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

  Data did not join him on the lift. He knew he was wearing a neutral expression, but he was sure his friend sensed the unexpected, unconscious stiffening in his back and shoulders upon hearing Rhea’s name spoken aloud. “Thank you, Geordi,” Data said, not looking La Forge in the eye. “I will contact you as soon as I have . . .”

  “. . . . Found an even keel.”

  “Yes.”

  The engineer nodded and smiled, but the expression did not reach his eyes. “I look forward to hearing from you.” The doors snapped shut and Data was left alone with his thoughts.

  When Alpha shift began the next morning, the Archeus had disappeared from the hangar deck, and there was no record of either Lal or Data leaving the Enterprise.

  3

  Early November 2385 (ACE)

  Commander Geordi La Forge leaned against the wooden fence that enclosed his small patio and watched the early morning fog roll in off the Pacific and blanket the Upper Haight in a dense gray shroud. Despite almost two hundred years of effective weather control, fog would still occasionally paralyze San Francisco, mostly because San Franciscans refused to let the weather control bureaus prevent the fog from rolling in.

  Setting his mug down on the flat top of the weathered rail, La Forge watched the steam rise off the surface of his coffee. He could, if he desired, view the warmer molecules of water vapor waft up and mingle with the cool mist, but he decided to trust in the validity of the second law of thermodynamics in action and enjoy the normal view. To the west, the sky shifted from a dishwater gray to a dull mauve.

  Behind him, La Forge heard the glass door creak open in its groove. The bearings need lubrication, he observed, and, ever the good houseguest, made a mental note to log the problem in the building’s superintendent program. A warm body sidled up beside him and slipped under his arm, as much for shared warmth as to be companionable. “This city,” Leah Brahms said. “I never cease to be amazed. . . .”

  “It is beautiful,” La Forge murmured.

  “Beautiful and freakish,” Brahms replied, clutching the neck of her bathrobe. “I’m freezing! Five kilometers from here, it’s probably twenty degrees; here, it’s less than ten!” She slipped one of her hands under La Forge’s sweatshirt, making him flinch with the shock of the cold on his back.

  “You could go put more clothes on.”

  “If that’s what you really want.”

  “Come here,” La Forge said, pulling her closer.

  “If you give me some of your coffee.”

  “Deal.”

  Leah sipped gratefully and sighed. “Okay, there’s one thing I like about this city. Baseline best coffee on the planet.”

  “You’ve never been to Hawaii.”

  “Wrong, Commander La Forge. I spent six months at the shipyards there. Just never saw the allure of Kona.”

  “Sacrilege.”

  “Good taste.” She stared out into the gray, undifferentiated space and then swept her hand through the tendrils of fog. “Not used to being up this early. Correction: Not used to being up this early after going to bed so late.”

  “I didn’t make you get up,” La Forge said.

  “I missed you,” Leah said, kissing him on the cheek. Her breath smelled of coffee. “You’re warm. And this house has no insulation to speak of.”

  “I’ll mention it to the superintendent, though I doubt the owner will care. People book these houses years in advance.”

  “Then how did you get it?”

  La Forge took back his mug and sipped the mouthful she had left behind. “I happen to be a very high-ranking officer on the Federation flagship on leave. Didn’t I mention that over dinner?”

  “You might have. I barely remember. Tequila is now my nemesis.” She struck a pose and shook her fist. “Curse you, tequila!”

  “So, you’re going to blame the rest of the evening on tequila?”

  Leah ran her hand up and down the length of La Forge’s spine. “Not entirely.”

  La Forge grinned, but the smile quickly faded. “We have to stop doing this, you know.”

  “Doing what?” Leah asked. “Running into each other? Having great conversations? Great meals? Great . . .”

  “You know what I mean,” La Forge said. “I mean . . . I’m sorry. I know it’s a little early in the day for this kind of conversation, but, honestly, I’m wearing down.”

  “I could make a joke about having regular maintenance checks,” Leah said, “but I get the feeling that wouldn’t go over well right at this moment.”

  La Forge turned to look back to the horizon, which had gone from mauve to a dusky pink. “Maybe not. Again, sorry. I’m trying to be . . . responsible.” He looked at her from the corner of his eye.

  Leah swiped a lock of hair back behind her ear. “Geordi, you’re the most responsible man I’ve ever met. Arguably, too responsible. You hold yourself accountable for things that you’ve never done. Or ever could do.”

  “It’s just that . . . I’ve been . . . I mean, I was seeing someone. Back on the Enterprise.”

  “May I ask: Did you tell her you were going to be a monk while you were on sabbatical?”

  “No.”

  “Did she ask to come along with you?”

  “No.”

  “Would you have wanted her to?”

  La Forge inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly. “As of right this moment,” he confessed, “no.”

  “Then, what?”

  “It’s just that every time I think I’ve gotten you out of my system, when I start to think I might be able to be with someone without constantly comparing her to you, there you are again.”

  Leah wrinkled her nose and was unable to suppress a smile. “Guilty,” she said. “Unintentional, but guilty.”

  “You see my dilemma.”

  “I do,” Leah said, and moved half a step away despite the chill in the air. “And I’m sorry if I keep making your life complicated. You make mine complicated, too. Maybe that’s just how it is with people like us.”

  “Complicated people.”

  “Actually, I’m feeling pretty simple this morning.”

  “Simple in a good way? Or in a bad way?”

  “Simple, as in I know what I want.” She stepped in closer and kissed La Forge on the cheek. She whispered, “I want more coffee.”

  “I’ll get it,” La Forge said.

  “No, I’ll get it,” Leah said. “Give me your mug. And tell me where I left my clothes.”

  “If I get the coffee, will you not worry about your clothes just yet?”

  Leah laughed and stroked the side of his face with the tip of her finger, stopping just below the tiny scar beside his eye where the VISOR port used to be. “I have to ask you: Do you ever miss it?”

  “What?” he asked, knowing exactly what Leah meant, but wanting her to ask.

  “The VISOR.”

  “You mean as opposed to my implants?”

  “I suppose.”

  “It’s a trade-off. The implants can’t do quite as many things as the VISOR could, but, on the other hand, I don’t worry about someone accidentally knocking it off my face.”

  “Did that ever really happen?”

  La Forge laughed. “Clearly, someone does not remember a particular incident at a particularly raucous party in Ten-Forward.”

  Leah appeared to think very hard for a moment and then winced. “Oh,” she said. “Right. Uh. Never mind.” She walked to the sliding door, La Forge’s mug in her hand. “Tell me which dresser drawer has socks. My feet are freezing.”

  “Top left,” La Forge said. “Wool socks on the right.”

  “Of course. How organized,” Leah said as she disappeared into the house.

  Listening to her moving around the house, La Forge realized how much he had missed hearing other bodies. Being on board a starship, even one as comparatively luxurious as the Enterprise, you tended to tune out the sounds of your neighbors and the several hundred other individuals wandering the corridors at any g
iven time. Being on leave, studying at the Academy, even with the daily interaction with students and colleagues, he hadn’t realized how a part of him had been yearning to catch the sound of half-heard conversations or footsteps passing by his door. Or, he thought, maybe I just want to hear these footfalls and this voice.

  “Hey,” Leah called from the kitchen. “Come in here.”

  “What’s wrong? Can’t find the sock drawer?”

  “No,” she said. The coffee mug still dangled from one of her fingers, but all of her attention was focused on the small device on the palm of her hand. “What is this? It was in your sock drawer. It was beeping.”

  “Ah,” La Forge said. “That . . . that’s a communicator.”

  “Not like any communicator I’ve ever seen. Is your not-really-a-girlfriend girlfriend trying to call you?”

  La Forge carefully lifted the device from Leah’s palm, trying desperately to appear cool and collected. “No. Not that. It’s . . . . Well, you’ll like this. It’s a quantum entanglement communicator.”

  “An ansible?” Leah cried. “Really? I’ve heard about these but never seen one. Where did you get it?”

  “It was a gift. Well, not exactly a gift. More like a, what should I call it? A lifeline. A panic button.”

  “From who?”

  La Forge touched the stud that activated the receive function. He wondered guiltily how long the device had been trying to get his attention. After spending several weeks carrying it around and waiting for it to signal him, La Forge had finally decided to set it aside a month after arriving on Earth for his sabbatical leave. “Who else?” he asked. “Data.”

  “Data?” Leah asked incredulously. “I was under the impression that he was . . .”

  “No,” La Forge replied. “Well, yes, but, then, no. Not anymore. Or, who knows? I haven’t heard from him in months.”

  “Answer it,” Leah said. “Explain later. Answer now.”

  “Yeah,” La Forge said, and thumbed the stud that activated the device. He held it to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Geordi?”

  “Yes? Data? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “This is a recording, Geordi. Today is . . .” And he rattled off a stardate that La Forge quickly deciphered, meaning the message was less than two days old. “I will contact you as soon as I can. Please keep the quantum communicator with you as much as is practical. I require your assistance on a matter of great importance. If you are willing to help, please leave your location and I will have transportation sent to retrieve you immediately. If I may also ask this of you, please do not tell Captain Picard about this communication. I will explain when I speak with you.”

  La Forge hesitated, looking over at Leah as she pulled her hair back and whipped it into a loose ponytail. She tied the sash of her robe around her middle and set the mug down on the counter so her hands would be free. Ready to work.

  “Of course, Data. I’m willing to help. I’m on Earth. San Francisco. The faculty housing in the Upper Haight. I think you know the building. Data, I’m sorry I didn’t get the message sooner. I’ve been . . .”

  “That is sufficient, Geordi. I have all the information I require for my ship to locate you. Thank you, my friend. There is no one else I could have turned to at this time.” The automated message clicked off and the communicator shut off.

  Leah looked at him expectantly. “What’s happening?” she asked. “Was that Data?”

  “No, an answering service. Good A.I., too, though what would you expect?”

  “Is he in trouble?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Wait, what am I asking? Why would he call if he wasn’t?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll find out soon. A ship is on its way.”

  “Not the Enterprise?”

  La Forge shook his head and slipped the communicator into his sweatshirt pocket. “No. It’s a private thing. But I have to go. I told Data I would help.”

  “Help with what?” Leah asked. “Didn’t Data give you any details?”

  La Forge stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders, then pulled her close. “I don’t know. He didn’t say. It’s just something I have to do. He’s my best friend.”

  “Who was supposed to be dead. Who just called you up out of the blue and said, ‘Come help me.’ Doesn’t that sound a little suspicious?”

  “Yes,” La Forge said, speaking into her hair.

  “Then why do you have to go?” La Forge felt the frustration coming off Leah in waves.

  “Because I said I would,” he said, knowing the answer was insufficient. “Because he would do the same for me if I asked.”

  Leah sighed and pushed her forehead against the middle of La Forge’s chest. She wrapped her arms tightly around the small of his back and tugged him as close as she could. “I hate you,” she muttered.

  “I know,” La Forge said, caressing the back of her head, untying the loose ponytail. “I know. I hate me, too.”

  A placeless place

  “Who are you?”

  A tiny smile tickled the corners of the pale man’s lips. He reached up and brushed it away with the flick of a finger. When he lowered the hand, he paused to straighten his black tie and then stroke the silver chain that dangled from his waistcoat pocket. “Who am I?” he asked. “What an excellent question. Frankly, my dear, sometimes I barely know myself. But I know one thing for a certainty: I am your host and so I should be gracious.” He bowed. “Professor James Moriarty at your service. May I ask you to return the courtesy and tell me your name?”

  Alice snorted and looked around at the featureless, comfortless room. “Guest? You have an odd sense of hospitality. I think . . .”

  “Yes, yes, fine. Prisoner, then.” Moriarty waved his hand dismissively. “I am nothing if not a self-aware villain.” He held up his index finger and twirled it in a small circle. Without a sound, first one chair and then another and then a third appeared. While none of the chairs was precisely identical, all of them were large and comfortable-looking and completely without hue. “Please sit down, Miss . . .”

  “Alice,” said Alice. “Just Alice.”

  “And may I ask your companion’s name?”

  “I think you already know,” Alice said, subtly repositioning herself so she was standing between Moriarty and her charge.

  “Pray pretend I do not.”

  Impetuous as ever—annoyingly so—Lal stepped around Alice and strode up to Moriarty, her hand extended. “My name is Lal. How do you do?”

  Alice was intrigued by Moriarty’s peculiar response to Lal’s approach. His initial inclination appeared to be to extend his hand in a friendly manner, but then he had a second thought and flinched away. “I . . . Excuse me. I eschew physical contact.”

  Lal looked back over her shoulder at Alice. “So, did we settle on ‘prisoners’?”

  Moriarty shrugged and folded his hands together. “If you insist on a precise word, we could use ‘hostages.’ ”

  Lal turned back to look at him. Alice knew perfectly well the expression her charge wore: a frank, piercing stare that was full of judgment, but peculiarly without malice. “I do,” Lal said. “Precision is valuable.”

  “As you say,” Moriarty replied. “But so is comfort.” He beckoned to the white chairs. “Please sit.” Alice noticed that without her being aware of it, a carpet had materialized under her feet. Like the chairs, the carpet was utterly without color, though there was an intricate pattern woven into it.

  Lal looked at the three chairs and chose the one with the highest back. She sat and crossed her legs at the ankles, her long, blue silk skirt swishing around her lower calves. The wide heels of her black shoes clacked together as she curled her long fingers over the caps of the chair’s plush arms. She cocked her head to the side and said, “You’re quite correct: Comfort is valuable, though I have no clear idea how you could understand your own statement. Aren’t you nothing but a computer program, a ghost made of photons?”

  Moriarty chuckled and sa
t down in the chair facing Lal, the aged leather stretching under his weight. When he crossed his legs, the fabric of his trousers swished against the chair’s covering. Without seeming to realize he was doing it, Moriarty’s posture mirrored Lal’s. On more than one occasion, Alice had observed this same behavior in flesh-and-blood sentients, how they imitated Lal’s behavior, as if innately sensing it was worth emulating. “I suppose that is correct. And poetic. You’re really nothing like your father, are you? How far the apple has fallen from the tree! Should I be flattered he has told you about our brief encounters? When he told the stories, were they cast as comedy or drama?”

  “Neither,” Lal said. “And he did not ‘tell me’ in the sense you mean. We share some memories. Or perhaps I should say our memories have become mingled. When I died—yes, I died—he downloaded my memories into his own. When I was resurrected—yes, I was resurrected—some of my father’s memories were carried along. It was not a precise thing, alas. I have no sense of how many of his memories I received. Sometimes, when I’m not paying close attention, I’m not even sure if moments I recall are events that happened to me or to him.”

  “How wonderful,” Moriarty exclaimed. “And how sad.”

  Lal’s eyebrows shot upward: a pair of jet-black apostrophes. “Yes,” she said, and smiled radiantly. “That’s exactly what I think.”

  “So, you know of me.”

  “I do. And of your fate. Or what I . . . that is, we . . . thought was your fate. Apparently, we were misinformed.” Lal lifted her hands from the arms of the chair and folded them in her lap. In her mind, Alice added the word, regally. Without either Moriarty or Lal noticing, she slipped into the third chair. From the corner of her eye, she observed more features taking hold on the borders of the room: a fireplace and mantel; bookshelves and an armoire; paintings and wall fixtures. And they were all white, white, white.

  “And thereby hangs a tale,” Moriarty replied, leaning forward, hands also folded in his lap.