted to come along with you?” Albert snapped.

  “Good point, Data,” La Forge said, saying a silent prayer that Albert would be left behind.

  “No, you did not. And I believe we can construct a scenario where it is clear that you were not helping us willingly, thereby removing suspicion and giving you the ability to help me with another task.”

  “Why would I . . . ?” he began, and then he sat back down in his seat, looking very old and tired. “What did you
have in mind?”

  “Could you contact Mister Barclay?”

  “He’s in the Delta Quadrant,” Albert said. “On the Galen.”

  “I am aware of that,” Data said. “I want you to ask Mister Barclay if he could arrange a discussion with the EMH program. I believe the Doctor may be able to provide some insight into Moriarty’s motivations and future actions.”

  “And he has a mobile emitter,” La Forge mentioned. “We should find out as much as we can about how it works. We might be able to tempt Moriarty into coming out of hiding if we wave that kind of technology in his face.”

  Albert protested. “It’s twenty-ninth-century technology. Have you seen the scans? The circuitry was grown, not assembled. Reg has a theory that it emits nanomachines so small that they’re virtually undetectable. He said some of it looked like highly evolved Borg technology . . .”

  “And I very much doubt the Doctor would be willing to surrender it,” Data said. “But there are other reasons to talk with him. Can you arrange it?”

  “Sure,” Albert croaked. “I’ll dash off a note to the Delta Quadrant right after these guys arrest me.”

  La Forge said, “They appear to be reaching some consensus out here.” The red-and-blue blobs were spacing themselves evenly up and down the hallway. The largest blob was positioned in front of the door. A moment later, the doors parted a few inches and a spherical object no larger than a grapefruit dropped onto the floor. Data scooped it up and flicked it back through the opening before the door snapped shut.

  A dull thoom shook the room and men began shouting.

  Looking back over to Albert, Data continued, “I have already explained that this will not be an issue.” He tapped his bracelet again and asked, “Shakti? Time?”

  “Allllllmost done, Data. This is the most fun I’ve had in months. Every time I think I’ve got the right frequency, the system shifts into a new phase. Do these guys have lots of valuable stuff?”

  “I think they are simply tired of having people take their things.”