“Everything you say sounds like you’re about to break into a song,” Lal said.
The Countess guffawed, the back of her hand under her nose, eyes shut. She laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. “Ah, Lal,” she said when she could breathe again, “I truly hope you’ll be able to meet my girls someday. They would adore you.”
“I’m sure I’d like them, too,” Lal said. “Tell me more about them. How old were they? What did they look like? Do you have any pictures of them? Wait, what am I saying? Here, you could easily enough make a picture of them, couldn’t you?”
“No,” the Countess said, shaking her head. “I could not.”
“I’m sorry,” Lal said. “Was that insensitive of me? Is it difficult for you to think about . . .”
“You misunderstand,” the Countess interrupted. “I would if I could.” Casting her arms wide as if to embrace the entire room, she said, “I would fill the walls, every wall of every room, but I cannot . . . I do not . . .” She closed her eyes and touched the tips of two white fingers to her two white eyelids. “I cannot recall their faces. My Gladys, my Sophia . . . I cannot recall their faces. The memories have been taken from me.”
“When the computer crashed?” Lal said. “When you were damaged? Is that what you mean?”
“I don’t know,” the Countess said, her voice becoming cool. “My husband says that would be impossible, that we . . . as the purpose the program existed . . . our memories could not be compromised. He says that the entire world would have been erased before the crash could have affected us.”
“But you said,” Lal recalled, “that there was nothing but a single room. That nothing else was left. It sounds pretty close to the world being erased to me.”
“But not the entire world,” the Countess retorted. “My husband says he remembers them perfectly. He believes my inability to do so is not damage to my memory, but my psyche.”
“He believes you are traumatized.”
“Yes.”
Lal saw that the Countess did not agree. “But you?”
“I believe some of my memories were deleted in order to preserve the core of the universe.”
“Your husband.”
“Yes.”
“And you?” Lal asked, suddenly discovering she was twisting the coverlet around her fingers so tightly that they ached. “What are you?”
“Part of the program,” the Countess said. “Part of the illusion.” She waved her hand like an actress on a stage. “The light fantastic.”
“But your husband, he refuses to believe this might be true.”
“That’s his illusion, my dear. If he allowed himself to believe that I and our daughters were no more substantial than a photon, it would destroy him.”
“But your daughters were photons, weren’t they?” Lal said. “And he knows that. If he could know that and love them, why not you, too? It seems so arbitrary and cruel.”
The Countess looked back over at Lal and, unexpectedly, smiled brightly. Crossing the room, she sat down on the edge of the bed again and caressed Lal’s cheek with the tip of her finger. “You really are extraordinarily young, aren’t you? No more than a babe.”
“Chronologically, I am less than two solar years old,” Lal admitted, “but I have an extremely sophisticated neural net. In human terms, I’m . . .”
“That’s not what I meant,” the Countess said. “You seemed surprised that a person could hold two contradictory ideas in his mind simultaneously and not wonder at the conflict.”
Lal wasn’t sure whether she was vaguely insulted or needed to explain her perspective in greater detail. Instead, she simply said, “It is not logical.”
The Countess chuckled. “No” was all she said. “Of course not. But my husband is afraid and therefore desperate. Have you ever been afraid, my dear?”
Though she knew there was virtue in honesty, Lal also understood the woman who was asking her this might be a minion of her captor, though she sincerely did not want to believe this could be true. Finally, she said, “Every sentient being knows fear. Knowing you exist also means knowing you could end. I have already died once. I fear doing so again.”
“Then I must be sentient, too,” the Countess agreed. “Though I am not so much afraid of dying as finding out I never really existed.”
Lal reached up and gripped the Countess’s hand in her own. “You’re going to love my father,” she said. “He talks just like you.”
Aboard the Archeus
“I had another thought, Data,” Lee said. La Forge had been hoping he would have been cut off when the Archeus went into warp, but Shakti had clearly taken a liking to the old man and the two had been happily chatting since leaving Deep Space 9.
La Forge had faded away sometime during their rambling conversation and realized he must have been napping for a while because he woke up in the copilot’s seat (he didn’t remember sitting down there) with a crick in his neck.
When Data turned away from the pilot’s console to respond to Lee, the control panel in front of La Forge became active. Guess Shakti knows I’m awake, he thought. A moment later, a steaming cup of coffee materialized in the holder next to his seat. He picked it up, nodded gratefully to no one in particular, and studied the navigational display. Either he had been asleep for quite a while or the Archeus was even faster than Shakti had claimed. They appeared to be approaching their destination, a small moon orbiting an unnamed Class-K planet.
“Concerning?” Data asked.
“Moriarty’s demands. While I think it’s a good idea to pursue this Korby idea, shouldn’t we consider technology we already have access to?”
“You speak again of the device.”
“Correct,” Lee said, sounding like a dog worrying a bone. “Like I said, I’m pretty sure I could get to it if required.”
“You mean like we got to Moriarty’s data solid?” La Forge asked. He knew he was being difficult, but he just couldn’t help himself.
“It wasn’t my fault the alarms went off,” Lee barked.
“That’s right, Geordi,” Shakti said. “It wasn’t Albert’s fault.” Clearly, Shakti was smitten.
“Right, right,” La Forge said. “Sorry. But would it make any difference? It’s not like we have any spare androids lying around.”
“We have the early Soong-types,” Lee said. “The pre–B-Four prototypes. They’re probably not what Moriarty was looking for, but, in a pinch . . .”
“I, too, considered the idea,” Data said, “but I would employ it only as a last-ditch effort. For now, I believe we should focus our efforts on acquiring the Exo III device from Mudd.”
“Any ideas for how we can get it from him?” La Forge asked.
“I am astonishingly wealthy,” Data said. “That might be a factor.”
La Forge slurped his coffee, working hard not to comment.
“From what I’ve been able to determine,” Shakti said, “so is Mudd. Perhaps not on the same scale you are, Data, but it’s difficult to know for sure. He seems to have done a good job of concealing some of his wealth. It’s old money. Very old and not necessarily something I can find.”
“You mean he might have it stuffed in his mattress?” Lee asked.
“Very succinctly put,” Shakti said approvingly.
“Then we shall play it by ear,” Data said. “Every man has his price.”
“And every android,” Shakti added.
“And every android,” Data agreed.
“Coming out of warp,” La Forge announced for no reason other than he felt like he should say something. “Three two one.”
“Out,” Shakti said. The lighting in the cabin shifted subtly as the main viewscreen brightened to display the arc of the planetoid’s southern hemisphere. It was a dirty gray rock, a dull and lifeless place. “Strange place for a man named Mudd to end up,” Shakti opined.
“The irony is noted, Shakti,” Data said. “Are you hailing?”
“I am,” s
he replied pleasantly. “And I am receiving a reply. Some kind of automaton is telling me to go away if I’m selling something and to drop the package on the doorstep if I’m delivering.”
“Have you located the doorstep?”
“A transporter platform in geosynchronous orbit over the south pole.”
“No sign of an abode?”
“Scanners say no. Nothing on the surface.”
“Underground?”
“Seems logical.”
“If we drop off something on the doorstep, could you trace the transporter signal?”
“Probably. What did you have in mind, boss?”
“Myself,” Data said. “I will pass through any transporter filters Mudd might have in place to block biologicals.”
“But you don’t know where the platform will beam you,” La Forge protested.
“All the more reason for you to trace the signal accurately,” Data said, rising from his seat and snapping into transport posture. “Beam me down, Shakti.”
“Would you care to hear a second opinion about this idea, boss?”
“I do not recall asking for one.”
“One to beam down, then.”
A portion of the overhead slid back, and a transporter array dropped into place over Data’s head. A moment later, a soft hum filled the confined space and La Forge’s friend was reduced to subatomic particles.
“Wow,” Lee said from the monitor. “Is there anything that boat doesn’t have?”
Shakti said, “Nope.”
In unknown straits
Data materialized inside a dark, unpressurized room. As soon as the Archeus’s transporter beam dissipated, scanners mounted on motorized arms emerged from the wall, buzzed around him, and then withdrew. The room was perfectly dark, and Data could have used the small torch clipped to his belt, but he decided he did not wish to move any more than necessary. Rather, he studied the room with his passive scanners.
A moment later, he felt a new transport beam take hold of him.
Though Data knew perfectly well that his mind and body were in stasis while in transport, when he materialized, he had the definite sensation that the process took longer than usual, as if the beam had been forwarded through several transit stations.
He slowly flexed his fingers and felt the stir of warm air flowing around him. Again, it was dark, but not perfectly: A thin bar of light at floor level indicated an entrance. Data parted his lips and emitted an ultrasonic chirp. Turning his head slightly from side to side and subtly altering the pitch of each chirp helped him form a mental picture of the room.
It was cavernously large, though the bulk of the space was to his back. The floor was littered with packing cases and crates of various sizes and shapes. Sniffing, Data detected the aromas of exotic spices, expensive liquors, and rotting fruit. Whoever was supposed to be managing the receiving platform and the warehouse beyond was not doing a very good job.
In the distance, Data detected the sound of a clanking apparatus inching along a yawning hallway. The device—whatever it was—was in desperate need of repair. Calipers, pistons, and gears slipped and crashed and ground and clashed. Someone swore extravagantly.
Data stepped off the transport platform. Wary security devices stirred, but none assumed threatening postures. As Data had suspected, Harry Mudd was not the sort of person who would shoot an android on sight.
Two large doors parted and bright search beams cast about the room, finally locking onto the transport platform. Someone made a sound that might have been a grunt or might have been a wheeze. A large device—also wheezing—heaved through the open doors, and the search beams swung back and forth, parting the darkness from the light, flickering off piles of dusty treasure. Muttering commenced: “What’s going on here? Where is it? I heard the damned alarm go off, so something has to be here.”
The device cautiously edged into the room. Standing just off to its side in the shadow of a large packing case, Data could see that the search beams were mounted on robotic arms heavy enough to do damage if they made contact. The bulk of the device was taken up by a large pilot’s chair or capsule where a single figure sat fitfully working the controls. The device inched forward on large, spongy treads and the capsule floated on anti-gravs. It was an elaborate sedan designed to carry an invalid: a wheelchair, in effect.
The pilot paused and the device eased to the floor, a loose flange puttering fitfully. “Maybe I’m hearing things,” the pilot said. “Maybe I was asleep. No, couldn’t have been that. God knows it wasn’t that. Sleep . . . ha! Not that.” He continued to mutter, the words becoming less and less distinct until they turned into a low whistle of a snore.
Data considered. He was fairly sure he could slip out of the room undetected if he wished and continue his investigations. He should, he knew, determine his whereabouts and let the others know he had arrived unharmed, but was that really the most direct route to his goal?
Stepping out from behind the packing case, Data tapped a knuckle on the pilot’s canopy. The occupant’s head jerked away. “Huh? Wha . . . ? Who’s there? What do you want?” The voice became stronger and crankier with every word. “What are you doing here, mister? This is my house! You shouldn’t have come here! You’re going to regret this!” The robotic arms lifted in a threatening display. Data saw they were composed of some kind of flexible material, and the ends were manipulators tipped with sharp barbs.
Data ignored the arms and focused his attention on the pilot. “Harry Mudd, I presume.”
“You presume bloody damned right, mister!” Mudd sputtered. “How the hell did you get down here? Nothing living could get through the biofilters!”
Again, Data decided to use the most direct method. “Your definition of ‘living’ might be too narrow, Mister Mudd,” he said, pushing his jacket sleeve up his arm. In a swift, well-practiced pattern, Data tapped several pressure points on his forearm and wrist. A small panel slid out of the way, revealing glowing mechanisms. They didn’t need to glow; in fact, under most circumstances, they wouldn’t have glowed, but Data felt the theatricality was required.
“You’re an android,” Mudd muttered. Data would have liked it better if he had sounded more surprised, but Mudd’s tone was more wary than flabbergasted. The canopy slid open a touch, just enough that Data could see an eye peering out at him. “I know you, don’t I? Or someone like you?” Mudd said. “You’re one of . . .”
“Soong’s,” Data said, not knowing precisely why he wanted his identity to be, if not concealed, then muddled. “Yes. I’ve come a long way to find you, Mister Mudd.”
The canopy slid open wide enough that Data could see the pilot’s entire face. Despite cosmetic surgery and restorative treatments, there was no concealing the fact that Harry Mudd was old. Incredibly old. The flesh of his face was firm and taut, but his jowls hung in folds. Beneath a brown goatee, Data saw the withered tissue of his neck. Mudd’s face and form were like two badly meshed puzzles: None of his features was consistent with the others; none of it held together. And, obviously, no one lived with Mudd who would tell him. The eyes, though . . . Data noted the eyes. Still bright, still clear and with a glint that might be mischief or maybe madness. He grinned, showing large, bright white teeth. “Well, then, Mister Soong, you should come in and make yourself at home. We have a great deal to talk about.”
16
Aboard the Archeus
“Coordinates are locked in, Geordi,” Shakti said, brisk and efficient. “Data says he convinced Mudd you’re his technical expert and needs your help to assess his collection. So, look like you’re assessing.”
“Collection? Is that what we’re calling contraband technology today?”
“Keep the attitude in check, Commander. Apparently, Mudd has been amassing material for decades. Data says he’s only been in a couple rooms so far, but he’s never seen anything like it. Ever see Citizen Kane?”
“I haven’t gotten around to that one yet.”
“Raiders of the Lo
st Ark?”
“No.”
“You should. They’re both great. It would have really rung a bell when you saw Mudd’s piles of stuff.”
“Is Data sending images? Are you seeing them?”
“Everything he sees, I see,” Shakti explained. “Well, most of it. When he wants me to see. Which is most of the time.”
“You two have a very interesting relationship.” La Forge rose and waited for the transporter beam to lock onto him.
“It’s even more interesting,” Shakti observed, “when you consider that I had the same relationship with his father.”
La Forge suppressed a case of the willies. “I think I should beam down now.”
“Beaming,” Shakti said, clearly delighted with herself. “Don’t forget to call him ‘Mister Soong.’ Mudd settled on that somehow.”
“Right.” A moment later, La Forge stood in a vast, dimly lit room surrounded by piles of what he had to assume were parts of Harry Mudd’s “collection” of miscellaneous technology. He tentatively stepped forward, wary about brushing up against any of the precariously balanced stacks lest chunks of antiquated machinery topple onto his head. No visible signage pointed to an exit, so La Forge resorted to picking through the heaps, watchful for dangling wires and trailing power couplings. He spotted familiar interfaces and components from a dozen Alpha and Beta Quadrant technologies, including Federation, Klingon, Rigelian, Gorn, Bajoran, and Cardassian, though there were just as many apparatuses he did not recognize, including one that glowed iridescent green when he stepped too near. La Forge the engineer wanted to stop and examine about every third object he saw, while Commander La Forge the Starfleet officer wanted to quarantine the entire area and send in the robotic bomb sniffers.
After a few minutes of aimless wandering, La Forge conceded that he was lost and stopped to flip open the tricorder Shakti had provided. Scanning, he was alarmed by traces of some truly exotic compounds (Do not go into the northwest corner, he resolved), but was pleased to discover he was only a few meters away from a doorway. Sliding along carefully, he was soon able to lay his palm on a bulkhead. Fortunately, Mudd had not piled tech against the walls, so La Forge quickly found the door, which, alas, was locked.