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

  “Insanity,” Albert repeated.

  “It’s a terrible idea,” Shakti added. “He’s a terrible man. A monster, I think.”

  La Forge, who had not sat down since they beamed back onto the Archeus, folded his arms and said, “Do whatever you think is right.”

  Data felt a quiver run through his body. Could the Archeus have encountered some sort of eddy in space? He looked around the cabin to see if anything else had shifted, but, naturally, nothing had. Nothing ever would.

  He plugged the chip into the communications console and swiped his forefinger over the CALL key. Subspace transmitters exchanged information. Seconds passed. Shakti and Lee spoke in low tones, an intimacy fueled by shared dismay.

  The console whistled, confirming that he had accepted the hail.

  “Who’s calling?” The voice was sleepy, grumpy even. Disturbed. Aroused from slumber. “What do you want? How did you get this number?!” Anger rising. “How . . . ?!” And then the anger abated. “How?” Fajo said, softly, speaking more like a lover. “How can it be you? Aren’t you dead?”

  Data felt a thrill of fear course through his body, followed closely by a feeling he had not encountered previously: hatred. And then wonder: How did Fajo recognize him? He made a fist and dug his fingernails into his palm. “Apparently not,” Data said. “And how are you?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. Dreaming, perhaps?” The monitor flickered to life, and Data looked into the eyes—and only the eyes—of the Zabilian trader. Fajo had his face much too close to the comm pickup, and it could not pull away and show the man’s whole face. Data remembered Fajo’s face very clearly and was able to superimpose the image from their encounter many years ago over the current view. The years—or perhaps prison—had not been kind. The lines and folds around the Zabilian’s eyes were numerous and deep. This struck Data as curious: Even if prison life or disease had ravaged Fajo, financial records indicated he possessed more than enough wealth to avail himself of rejuvenation treatments. Fajo pulled his head back, and though the lights were dim, Data could see his hair had turned gray and thinned. His chin and neck had sagged and the skin hung in loose folds. He rubbed his face in an attempt to revive himself. “Not quite the picture of youthful good looks you expected, am I?” he asked, reading Data’s expression.

  “Have you been ill?”

  “The therapists say I have,” Fajo replied, and his mouth quivered with dark amusement, like a child admitting to a secret he had been told to keep. “But I don’t think so. That’s been the hardest part.”

  “I do not understand,” Data said.

  “They said I was ill,” Fajo said, and tapped his temple with a forefinger. “Here. In my head. But I disagreed. And I never stopped disagreeing.”

  “Records indicate otherwise. The probation officer says you have been completely rehabilitated.”

  Fajo giggled, momentarily erasing ten years of age. “It’s been a struggle,” he admitted. “Finding the right balance. Saying what I knew they wanted to hear, but also sticking to my . . . well, you know the old expression.” He pointed at the camera with his index finger and cocked his thumb.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s important, you know, to comply, but not be too compliant. They want you to resist a little. If you don’t, they know.”

  “The rehabilitation specialists?”

  “Yes. Them. All of them. The whole lot of them. The talkers. The listeners. The therapy-bots. I hated them most of all.” Fajo rubbed the corners of his eyes with the tips of his little fingers, then he shook his head. “Oh, dear. It really is you, isn’t it? I’m not dreaming.”

  “You are not dreaming.”

  “I heard rumors,” Fajo said. “But for every rumor I heard that you had returned, I heard another that Soong was alive and had created another just like you. And then there were the earlier versions of you, the betas. Everyone knows about them. All right, not everyone, but anyone with an interest in such things . . . You know, your fans.”

  “The collectors.”

  “Your appreciation society.”

  “There are more? You are not the only one?”

  “Of course not! Of course not! But none so ardent! I am—dare I say it?—your number one fan. Wait . . . apologies! That’s such a cliché, I know. But clichés are so difficult to resist sometimes.”

  “No apologies are necessary,” Data said, pitching his voice low. He felt as if he was speaking to an excitable child and needed to keep him calm, but engaged. “Please say more about the rumors.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . because I created some of them. I have my reasons for doing so, and I am curious about which rumors caught your attention, which seemed most plausible.”

  “Ah! Yes! I understand. Give me a second.” He sat up and the camera needed a moment or two to adjust, unsuccessfully tracking Fajo as he reached past the monitor to retrieve a drinking vessel. Data watched as he swallowed a huge gulp and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Apologies. Parched.” He squinted off camera and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “It’s quite late here. Or quite early, depending on how you look at it.”

  “I could call back at a more convenient . . .”

  “No, no, no. No! I won’t hear of it! Rumors, rumors, rumors. Let me see . . .” He crossed his arms over his chest, still clutching the drinking vessel. Something dark sloshed onto his shirt or dressing gown. The room sensors must have determined that Fajo was definitely going to stay awake because the ambient light grew brighter. Data was able to make out more details about Fajo’s surroundings: He was not in a bed, but sprawled in a large recliner. Along the far wall he could see low shelves bedecked with small objects. Data scanned the reflection index and confirmed most of the objects were encased in high-resolution force fields. Fajo, he surmised, slept in his collection room. “You’ve done a good job of confusing everyone—I’ll give you that.”

  “Oh?”

  “My favorite—this was priceless—my favorite was the rumor about you having a daughter.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Fajo goggled, mouth agape, then laughed so hard he choked. “Well,” he gasped. “Hang on . . .” He sipped from his cup. Data could see now that he was drinking from some sort of soft plastic cup emblazoned with the word SLURPEE. “It’s just that it’s so ludicrous . . . so perfectly ludicrous. An android who would want a child. I mean . . . why?”

  Behind him Data heard La Forge stir restlessly.

  “What would possess anyone to think . . . I mean, children! They’re such nuisances! So . . . sticky. They get their fingerprints on everything!”

  “I see your point,” Data said tersely. “I will discuss this story with my consultants. We thought it might have just the right ring of truth. It could . . .”

  “Appeal to the tenderhearted,” Fajo said, wiping tears from his eyes. “I understand. It’s . . . yes. Of course. I’m sure some people loved it. The gullible masses.”

  “Yes. The gullible masses.”

  “However,” Fajo said, his voice suddenly chilled. “None of this explains why you’ve done me this unexpected honor.” Data studied his face and was surprised to see that the flesh had grown smoother, that the dissonant glaze in his eyes had cleared. Something in the beverage, Data realized. “You are quite literally the last person in the galaxy I would have expected to hear from. What is it you need from me, Data?”

  Data paused and in that pause realized that his palms ached. Looking down, he saw that there were small tears in his hands where he had torn through the top layer of his exodermis with his fingernails. Membrane around the wounds was ragged and rent in half-moon cuts. Looking back into the viewer, he said, “I would like to make a trade, Mister Fajo.”

  “A trade?” Fajo asked. “And what could you have that would possibly be of interest to a collector of my caliber?”

  “Only the thing you desire most of all,” Data said, lightly tapping his chest above the breastbone.

 
17

  A placeless place

  Regina felt rather than saw the Professor manifest. There was no sound—no telltale pop—or shift in illumination. The flame in the oil lamp did not even so much as flicker. One moment he wasn’t there and then he simply was. She found this most disagreeable.

  “So, we’ve abandoned even the slightest modicum of propriety?” she asked, not looking back over her shoulder. “You simply appear when you feel it’s convenient? There is a door, after all. Or there could be if you wished to make one.”

  Her husband did not reply immediately. She knew he was taking in the scene: how she sat next to the bed holding the young woman’s hand in both of hers. Lal’s eyes were shut, her expression, for the moment, peaceful. And, Regina suspected, her own face was also peaceful, her mind present. James—the James she remembered—wouldn’t know exactly what to say when presented with this tableau. Finally, he cleared his throat and asked, “Can a modicum be considered ‘slightest’? Doesn’t the word imply that something is as small as it could possibly be and still retain the properties of that thing?”

  “Are we to have a semantic discussion?”

  “Are we to answer a question with a question?”

  “Only if you insist on being condescending.” Regina turned around just enough so that she could see her husband. He had lowered his head and appeared contrite.

  “I apologize,” he said. “I did not come here seeking conflict. I . . . . . . I never . . . It’s just I’m surprised . . .”

  “You didn’t expect to find me upright,” Regina said. “Yes, I understand. It must have come as quite a shock.” She cleared her throat and adjusted her position so she could still hold Lal’s hand and face James. “I haven’t been myself, for quite some time.”

  James took a tentative step toward her. “I am pleased to see you are feeling better,” he said. He extended his hand, and Regina loosened her grip on Lal’s, ready to take her husband’s hand. But no sooner did she release the girl than Lal stirred and called out, “Father?”

  James froze in place. The image was locked in Regina’s mind: Her husband, a study in black and tweed, framed by the white walls, immobilized by a young woman’s voice. When he relaxed and lowered his arm to his side, the moment of reconciliation had passed. “I thought she was asleep.”

  “It’s what passes for sleep in beings such as she. Her mind is a marvelous thing. Infinitely pliable, infinitely curious, but restless. I do not believe she ever truly sleeps.”

  “How do you know these things?” James asked.

  “We spoke,” she said. “ ‘Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax . . .’ ”

  “ ‘. . . . Of cabbages—and kings—and why the sea is boiling hot . . .’ ”

  “ ‘. . . . And whether pigs have wings,’ ” Regina concluded. She smiled. “Sophie loved that one.”

  Her husband nodded, rubbing his chin. “She did. And will again. I prom—”

  “Do not make promises you cannot keep, James,” Regina warned, her voice a barb. “Do not make claims for regenerative powers, especially if it means trading this girl’s life.”

  “She is a machine, Regina. Remember that . . .”

  “We are machines, James,” she hissed, rising from her chair. “And not even that. We are nothing more than a machine’s memories. How does that somehow make us more than what she is?”

  James turned, unable to face her. “It . . . it doesn’t. I apologize. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “No, you weren’t.”

  “But do not believe that I wouldn’t trade her for your life, for Sophie’s or Gladys’s.”

  “I am not dead, James,” Regina protested. “And I very much doubt the girls would forgive you if they knew what you were planning.”

  James pivoted on his heel, arms raised, his face contorted with rage and despair. “I must have you back!” he shouted. “All of you!”

  Slowly and carefully, Regina sat back down on her chair and took Lal’s hand again. Looking up at her husband, speaking as calmly as she could, she said, “Even if what we were before was a lie? Even if we had no more substance than a shadow?”

  “We were not shadows, Regina.”

  “And neither is Lal.”

  James did not reply. Rather, he jerked his head back, then tilted it to the side as if observing a scientific curiosity. He took one step backward without looking, and then another. Turning away, Regina had the distinct impression that he planned to disappear, again without a pop, but he stopped himself before he could do it.

  A door appeared in the far wall. Grasping the knob, he looked back over his shoulder and said, “Your hair is brown again.” And then he was gone, coattails fluttering as he fled through the door.

  Regina cocked an eyebrow and pulled a strand of hair out from her forehead so she could study it. “So it is,” she said.

  In the collection room

  “Oh. My.” Fajo blinked once, slowly, like a lizard sunning on a warm rock, and then he blinked again. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

  “What do you mean?” La Forge asked, slipping past Data and stepping into the room, a wide, dimly lit space with low ceilings. Against the far wall, he spied display cases. Some were pedestals with small objects covered in transparent domes. Others were recessed into the walls and protected by the telltale pale blue glint of force fields. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

  “Well, yes,” Fajo stammered. “But I’m not used to getting what I want.”

  “What?” La Forge asked, genuinely baffled. Judging from everything he had heard over the past several hours, Fajo was precisely the sort of person who usually got whatever he wanted—including being released from prison long before the proscribed sentence had been served.

  Fajo took a step backward, but he didn’t stop staring at Data, who walked to the center of the room and paused. A single recessed lamp purred into life above him, casting rich shadows down over Data’s face. “It’s just so . . . perfect,” Fajo said, and sighed. “The golden eyes. Golden skin. The hair.” He approached Data, hand extended, but he did not try to touch him. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

  “It seemed like the appropriate thing to do,” Data said, tipping his head to one side.

  “Thank you,” Fajo murmured, sounding genuinely moved. “It’s just when I saw you on the viewscreen . . . you looked different. Human, practically.”

  “Practically?” Data asked flatly.

  “Nothing organic can ever be perfectly imitated by a machine,” Fajor said. “Which is part of a machine’s charm: the extraordinary effort coupled with failure. It’s the focus of my collection now. I’ve become fascinated with the idea over the past . . . what is it now? Twenty years?”

  “Near enough,” Data said.

  Fajo flinched. “You have changed, haven’t you?”

  “I have,” Data said.

  “So,” Fajo said to La Forge. “As I said, I rarely get what I want. Time passes. Nothing stays the same.”

  “The passage of time disturbs you?” La Forge asked, moving slowly around the room. He was unaccountably attracted to the display cases, though he knew he would find the contents disturbing.

  “For myself, personally?” Fajo asked. He raised his arms to shoulder height, like an actor prepared to take a bow. “Look at me, Mister La Forge. Do I appear to care much about my personal appearance?” He rubbed his face with one hand. “I know how I look. I just can’t be bothered to do anything about it.”

  “I sense rationalization, Geordi,” Data said.

  “Me, too,” La Forge replied, studying the object in the first case he approached. It was a mechanical arm, one that had apparently been severed from a body just below the elbow. There was no explanatory text or hologram to activate, the sort of thing you would expect to see in a museum or gallery. Clearly, Fajo didn’t expect anyone else to understand the significance of any of his possessions. Or, more accurately, either the observer already understood, or he didn’t. Fajo didn’t cater
to amateurs.

  “I believe I recall reading that some Zibalians do not respond well to rejuvenation treatments, that their tissues reject the hormonal implants and even, as a result, appear to age significantly.”

  “I hadn’t heard that,” La Forge replied. “But that’s not really the sort of thing I would pay much attention to, frankly.” Shaking his head, he drifted over to a wide, flat pedestal. Affixed to the top was a transparent, flattened ovoid dome perched on a rubberized stalk. Beneath the dome was a circular plate with a pair of flanges to either side. Two saucer-shaped pieces of metal—one red and one yellow—were mounted on the flanges. Inside the dome was a triangular array decked with flickering lights. As La Forge approached, the lights sparked to life and the dome rose on the stalk, inquisitively.

  “Don’t get too close to that one,” Fajo said. “It can be dangerous.”

  “All right,” La Forge said, taking a half-step back. He had the distinct impression the device was aware of his presence and was trying to communicate with him, to warn him. “Are these things . . . self-aware?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Fajo said. “They’re just . . . toys.” Fajo focused all of his manic attention on Data. “Not like you, Mister Data. Not like you. I’m flattered . . . really genuinely flattered . . . that you chose to . . . how shall I say? Dress for the occasion.”

  “It seemed appropriate,” Data said, “as I indicated earlier.”

  “I’m glad to hear you think so. When I saw you earlier . . . your other guise . . . I didn’t much care for it, if I may be frank. I was going to speak with you about it, ask if we could come to some other arrangement. But now”—he giggled—“happy day! There’s no need for any discussion or the possibility of disagreement.”

  La Forge kept his back to the scene. He felt awkward even being in the room. He studied the next display case: a small drone or service-bot of some sort, with a bulbous head and a beak-like mouth. For some reason, Fajo had jammed tiny, ineffective plastic hands where its manipulators should have been. How odd . . .