by Peter David
Taking a deep breath, Robin prepared to lie to her mother. Instead, the words, “I love it,” popped out of her mouth of their own accord. Upon hearing that sentence, which sounded as if a stranger had spoken it, Robin moaned and flopped her head back onto the pillow. The pillow conformed perfectly to the shape of her head with a slight hiss of air. I’m in hell. I’m in hell, and I can get gourmet meals delivered twenty-six hours a day.
Morgan beamed at her. “That’s wonderful. Thank you for admitting it.”
Robin grunted.
The truth was, she had been dazzled the moment their commercial shuttle had gotten within range of El Dorado. The advertisements she had seen for it did not even begin to do it justice. She had been to cities that were smaller … maybe even planets. It was like nothing she had expected. Much of the exterior of the resort was done up in elaborate gold mosaics. As a result, El Dorado seemed to shimmer with a life of its own during the day, particularly at certain hours, when the sun’s rays caused the place to turn into a miniature version of the sun itself, glowing in all directions and visible for miles.
The El Dorado had been designed with a motif similar to what one would expect to see in Central American ruins, where Aztecs had once lived. No ancient tribes had ever resided in El Dorado, of course. It was of far too recent vintage, having been constructed and opened only a few years ago … and had promptly sucked up almost all vacation business.
Risa had been a popular getaway spot for ages, mostly because of its unique and perpetually temperate weather, its convenient location, and the open and friendly nature of its citizens. Assorted places had sprung up over the years to accommodate travelers who came to visit beautiful Risa for those reasons. Then developers had come in, built up El Dorado, and opened it, all within a fairly brief period. It became the tourist sensation of the area. It didn’t matter that the glorious beaches had been manufactured specifically for the resort, the waters produced via wave generators. It didn’t matter that filters had been erected that hovered over the sky and specially conditioned the sun’s rays to provide maximum tanning. It didn’t matter that none of the restaurants were family-owned and operated (like most of the other “quaint” Risa eateries), but instead were created for, and run by, the resort. In short, it was of no consequence to anyone that Risa’s unique and relaxed character had been usurped and replaced by a resort hotel that could easily have been dropped on any world and been exactly the same.
The place did phenomenal business anyway.
Robin Lefler was a purist who respected and valued traditions that were native to various worlds. She was not someone who embraced commerce over everything. She was … she was …
Good lord, what a comfortable bed.
She was angry with herself for liking the place.
She had to admit it: She had gasped in appreciative amazement when she’d first beheld the sprawling complex. It was an architectural masterpiece. The interior had been just as impressive, with a massive waterfall smack in the middle of the main lobby … a fake sun, hanging high at the top of the lobby’s great dome, bathing the people below in a gentle, caressing light … long, carpeted hallways … an efficient, helpful, and courteous staff. It was nothing short of astounding.
I want to live here forever …
“Shut up!” she said angrily to herself.
Morgan Primus looked startled. “What? What did I say?”
“Nothing, Mother, it’s not you. It’s me. Don’t listen to me. Even I don’t listen to me.” She let out a sigh. “I hate being so immature that I have trouble liking a place just because it’s someplace that you wanted to come.”
“That’s all right, dear,” Morgan said reasonably. “I get immature myself sometimes. And considering how long I’ve been around, I’ve really got no excuse for it. So don’t worry about it. Come, get dressed.”
“For what?”
“Well,” she placed her hands on her hips, “you’re not planning just to lie around on the bed all day.”
“Actually, that doesn’t sound like such a bad notion from where I sit. Why? What did you have in mind?”
“It’s cocktail hour. I figured we could go to the main bar, just off the lobby. You must have seen it. From what I understand, they just redid it with a new theme.”
“A new theme.” Robin sighed loudly. “What have I gotten myself into? So what’s the theme?”
Morgan frowned a moment, trying to recall, and then her face brightened. “Oh, right. ‘The Engineering Room.’ That’s what they call it now.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps after one drink you’ll do things on impulse. Either that or you’ll become totally warped.”
“I couldn’t be any more warped by the situation than I already am.” Robin eyed her mother thoughtfully. “Would you please explain to me how all this is supposed to bring us closer as mother and daughter?”
“You just have to give this place a chance, Robin. Get into the spirit of things here. Promise me you’ll do that?”
“All right, all right. As long as you promise me,” she replied, “that you’ll stop talking about pushing me into a romance or something. I’m not looking for a man.”
Morgan raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Or a woman, Mother.”
“Just curious.”
“Mother, at the moment, I’m really not interested in starting up any new relationships, considering that I haven’t managed to sort out the ones I’ve already had. All right?”
“That’s fine, honey. I can understand that. To be honest, I feel the exact same way. If there’s one thing I’m not looking for, it’s romance.”
“That’s a relief.” Then Robin frowned. “On the other hand, maybe it’s not. After all, isn’t that when it usually happens?”
“That,” Morgan informed her, “is a popular myth. And believe me, I know all the myths, all the nonsense, all the come-ons. The fact is, Robin, that whether you like it or not, men will probably be approaching you. They’ll probably haul out every old line in existence.”
Robin couldn’t help but be amused. Getting tips from her mother as to how to handle advances from men …
“What’s the oldest line, Mother?”
“They’ll say, ‘I could swear I know you from somewhere.’ That’s the oldest, most fake line of them all. It seeks to establish some preexisting relationship in order to save time. Promise me you won’t fall for it.”
“I won’t, Mother,” Robin promised solemnly, even raising one hand as if swearing to some higher power. “Now let’s go down to the Engineering Room. And let’s hope our warp cores don’t get breached.”
Morgan stared at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked after a moment.
“You know … I’m not sure. But it sounded good, didn’t it?”
Her mother considered it a moment. “No,” she finally said.
Robin was starting to decide that maybe this entire thing hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
* * *
They could hear the activity from the Engineering Room all the way across the lobby. There was laughter, music playing, and lights flickering at a slow, steady throb. “Oh, it’s just like every engineering room I’ve ever been to,” Robin noted with a touch of wry amusement.
“Robin …,” her mother said warningly.
“All right, all right, I know. I’m supposed to get into it. Give it a chance, get into the spirit of it. Fine, Mother, whatever you say. But I’ll tell you right now, if the decibel level inside is anything like what it appears to be outside, I’m going to be able to take maybe five minutes of it before my head explodes.”
They walked in through the main door. The interior was exactly what Robin had been expecting—flashing lights, loud music. She stifled a laugh as she saw that the center of the Engineering Room had a tall column, stretching to the ceiling, that was a rough approximation of a matter-antimatter mix chamber. But instead of matter and antimatter (obviously), th
e “chamber” had different types of alcohol brewing together and combining in taps that were being briskly operated by several bartenders.
It was quite an experience for Robin. The drink of preference on starships was synthehol, since its inebriating effects were simulated and could be shaken off at a moment’s notice. After all, on a starship the concept of “off-hours” was really just that: a concept. The truth was that the call for all hands to battle stations could come at any time, and if that occurred, no one needed inebriated crew members rushing to their posts. So it was only recently that Robin had availed herself of a newfound liberty to explore alcoholic beverages.
Someone was walking toward them briskly, and Robin did a double take as she saw that he was sporting an old-style Starfleet uniform. She couldn’t quite believe it; the only time she’d ever seen a uniform like it was in a museum, carefully preserved. It had to be seventy years old if it was a day. She wondered why in the world anyone would be wearing such an out-of-date ensemble, and then it hit her: It was simply a costume. For some reason, to add an air of “reality,” they had a costumed actor sporting the outfit of an old-style Starfleet officer.
He approached them with such confidence that she immediately twigged to the fact that he worked there. He was a portly old gentleman, with gray hair and a bristling gray/black mustache. As he walked past others, they appeared to be greeting him by name or clapping him on the shoulder, as if they derived some sort of remarkable pleasure simply by being in his presence. Merriment twinkled in his eyes.
“That old fellow seems glad to be here,” she murmured to her mother. “Then again, at his age, he’s probably glad to be anywhere.”
But she was astounded to see that her mother was staring at him, wide-eyed, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. “Oh, my God,” she muttered.
“What is it?”
He approached them, a hand outstretched in greeting, and said, “Welcome to the Engineering Room, on behalf of the management of the El Dorado. Ah’m …” Then he stopped dead in his tracks, his hand simply dangling there. His gaze was fixed upon Morgan with such intensity that Robin felt as if something physical was being transmitted from his eyes directly to Morgan’s face.
“You are …?” Robin prompted him.
“Scott. Montgomery Scott.” He was still staring at Morgan. And then, in an incredulous whisper, he said, “Christine?”
Robin looked from Scott to her mother and back. “Who?”
“You have me confused with someone else, I’m afraid,” Morgan said, sounding rather apologetic. “My name is Morgan, Morgan Primus. This is my daughter, Robin. She’s with Starfleet,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
“So was I.” Scott sounded as if he was in a fog. Then, abruptly remembering his job, he took Morgan’s hand suavely in his own and kissed her knuckles. But his gaze never left her face. “It’s uncanny,” he said. “The hair is different, but … ye could be ’er twin.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ah’m … sorry.” He seemed to be having trouble finding words. “It’s just that … ah could swear ah know ye from somewhere.”
It was all Robin could do to stifle a laugh. They had barely been at the resort an hour, and already this Scott fellow had come forward with her mother’s favorite bad pick-up line….
But then something clicked in Robin’s head. “Wait a minute … Montgomery Scott. Not … the Montgomery Scott.”
“Aye, lassie.”
She still couldn’t quite believe it. “Montgomery Scott … from Captain Kirk’s Enterprise?”
“Well, lassie.” He smiled at her, as if pleased to be momentarily relieved of the utter befuddlement he was obviously feeling in regards to her mother. “Ah prefer t’think of it as Montgomery Scott’s Enterprise, upon which Captain Kirk and all those other great people had the honor of serving. But then, most engineers tend to feel a wee bit possessive of their bairns.”
“ ‘Bairns’?” inquired Robin.
“Children,” Morgan promptly said.
“Aye, that’s right.” He stared openly at Morgan once more. There was no subtlety or artifice about him. If you were the focus of his attention, you knew it immediately. Robin had to listen carefully as he spoke, since his brogue was at times so thick she practically needed a machete to cut through it. “It’s absolutely uncanny. The resemblance, ah mean. To Christine.”
“Well, I’m not this ‘Christine’ person,” Morgan said cheerfully. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Oh, ah knew ye couldn’t be. She’s long gone, bless ’er, along with the rest of ’em … well … almost the rest of ’em….”
“How can you be the original Montgomery Scott?” Robin demanded. “You would have to be … I don’t know … over a hundred years old … which isn’t impossible, of course, but you look much better than any hundred-year-old I know …”
“Actually, lassie—”
“Could you stop calling me that? Please?” Robin sounded slightly pained.
Scott didn’t pretend to understand, but he shrugged and said, “Actually, lass … ah just celebrated muh one hundred fiftieth birthday.”
“You seem wonderfully well-preserved for a man of your ‘advanced’ years, Mr. Scott,” Morgan commented.
He beamed. “Call me ‘Scotty,’ why don’t ye? Everyone else does. As for muh ‘well-preserved’ status, well … ah have a confession to make.”
“You’re a clone?” Robin guessed.
“No, no … the original item,” and he bowed slightly as he said it. “Perhaps ye ladies would allow me t’buy ye a drink.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Morgan said lightly. She noticed the confused look in Robin’s eye and gestured for her to be quiet, even as Scotty walked her over to the bar and ordered her a screwdriver.
“ ‘Christine’? Who the hell is ‘Christine’?” Robin wondered out loud, but no one quite heard her.
The three of them had been sitting at a table for quite some time. The man known as Scotty regaled them—quite colorfully—with the tale of how a bizarre transporter mishap and a desperate bid for survival had stranded him more than half a century after the time he had once called his own.
“Now I wish I’d stayed with the Enterprise,” said Robin. “Such interesting things happened after I left. Not that it was exactly dull before that….”
“So, what happened?” asked Morgan eagerly. She leaned forward on the table, swirling the contents of her glass idly. “After you left with the shuttle, I mean?”
Robin looked at her mother carefully, and with some degree of amusement. She couldn’t recall a time when she had seen her mom quite as worked up or interested in something. After all, her “immortal” mother was able to lay claim to having seen and heard just about everything. As a result, Morgan wore a permanent blasé attitude with pride, as if it were a mantle. But there was something about Scotty that was connecting with her.
Robin could see some basis for the interest. The Scotsman was certainly something of a raconteur, with a wonderful way of telling a story. And the accent was to die for.
“Ach, well, I’d love t’tell ye that I had all manner of incredible adventures. But the fact is that it was, well … a bit dull. Out of curiosity, the first place I went was to the Norpin V retirement colony, where I was supposed to be spendin’ muh golden years.”
“Norpin V? Wasn’t that the place that—”
He nodded to Robin. “Wiped out by the worst series of planetary hurricanes anyone ever saw, more’n fifty years ago. If ah had been there, ah wouldn’t be talkin’ to ye now.”
“Well, if you’d been there back then, I doubt you’d be alive today in any event,” Morgan pointed out.
He raised his eyebrows, and looked positively impish doing so. “Don’t underestimate muh longevity, Morgan. There’s any number of reasons ah’m known as a miracle worker.”
“Really?” said Morgan with obvious interest. “Would you like to e
numerate some of them?”
“Well,” Scotty cast a glance Robin’s way, “not in front of the wee one.”
“Oh, my God,” muttered Robin, her face flushing. Morgan, for her part, simply laughed. Desperately trying to angle the conversation back toward something less potentially humiliating, Robin said, “So how did you wind up here, Scotty? I mean, you obviously work here. Why? You’re an engineering genius; you should be getting your hands dirty in an engineering bay somewhere. Not working as a … what do you do here again?”
“I’m a greeter, darlin’. I shake the hands of folks who come in, welcome ’em to the Engineering Room.” That drew a chuckle from him as he glanced around the place. “And ye know what? One out of maybe ten gets that sort of wide-eyed look of wonder, and they say, ‘Are ye really him? The legend?’ Those one in ten make it a bit fun.”
“But how—?”
“Ach, but ye are a single-minded thing, aren’t ye? Well, the simple truth is that the good people here on Risa were having trouble with their newly installed computer systems. Serious problems. And ye know what they found out? They found out that computer installation is too bloody easy.”
“I’m not following,” admitted Robin.
But Morgan said immediately, “He’s saying that the quality of those installing them is dropping off.”
He touched his finger to his nose. “Ye have it exactly right,” he agreed. “Everything is so foolproof, the systems so efficient, that a lot of people nowadays billin’ themselves as computer installers … why, they don’t know the least thing about what’s truly makin’ the bloody things function. They think if they insert tab ‘a’ into slot ‘b,’ why, that’s all there is to it. And, unfortunately for the folks here on Risa who were counting on their installers to do the job, they found out differently. Computer systems analysis is becomin’ a lost art, outside of Starfleet. Even in Starfleet, it’s so standardized. Same mnemonic circuits, same database, even the same computer voice …” He stopped talking, staring once again at Morgan.
Morgan looked at him with curiosity. “Is something wrong?”
