by Jeffrey Lang
“You did serve drinks. Now you are my daughter’s ‘personal assistant.’ ”
“And don’t think it hasn’t been interesting explaining that to some of my friends.”
A pair of young men who were clearly heading out for a night on the town walked past them and gave both Lal and Alice appraising glances. Data was surprised to find his daughter’s pleasure in the young men’s attention provoked an emotional response, though it was difficult to describe its precise nature. He felt annoyed, alarmed, and proud all at the same time. He attempted to cover his confusion by asking, “What do you mean? Interesting in what fashion?”
“Most think the job is a ruse . . .”
“They think Alice is your mistress, Father,” Lal interjected.
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, though. Most everyone approves. In fact,” Alice said, giggling, “I think your reputation has been significantly enhanced.”
“Oh?”
“I’m extremely popular.”
“She’s extremely popular,” Lal added.
“So, you have not done anything to dissuade this impression?”
“Of course I have. Everyone just assumes I’m lying. Which just makes the idea more intriguing.”
Data pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. In the days before his emotion chip was fully functional, he had frequently found human behavior difficult to predict; idiosyncratically, now that he possessed emotions, he usually found it utterly baffling. If his friend La Forge had been there, this was, he knew, one of those moments when he would have asked a question. Oddly, he was not comfortable asking a similar question of his daughter or her nanny. Admitting the need for an explanation made him feel exposed. Data decided to close off the discussion with another “Oh,” and a bid to change the subject. “But you still have not explained why we are out for a stroll this evening.” Then he added quickly, “As pleasant as it has been.”
“Good timing, Father,” Lal said, coming to a halt and turning to face a modest domestic structure. “Especially since we’re here.” The house had a rectangular face with tall, narrow windows. Based on his knowledge of Orion architecture, Data knew that the front door led into a reception room used to entertain guests when the weather was not optimal, which opened up into a wide kitchen where the family congregated for meals. Branching off from the kitchen were the private rooms used for sleeping, bathing, and study. The bottom half of the structure was shingled with wide timber slats, while the second and third stories were, as was customary, encased in an adobe-like plaster and decorated with brightly colored tiles, in this case yellow and blue. It was an engaging, even whimsical structure.
Data tipped his head to the side. “Here?” he asked. “Where is here?”
“My house,” Lal said.
“Your house?” Lal’s father asked.
“Yes. Alice helped me to find it. Actually, we walked past it a few weeks ago and saw it was for sale. I liked it, so I bought it. It’s friendly looking, isn’t it?”
Data nodded, unsure whether he was agreeing with Lal or simply trying to make words come out of his mouth. The ones that appeared were, “You purchased a house?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Without telling me?”
“Yes, Father. I am legally an adult, after all. I’m not obliged to ask for permission.”
“But . . . but . . .” Data found that emotion was inhibiting his ability to communicate effectively. He did not enjoy the experience. “But . . . why? I thought . . . I was under the impression that we . . . that our experience of living together . . . that it was improving . . .” And Data was not lying, nor did he feel as if he had misunderstood. Their domestic circumstances had settled into a much more peaceful and stable configuration since Alice had entered the picture, the oxide to their dihydrogen.
“It has, Father. A great deal. But I felt it was time for a change. I’ve decided I don’t like being a princess locked in a tower.”
“You’re not a princess locked in a tower,” Data protested. “You’re free to come and go whenever . . .”
“It’s a metaphor, Boss,” Alice said. “And, yes, she is. No one is accusing you of being an evil king. But still, a king. And sometimes, a girl doesn’t want to be a princess . . .”
Without actually realizing he had done it, he had mentally sent a request to the local municipal agency and looked up the real-estate listing for the structure. He found that Lal had indeed purchased the house after a week of negotiations with the former owner, an older woman whose husband had died the previous year. According to the inspector’s report, the home was in adequate condition, having been cared for assiduously by the husband for most of his life. Lal had already hired a contractor to make some minor improvements and repair a few subsystems that were functioning at less than optimum condition. She had undertaken all of these transactions using the legal identity Data had forged for her as a citizen of Orion Prime. He was simultaneously impressed by his daughter’s thoroughness and a bit hurt that she had never required his assistance. “And when . . . when will you be moving in?”
“Soon, Father. I need to buy some furniture. I was hoping you’d come along and help me look for some pieces for the front room. I have a few ideas that I think you’ll like for your room, but I wanted to check first.”
Data’s head snapped around so quickly he thought there must have been an audible click. He looked down at his daughter, who was pointing at the front porch and saying, “And I’d like to perhaps replace that banister. The inspector said there was some insect damage. Not too extensive, but if anyone wanted to sit on it, it might collapse. We are a little heavier than most Orions, after all.”
“My room?” Data asked.
“Yes,” Lal said, smiling, but not looking at him. “Overlooking the back yard, as is the tradition for the paterfamilias in Orion households. There’s a nice old tree I think you’ll like.”
“So you think I would like to live here?”
“I think you would, Father. More importantly, I think you need to live here.” Now his daughter was looking up into his eyes. She had reached out and taken his hand, too, and was holding it with both of her own. “I think you need to get out of that tower for a while. Doesn’t it feel a little like a prison sometimes?”
“My father made it, Lal,” Data said, though his words sounded a bit thin and desperate even to his own ears. “I am required to maintain it.”
“But you aren’t required to be your father. I think you might be in danger of that happening if you aren’t careful.” Lal squeezed his hand tightly with both of hers.
“I had not known you felt this way, my daughter.”
“I know,” Lal said, tilting her head in a manner Data found familiar. “I don’t think I’ve done a very good job explaining it. I find where you are concerned, I frequently have difficulty making myself understood.”
“That is very odd,” Data replied. “I have often felt the same way.” He squeezed her hand back.
“I’m going to punch both of you if you don’t stop,” Alice said. “Can we go look at the house now?”
Data released his daughter’s hand and turned to walk up the narrow path to the front porch. “Of course, Alice. Lal, please show your house.”
“Our house, Father.”
Data shook his head, smiling. “Your house, daughter. I saw the paperwork. It’s yours. I just live here.”
9
A timeless time
All color had been drained from Moriarty’s world. It annoyed him that he could not remember precisely when everything had turned black and white. He knew he could, if he wished, prowl through the logs and determine whether it had happened all at once or gradually. Since the day Sophia and Gladys had vanished, his holorecorders had captured every moment of every day in and around the house on the off chance that there was a glitch and they would flicker back into existence, if only for an eyeblink. Moriarty had introduced the idea to Regina on a particula
rly bad day, when hope had seemed to be at its lowest ebb. At least, on that day, Moriarty had hoped it was the lowest ebb. Since then, the supply of hope left in the world had dipped even lower. Perhaps there was a relationship between the amounts of hope and color. He made a mental note to devote some time to studying the phenomenon.
Regina sat on her couch wearing what he knew had once been her bluest dress. The girls had loved that particular dress—a sturdy wool garment resistant to every exigency of weather or mishap—since it was the one their mother wore when she escorted them into the city, bound for adventure. Now it was gray. A cup of tea sat on a table beside her elbow, cold and forgotten. The cup, once a delicate bone white, had been decorated with a filigree of pink rosebuds and green vines. Now the cup was a flat, featureless white. Regina stared out the window, but Moriarty doubted she knew the world outside, their once-bustling street, or if she noticed that the carriages and people were as drab and lifeless as her eyes.
He wanted to slip away into his private study, to find what modicum of peace there was in the solitude of his thoughts, but leaving Regina alone felt wrong, even traitorous, despite the fact that he doubted she would notice if he left the room.
Moriarty tugged his watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. Ten thirty-five. How long had they been sitting together? How long since he had breakfasted? Time slipped away sometimes: minutes, hours, days. He considered: Had he cursed himself by creating the program that was to overmaster the computer that ruled their world? His watch, once brilliant silver, was a dull, lusterless gray. It might have been made of tin. Just like your heart, James, he chided himself. The cuff of his shirt was white. Had it always been white? His morning coat was flat black. Had it once been a richer hue? Moriarty could not recall.
“Regina,” he said, rising. “If you do not mind, I believe I will retire to my study.” He tried to make the words ring brightly, but they clanged and thudded like iron bells. “I have an idea for a new configuration, a more powerful probe.” Somewhere along the line, he had begun to refer to his programs as probes, as if he was a surgeon and the roots of their universe were only organs and muscles. In his study, he would manipulate the probes and create holographic constructs so fractally dense that the details were lost to all but the most sensitive instruments. He was, in essence, trying to trick the computer that organized their world into making something so close to reality that it collapsed in on itself and became real. Once a scientist, now Moriarty had found his true calling: he was a sorcerer.
And all it had cost him was the memory of color.
He was standing. Regina did not stir. He walked toward his study door. Regina did not blink. He noted without interest that her eyes, once a warm brown, were now the color of ancient ice.
“Professor Moriarty?” Though Mrs. Hudson’s voice had lost any semblance of warmth, it was still recognizably her own, if only because no other female voices were ever heard in the house.
“Yes?”
“Please come to your study. Something is unfolding.” Moriarty had requested that Mrs. Hudson alert him when anything unusual occurred with the probes.
“I’m on my way.”
“Hurry, please.” Moriarty heard something in the program’s voice he had not detected in longer than he could recall: urgency.
As he passed by Regina, the folds of her dress shifted slightly as she moved her legs. “What?” she croaked, her tongue unaccustomed to forming words.
“I do not know, Regina. Follow if you wish.” She had not visited his workspace for many months.
The door to his workspace swung open as he neared—more evidence of Mrs. Hudson’s urgency. Even as he crossed the threshold, Moriarty saw several indicators flashing in the dashboard he had created to monitor the progress of his experiment. Disturbingly, the indicators were a bright red, the only color in the room. “What is it?” Regina asked hoarsely. “Have you succeeded?”
“I do not know,” Moriarty said, sitting down in his overstuffed chair. “Perhaps . . .” He swiped his hand over the control surface. The dashboard. The probes, all of them, were showing anomalous readings. After weeks and months of clockwork progress—giant augers drilling down through the bedrock in search of water—suddenly they were all responding like they had hit a giant reservoir.
Moriarty immersed himself in the data. His consciousness spiraled into the threads of the screw and he felt himself emerge from the tip. He looked into the void and felt his soul freeze with terror. Moriarty had given himself permission to feel as little as possible since the world had been split in half. With his daughters erased and his beloved reduced, it was easier . . . just easier . . . to feel as little as possible. He had even begun to believe he might be a part of a computer program, just as cold and numb as a line of the code that bound his world together. But, apparently, no, that was not the case: He could still know fear. That, at least, was left to him.
Withdrawing up through the probe, Moriarty rose from his chair and gently folded his wife into his arms. “Regina,” he whispered.
“What is it? Have you found them? Is there a way back?”
He tried to smile, to reassure, but they had been together for too long, shared too many trials and adventures. He owed her the truth. Moriarty owed his wife a choice. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Something . . . no, not something . . . nothing is coming. Hold on to me. Hold on to me, my love, and try not to let go. Try not to . . .”
And then, for the second time in James Moriarty’s life, the universe blinked.
The Present—The Daystrom Institute
Albert Lee’s lab looked nothing like his home. No more than five meters on a side, it was the very model of tidiness and efficiency, with glittering tools and instruments aligned on tables, parallel to the tables’ edges. There was but a single chair and the fact that Albert immediately sat in it did not seem to embarrass him in the slightest.
Data stood in the center of the space and studied the environs while Albert pulled on manipulator gloves and slipped on an optic device. “What is the nature of your research, Albert?” Data asked.
“Nothing too fancy. Mostly, I’m a glorified cataloger.” The corners of the visor and the tips of the gloves glowed yellow—sensors for the room’s apparatus to track. “Reg got me the job after I resigned. Said he thought I had the right skill set.” Albert made a sound that La Forge interpreted as rueful amusement. “Which I took to mean I don’t get bored easily.” He twirled a finger and flicked through several screens.
Though most outsiders considered Starfleet a bastion of sophisticated technology, the truth was that service aboard a starship favored low-end technological solutions. Matter-antimatter engines were still a fickle source of energy and any technology that consumed more ergs than absolutely necessary was frowned upon (with the generally accepted exception of the holodecks, for reasons rooted in traditions too deep and gnarled to debate). Having been trained in an environment that favored openness and collaboration, La Forge had little patience for virtual data manipulators for the simple reason that they were difficult to use in group situations. Albert, true to form, didn’t care and went merrily about his business. “What are you looking for?” La Forge asked, hoping he didn’t sound as impatient as he felt.
“Manifests. And logs. Wanted to check when the unit arrived and see what thousand natural shocks technology be heir to.”
Data, who had not ceased studying the tools and devices lining the walls, said only, “Hmm.”
La Forge desperately wanted a chair that he could call his very own. Or a cot. No quantity of stimulants was going to keep him going much longer.
“Here,” Albert said, and pointed at a flat-screen monitor, which helpfully lit up and repositioned itself so that La Forge and Data could easily view the display. “These are the energy consumption records from 2369 through mid-year 2374. We don’t have data from when the unit was still on the Enterprise. They were lost in the crash.” Complex rows and columns of statistics dan
ced and whirled, then coalesced into a simple line graph showing how much power the memory storage device had been drawing while stored at the Daystrom. For all intents and purposes, the line was flat. La Forge was sure a closer investigation would have shown small spikes and dips, but nothing significant.
“And then, of course, there’s this,” Albert said, and rubbed his gloved thumb over his forefinger. The display scrolled to the left, showing data for the latter half of 2374. The line cratered sharply, then resumed its unremarkable trajectory. “Certainly you remember that day.”
“When Vaslovik faked his death and stole the android,” La Forge said.
“Rhea,” Data said, his voice pitched low.
“Except she wasn’t Rhea then,” La Forge replied, wanting to be sensitive to his friend’s possible distress, but also not wanting to lose the point of the display. “Not yet.”
“No, of course not,” Data said, stepping closer to the screen. “How long was power to the unit disrupted? And how was that even possible? Were there no redundant systems?”
“Of course there were. Redundancy on redundancy,” Albert said, slipping the goggles off his forehead. “But Vaslovik or Flint or whoever the hell he was, he needed everything taken out. Kind of irks me how selfish he was about the whole thing. Didn’t seem to matter to him what other work he was disrupting.”
“He was an intensely . . . single-minded individual,” Data allowed.
“Was ? Is he dead?”
“No. Simply gone. Probably for a long time. Possibly forever. I believe he felt as if he had seen too much and grown weary of humanity.”
“I know the feeling,” Albert allowed.
“I doubt it,” La Forge inserted, feeling grumpier by the second. Why wasn’t there another damned chair in the room? “At least not to the degree Flint did.”
“Could you zoom in here, please?” Data asked, pointing at the dip in the line. “I need more granular information.”
Albert swiped his left thumb up the edge of his right forefinger and the display grew larger. After a moment’s consideration, Data pointed at the lowest point on the graph. “The core was badly damaged,” he observed. “Again. But the grid held. Can we theorize about the effect it may have had on the inhabitants?”
