Strange New Worlds X

by Dean Wesley Smith

  “Am I a real boy, yet?”

  LaForge didn’t miss a beat. “No, Data. But you’re getting there.”

  That seemed to satisfy the childlike android, and he fell back into silence.

  “As you can see, Captain, he sometimes responds to external stimuli.” Laughing in spite of himself, LaForge made an unconscious gesture toward the entry. “When Will and Deanna stopped in to say good-by, he heard Will’s voice and started playing Dixieland Jazz.”

  Taking a moment to dart a glance around the almost-empty holodeck, Picard wondered if he were missing something. “Why did you delete the instruments?”

  “I didn’t! There weren’t any. He synthesized the sounds—trombones, a piano, and even a grand finish with cymbals. It was pretty impressive.”

  “I see. What happened next?”

  “Not much. He got real quiet. Then launched into that awful Klingon opera Worf likes so much. I think he made the connection to Worf, from Deanna’s presence. It’s a complex process he’s engaged in. That’s why I said I think it’s best to leave him to it as much as possible.”

  “Agreed. Make it—”

  Before Picard could finish indicating that they should make Data’s recovery a top priority, the android’s head tilted inquisitively. Golden eyes revealed a slight glimmer of intelligence. “Captain?”

  Two sharply indrawn breaths from the humans, and one mimicking hiss from the android filled the empty space. A sense of ludicrous pantomime, mixed with deadly serious, hope permeated the very air. Picard took a few cautious steps closer to his questioner.

  “Yes, Data. Do you recognize me?”

  “Certainly, sir. You are Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Constellation-class Starship Stargazer, registry number NCC-2893. Commissioned on Starda—

  “Frère Jacques …

  “Frère Jacques …

  “Dor—”

  Silence fell once more. This time it was a silence heavy-laden with renewed hope.

  “What just happened, Geordi?”

  “I’m not sure. But if we’re lucky, he just made some kind of leap. You’re the first person he’s come anywhere near really recognizing.”

  “I’m not due back on the bridge for some time. Should I remain with him? Take the first shift, perhaps? If we’re going to let this thing run its course, perhaps my presence will trigger another moment of, at least near, lucidity.”

  Another of the engineer’s all-inclusive shrugs. “Makes sense to me. It sure couldn’t hurt.”

  “I’m certain you could use some rest, at any rate.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When’s the last time you slept, Geordi?”

  The ensuing hesitation spoke volumes. “I—”

  “I understand. Too long, will suffice.” Picard made shooing motions with both hands. “Off with you now. We’ll be fine.”

  As if to emphasize the captain’s words, the android became animated once again. “Captain Picard?”

  “Yes, Data?”

  “Why am I on Stargazer?”

  Picard turned to the closest thing he had to a New Data expert.

  “Will it do any harm to answer his questions?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. It’s possible some of the verbal input will act as a sort of catalyst. Get things stirred up. In a good way.” LaForge started moving toward the exit, then turned to impart a final bit of instruction. “Just don’t volunteer anything. Answer his questions, almost as you would deal with a child asking about the facts of life. Give him what he can handle at any given moment, and bump up the level of input as he seems to get more coherent.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “That’s all any of us can do. Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Geordi. Pleasant dreams.”

  Picard watched his chief engineer disappear through the briefly parted doors, then turned his attention back to his companion. “Data?”

  Golden gaze swung his way. “Yes, sir?”

  “Do you remember asking why you’re on Stargazer?”

  “Of course. I do not remember coming aboard.”

  “You didn’t. We’re not on the Stargazer, Data. This is the Enterprise.”

  “I see. Aye.” The familiar voice launched into a thick Scottish burr. “Tell me, laddie, is this Enterprise the bloody A, B, C, or D ?”

  Taken aback, Picard sought frantically for the correct response. Apparently Data was processing a memory of time spent with the legendary Captain Montgomery Scott. If Picard said the wrong thing, it might throw the android’s data access process back to another Enterprise in another era. Worse yet, he might thrust him too fully into his own present. Still, he couldn’t very well lie. So he quietly, simply stated fact.

  “This is the Enterprise-E, Data.”

  Silence.

  The empty room seemed to expand on the stillness, stretch it out to the breaking point. Picard wished suddenly that he had not been so hasty in sending LaForge off to his bunk. He was in over his head, and there was so very much at stake.

  Without warning, Data leaped off the stool and confronted Picard urgently. “The ship, Captain! Enterprise is in danger!”

  Careful. Lucidity did not necessarily last. Particularly in a recently simple-minded android, trying to assimilate an entire lifetime lived by someone else. Cautiously, gently, Picard laid a hand on the lifelike forearm.

  “It’s all right, Mister Data. Enterprise is safe. She was saved by a very heroic crewmember.”

  More silence.

  Data returned to his stool.

  Then another lucid moment. “I am glad to hear that, Captain.”

  When the next silence fell, it lasted a very long time. Picard grew weary of standing, and settled himself as comfortably as possible on the hard, shiny floor. He could have instructed the computer to provide any manner of holographic comfort for his use, but dared not take the chance. A suddenly appearing bed, perhaps a book or two, would be most welcome, but such unexpected distraction could wreak havoc on the considerable progress that had already been made.

  Eventually, Data began humming. He went through most of The Mikado, then seemingly tiring of Gilbert and Sullivan, progressed to an exceptionally accomplished recitation of several most difficult passages, taken at random from The Complete Works of Shakespeare.

  Picard quite enjoyed the performance, and felt pleased that Data’s delivery seemed to become more coherent with the passage of time and effort.

  So pleased was he by the progress they were making that he was not overly alarmed when the steady flow of artistic endeavor drifted to a halt. Another very long pause segued into an even more lengthy silence. He knew having his friend and trusted colleague returned to him whole, as if conjured by Prospero himself, was too much to expect.

  Picard was encouraged enough by the way their long night together played out. Moments of chaotic outburst, interspersed with brief and beautiful conversations reminiscent of times spent with this android’s own brother … that was the night Picard spent in the almost empty holodeck. As the hours passed, he became more and more optimistic, so that the occasional non sequitur caused him less and less disappointment.

  When he grew weary enough, he stretched out on the floor at the foot of the stool, Data once again perched there, engaged in the fascinating process of merging almost man and flawed machine into a unique and amazing being. When he was finished, the android Picard watched over would not be the Data he remembered. He would be his own person, his own individual being, and with luck and skill and patience, perhaps he would once more become Jean-Luc Picard’s dear friend … his new Number One.

  For now, all was silence.

  Until the next outburst.

  The next outburst made Picard smile.

  “I am …

  “I am …

  “I am the …

  “I am the very …

  “I am the very, very …

  “Model of, of, of …

  “A modern major gen—gen—general.�
�

  There followed what Picard could only think of as a very pregnant pause. He could almost hear the positronic brain regrouping itself, adjusting, settling, until it appeared ready to make an announcement of utmost import.

  “I am the …

  “very model …

  “of a modern …

  “major general!”

  Perfect pitch, strong clear baritone. Emphatic in its assurance, the familiar voice sang straight into Picard’s smile.

  Then again it came, a sense of accomplishment, almost a tactile feeling in the gently recirculated air.

  “I am the …

  “… very model!”

  “Not yet, my friend. Not quite yet. But, perhaps, very soon.”

  “Captain?”

  Picard came awake immediately, and looked up at the strung tight figure of his chief engineer. “What is it, Geordi? Is my shift of Data-watching over?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He yawned as discretely as possible, and rubbed a fist into either eye. They felt like sandpaper. From the looks of LaForge, he must be in an even more sleep-deprived state.

  “Did you get any rest at all?”

  “Not much. I nodded off a little, but then I had an idea.”

  That brought Picard scrambling to his feet. “Tell me.”

  “Well … I think it’ll be better if I just show you.” LaForge darted a considering glance to the place where what might again become their android friend stood, muttering to himself. He drew a deep breath, and spoke into the air. “Computer, run program LaForge 172-D.”

  For a moment Picard thought nothing at all was happening. The holodeck remained the same yellow-on-black grid … and then … she appeared.

  The viscerally real, slender young woman stood facing Data.

  Still, except for a questioning tilt of the head, she watched him watch her for several long seconds. Then, matter-of-factly, she spoke to him.

  “Father?”

  A long moment of silence. Picard could almost hear the positronic brain whir, as it searched and searched for the correct information. He understood then what Geordie was doing. That one word could very well be the catalyst Data needed to finish what they’d started what seemed a lifetime ago with B4.

  He suddenly realized he was holding his breath, and a glance at the engineer by his side showed the same rapt attention.

  Feeling a need to go over and physically nudge Data, Picard made himself stand perfectly still and wait.

  When it came, though quietly spoken, the single word was an unconscious jubilation.

  “Lal.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I have questions.”

  Picard stopped breathing again. If Data said he had questions too, they’d be sunk. A dialogue was what they needed, what he longed to initiate himself, but it had to start with Data. And it did.

  “I will answer what I can.”

  “Why are we here?”

  A pause.

  “Because my father, Doctor Noonien Soong, made me. And …”

  “And …”

  Another pause.

  “And, I made you, Lal.”

  “Why?”

  The pause came again, but of shorter duration this time.

  “Because …” A Data-like tilt of the head. “Because I wanted a child. You are my child. I created you. You far surpassed my expectations.” The flow of words came faster, more assured. “Your programming grew, advanced, you became everything I wished for you and more. And then … you … died.”

  A sudden silence signaled a dramatic change. Picard tore his gaze away from Data and Lal to search LaForge’s features. The engineer was nodding, smiling, believing. Picard started to believe as well. Really believe that they were getting Data back with each passing moment.

  Data held himself still, wearing his silence like a cloak of rippling knowledge. Apparently, he had progressed beyond the earlier stage of auditory learning. The hopedfor cascade effect seemed to be happening spontaneously, information falling into place in one long, rapid data stream.

  It stopped as quickly as it began.

  Data blinked his yellow eyes, and for the first time he looked around, taking in his surroundings lucidly. He met Picard’s gaze briefly, moved on to study his engineer friend, and then turned back to the holographic image of his daughter.

  He touched her cheek, and she smiled.

  “Thank you, Lal.”

  Then he stepped back. He spoke, decisively, firmly:

  “Computer, end program.”

  Lal disappeared, and it was as if she had never graced their presence. Picard suffered a momentary pang, over the loss of Data’s remarkable child, then turned his attention back to Data himself.

  With his familiar odd mix of slight android stiffness and military bearing, Data approached his friends. Picard marveled at the difference such a seemingly simple interaction had wrought.

  “Data?”

  “Yes, Geordi.” Data nodded formally. “Thank you.”

  “You can’t imagine how welcome you are.”

  Picard laughed delightedly. “We missed you, Mister Data.”

  “It is good to be … home.”

  “Are you … you?”

  “Yes, Captain. The data stream is still falling into place, but the majority of the information has been stored properly. I am … intact.”

  Picard hesitated, needing to know, yet afraid of any misstep that might cause some new setback. “How much do you remember?”

  A pause. A tilt of the head.

  Merde! What if he’d—

  “I retain all of my own memories, up until the download into B4’s memory banks.” Those innocent, yet all knowing, artificial eyes met Picard’s worried gaze. “It is all right, Captain. All but some small segment of information, any minor thing that may have happened between the downloading of my memories and now, are readily accessible.”

  “I see. And what of B4?”

  “B4’s memory files have been compartmentalized, for future access. I could have overwritten them, once I gained control of his neural pathways, but …”

  “But it would seem like killing him, if you’d overwritten him entirely?”

  “Exactly, Captain. Though I am not certain why that should matter. For all intents and purposes, he is already dead.”

  “It matters because he was your brother, Data.”

  “My brother. You are right, Geordi. That is very important. No matter how underdeveloped a prototype he may have been, he was still my brother.” Data blinked at his friends. “If my father named this prototype B4 there may have been more. If he used an alpha numerical naming system, and was not merely being whimsical, it is quite possible that there was an A, and then an unknown number of A models, before he even began on the letter B.”

  The childlike sense of wonder that was so much a part of the Data they remembered enveloped the android. “There could be a number of prototypes out there. It is a real possibility that I may find more of my family someday.”

  Picard smiled, simply enjoying the moment. Then he sobered, and grasped the palpable strength of the android’s forearm. He gripped the simulated muscle and bone in a fierce gesture that spoke even more deeply than his words.

  “Someday, Data. Perhaps. But regardless of that you must remember that we are your family. We on the Enterprise.”

  “I remember, Captain. I am very fortunate.”

  Picard gave the arm a final squeeze. “It goes beyond good fortune, Data. You’ve earned it.”

  STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE

  So a Horse Walks into a Bar …

  Brian Seidman

  Brian Seidman has been at times a bookseller, a newspaper reporter, and an English teacher. He currently works as an editor in Montgomery, Alabama. Born in Marietta, Georgia, he received his BA in Journalism from New York University and his MA in Creative Writing from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. Visit him online at www.brianseidman.com
.

  L ewis Zimmerman waved his hand at the faint smell of cigar smoke that filtered through Deep Space Nine’s holographic lounge, shaking his head to focus. He slowly slipped a hypospray from his right pocket and looked around. Vic Fontaine and the Ferengi bartender from downstairs stood engrossed in conversation a few feet away at the end of the bar. Zimmerman pressed the cold metal to his own neck and then hid the hypospray away. Immediately, he could feel clarity returning, the exhaustive symptoms briefly at bay.

  “Geez, Quark,” Vic was saying, “I’m trying to give my patrons a good time, not scare the bejesus out of them.” Between them, a wire cage sat atop a cart, the cage partially covered by a crimson sheet. Vic peered inside with a dubious frown.

  Zimmerman shifted on the leather barstool, stretching his arthritic knee joints grown stiff from waiting until he and Vic were alone. He watched as the silver-haired hologram, dressed in a black suit with a matching bowtie, listened to Quark with pursed lips. There was no lag time, no hint of the hologram accessing its programming; the holomatrix’s smoothness rivaled that of Zimmerman’s Emergency Medical Hologram. He began to feel dizzy again; where had such a sophisticated program come from?

  Quark jostled Vic out of the way, smoothing down the sheet. “It’s called a lounge lizard,” he said, gesturing with one brightly-colored sleeve. “All the old time bars had them. Just think, people will pay you to look at it. We’ll split the profits thirty-seventy, what do you say? Consider the possibilities.”

  “I don’t know, Quark.” Vic took a step back. “If you’ll excuse me, I have customers.” He started toward Zimmerman, wiping his brow in mock relief. Quark sighed dramatically, giving Zimmerman a glance as he wheeled the cart from the room. Zimmerman saw momentary surprise on Quark’s face, or maybe the scientist just felt self-conscious; the severe bend in Zimmerman’s back, the rasp in his voice, how his thin hair had gone from brown to bleach white. I’m a fool, Zimmerman thought, for thinking no one would notice. How did the motto go? The Department of Holographic Imagery and Programming. Illusion is our reality.