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

by Jeffrey Lang

  Data sighed. “Beam us down, Shakti. Do not forget the cargo.”

  19

  A placeless place

  Professor Moriarty poured a bit of water just off the boil into the teapot, swished it about, dumped it, and then scooped a couple teaspoons of dark, black tea out of a tin. In a single movement, he tipped the tea into the pot while pouring more water from the kettle. A lush, delicate aroma filled the air. “As you can see, gentlemen,” the Professor said, “we’re not savages.”

  “No one said you were,” La Forge replied, awkwardly uncrossing and then recrossing his legs. The easy chair’s cushions were softer than they looked, and he had sunk more deeply into them than he had expected; consequently, he was having trouble finding a comfortable position where he also thought he could stand up quickly if he wanted.

  “Abduction and extortion aside,” Data added. He solved the too-soft-cushion problem by simply scooting forward and perching on the edge of the seat, back straight, head high. It was a position Data could maintain for hours if necessary: one of the advantages of being an android. His friend’s expression was as neutral as La Forge had ever seen it before acquiring his emotion chip, but there was a slight tension around the corners of his mouth, so slight and subtle that no one else would notice it.

  Moriarty shrugged and said, “Chacun à ses raisons.”

  “What?” La Forge asked.

  “ ‘Everyone has their reasons,’ ” Data translated. From La règle du jeu—The Rules of the Game, if I’m not mistaken. A curious choice, sir.”

  “I’ve found I have an abiding affection for French cinema of the early twentieth century. The French have always had a special understanding of light and shadow.”

  “If I recall correctly,” Data said, “and I always do, la raison—the reason—is usually love, is it not?”

  “It is. So, we understand each other.”

  “I believe we do,” Data said.

  “Why do you make tea?” La Forge asked, unhappy with how obtuse the conversation had become.

  “What a curious question, Commander La Forge. Isn’t the answer obvious? I’m English.” He waved the teaspoon over the pot. “Therefore, tea.”

  “But you’re a hologram. Why not make holographic tea?”

  “Holographic tea has no aroma,” Moriarty explained. “Allow me to explain: In the pocket universe you so cleverly constructed for me and my wife, we believed that we were, in fact, corporeal beings. Even when we came to understand that this was not the case, the program still treated us like we were. We interacted with a universe that had certain rules, certain comforts.”

  “Like tea,” Data added.

  “Correct,” Moriarty said. “But, here, in this larger universe, the Great Programmer has not taken quite so all-encompassing a position for the arrangement of our comfort. We do not need to eat, but neither do we have the pleasure of enjoying food. We do not get tired, but neither do we dream.”

  “That must have taken some time to get used to,” La Forge commented.

  “I found I took to it rather well,” the Professor said. “Perhaps because I did not value those things as highly as some others might. The life of the mind, you know? My wife . . . she needed more time to adapt.”

  “But you can detect aromas?” La Forge asked.

  “We can, but only with a great deal of effort,” Moriarty said. “If properly motivated. And there is consolation in ritual, is there not? And one of those rituals is tea.” He smiled. “How do you take yours?”

  “Milk and sugar,” La Forge said, who, despite his long association with Jean-Luc Picard, had never taken much pleasure in tea.

  “Nothing in mine, thank you,” Data said. “Will Lal and Alice be joining us?”

  Moriarty approached with their cups, neither of them jiggling in the slightest. La Forge didn’t know which he was more awed by: the crispness and clarity of the holographs or the precision of the force fields. The setup in Vic Fontaine’s office had been amazing, but Fontaine hadn’t attempted to handle solid objects. Whatever else Moriarty had been doing with his now-sleepless nights, he had developed some astonishingly detailed control mechanisms. The Professor smiled as he handed them their beverages. “Not yet, Mister Data. Perhaps after we’ve concluded our business. Perhaps my wife could join us, too. She’s become quite fond of your daughter, and Lal has had a profound—I might even say ‘miraculous’—effect on my wife. I’m sure they will want to spend as much time together as they can before you all leave.”

  Data sipped his beverage. “Excellent tea, Professor.” He rose and walked around behind the chair, holding the saucer in one hand and the cup in the other. Nodding toward the back of the room and the large, foam-packed device components, he said, “We have brought you the Exo III transfer device. As I explained, we believe this unit is simply a transmitter. Having had some time to examine it while we traveled here, I have determined it is very similar to a machine my father created that transferred his consciousness into an android body—this android body, to be precise—and then, later, my mind, which replaced his.”

  “He did this by choice?”

  “Yes.”

  Moriarty seemed impressed. “A noble act, Mister Data.”

  “He was an extraordinary person, Professor. He would have enjoyed meeting you.”

  “Once he got past the abduction and extortion,” La Forge added. He didn’t like his tea, and he was getting impatient with everyone’s good manners. He was also keenly aware that they had, figuratively speaking, walked into the dragon’s lair without armor or sword and had sat down within easy snapping range so everyone could enjoy a convivial beverage. What prevented Moriarty from opening up his home to deep space? Answer: nothing.

  “That goes without saying,” Moriarty replied.

  “The true miracle,” Data continued, “is the template or ‘slug’ as we have come to call it.” He indicated the antigravity trolley floating serenely in the corner. “It is a tabula rasa capable of storing and maintaining the memories and experiences of an organic being, as well as altering its exterior to resemble that person, should the individual desire.”

  “You sound like you’re trying to sell me something, Mister Data.”

  “I am not, Professor. I do not think it needs to be sold.”

  “I sense a catch, then,” Moriarty said. “A condition. A limitation.”

  “You are correct: We only have one,” Data explained. “And we are not entirely certain of its viability.”

  “You’ve brought me a flawed slug.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Then what good are you to me, Mister Data?” the Professor asked, his tone abruptly sharp. La Forge suspected he was subtly manipulating his appearance, too: he looked larger, more menacing, and the shadows behind him were dark and brooding.

  “Anything that can be made once, Professor, can be imitated.”

  “Given time,” Moriarty snarled. “And luck. But what, Mister Data, if I do not feel like waiting? What if I fear for my wife’s sanity? What if I am simply weary of not being able to have a cup of tea?” He moved so swiftly that La Forge didn’t even see him approach, though he felt the replicated sensation of the back of Moriarty’s hand against his own and heard the teacup and saucer smash against the wall. It’s all just force fields brushing up against force fields, La Forge thought, all in a flash, but damned if it isn’t convincing. And the most remarkable part of all of it was that Moriarty himself believed in the illusion; otherwise, why go to all the trouble of making teacups and walls to smash them against? “What then, sir?” Moriarty hissed.

  “Then, I believe I can offer an alternative option,” Data said.

  “Which would be?”

  Data did not speak, but only lightly tapped his chest above his heart. “Me,” he said.

  * * *

  “Is my father nearby?” Lal asked.

  “I don’t know, little one,” Alice replied. “How could I know?”

  “I just thought the P
rofessor might have told you.” Lal had been sitting up, but she had gradually slid down under the covers over the past half-hour. She appeared drained and her voice trembled.

  Alice, seated in a low chair beside her bed, patted the girl’s hand. “You know everything I know.”

  “Do I?” Lal asked. “I thought perhaps the Professor had taken a shine to you.”

  “Perhaps a bit. But I don’t know what I’d do with him. He’s only made of light, little one . . . Oh, wait. I see what you did there. Shine; light.” Alice giggled. “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor, if that’s what you want to call it.”

  Alice smiled wanly. “I’m hilarious, as you know, dear Alice.” She closed her eyes and touched the bridge of her nose with her fingertips. “But I confess it: I’ve felt better.”

  “You’ve looked better.”

  “I’m so tired. I’ve never been tired. I don’t like it.”

  “Then you should go to sleep.”

  Lal made a sour face. “You know I don’t like to sleep. I’ll miss things.”

  “You’ll miss things if you have another episode, too.”

  “Could this all be because I haven’t had one of Father’s treatments for a while? I haven’t felt this poorly in quite some time.”

  “He says the need for the treatments is stress-related.” Alice shrugged. “It’s been a stressful couple of days.”

  “Is that all it’s been? A couple days?”

  “According to my chronometer.”

  “I’d lost track. That means it’s the weekend. That new club we like will be busy. We were going to go dancing, weren’t we? When we get home, let’s go dancing.”

  “I’m game,” Alice said. “If you’re feeling up to it. And if your father lets you.”

  “I can do anything I want,” Lal murmured. “I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions.”

  “Of course you are,” Alice said, smiling. She looked down at the girl and was surprised to find her eyes were shut. She tightened her grip on Lal’s hand. “Hey, sweetie. Hey.” Lal did not open her eyes. “Lal? Hey, Lal . . . You’re scaring me.” Alice patted her face. “Hey, wake up. Wake up!” Alice commanded, but Lal did not wake. “Oh, no,” Alice moaned. “Oh, no, no, no. Not now. Please, not now, not when I’m here all alone. Please, Lal, don’t do this!” She tried to tug her hand free from the girl’s, but Lal’s fingers were rigidly locked around Alice’s. “Crap on a cracker!” Alice groaned. “C’mon, Lal! Don’t do this!”

  Alice was suddenly aware of another presence in the room. She spun around and found the Countess standing behind her, eyes narrowed. Her dress, Alice saw, had regained some color and was now a faint blue, like a faded watercolor. “What is wrong?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. She was awake and alert just a moment ago, but she just dropped off.”

  “Has she ever done this before?” The Countess leaned forward, but couldn’t quite get to Lal with Alice sitting in the way. “Can you get your hand free?”

  “No,” Alice said. “And it’s making me a little crazy.”

  “Can you remove it?”

  “Remove it? My hand?”

  “Yes,” the Countess said. “You are a machine, aren’t you? Can you remove it if needed?”

  “I . . . Sure,” Alice said. She pressed firmly on a couple of points on her wrist and twisted. The hand separated just below the wrist and drooped limply in Lal’s grip. Alice rose and stepped out of the way.

  “Thank you,” the Countess said, and slipped into the seat. “Please don’t point your wrist at me. I know what you can do with it.”

  Alice stared at her wrist. “That is the strangest thing anyone has said to me today.”

  “The day isn’t over,” the Countess said as she began to examine Lal.

  * * *

  “This is an extraordinarily bad idea, Data,” La Forge said.

  “Is it?” Data asked. He had removed the packing material from around the Exo III device and connected together the components using cables he had brought. Moriarty had shown him where the power conduits were and now the device was purring ominously. While the Exo III engineers built their machines to last, they did not make them particularly reassuring. Though, Data had to concede, who knew what the machine sounded like to them? For all he knew, the foreboding sound it was making might have been their equivalent to wind chimes. “Why do you think so?”

  “Where do I begin?” La Forge asked, apparently having decided it was time to resort to sarcasm. “You’re planning on turning over your body to an individual that I think we could charitably describe as ‘unstable.’ Also, you’ll be dead. Again.”

  “I will not die. Moriarty says he believes he can store my consciousness in the holographic matrix. I will be preserved.”

  “Believes?”

  “I do not think the Professor means us any harm, my friend. When he has found a solution to his problem, when he can find a suitable body for his wife and a means to recover his children—”

  “Which may or may not be possible!”

  “But do you not think he deserves the opportunity to try?” Data asked. “Did I not deserve the opportunity to retrieve Lal?”

  “And that’s the worst part, Data. I’m not even entirely sure you’re doing this for any of the reasons you think you are.”

  Data cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “I do not understand.”

  “Guilt, Data. I think you’re driven by guilt.”

  “Concerning?”

  “For what happened to Rhea. For the choice you made . . .”

  “It was the logical choice. Even she thought so.”

  La Forge gripped Data by his shoulders and shook him. “You are not a being of pure logic anymore, Data. I don’t think you ever really were. Muted emotion, yes, but not emotionless. Since your resurrection, everything you do seems driven by emotions that you’ve barely had time to come to terms with. And the worst part is that you keep thinking everything is the way it used to be! You’re so damned calm!”

  Data considered his friend’s supposition. “So,” he said cautiously, “you believe I may be driven by guilt.”

  “Possibly.”

  “But that I do not recognize my own irrational behavior because of my lack of experience with the responses.”

  “I think it’s worth considering.”

  Data traced his way up and down all the possible responses he could make to his friend’s supposition. “I cannot conceive of a rational counterargument.”

  La Forge sighed in relief. “So, you’ll reconsider this crazy plan?”

  “No.” Data shook his head. “I cannot refute your argument, but I see no other means to move forward. Whether my goal is motivated by reason or emotion, it is still my goal. And, I hate to tell you this, but I think the situation is even more dire than you think.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  Data pointed at the device’s control panel. “I cannot reach the controls from the bed. You will have to turn it on.”

  La Forge rubbed his puffy eyes and made a circuit of the room, gesticulating in silent frustration. Completing his orbit, he stabbed a finger at Data. “What if I refuse?”

  “I imagine the Professor will ask his wife to assist. But I would feel much safer about this if you were in control.”

  La Forge breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. “The next time you need help with some little caper, could you please call somebody else? Worf, maybe? Or Captain Picard?”

  Data nodded. “Of course. Now, please, can we proceed? I believe the Professor is growing impatient.”

  “Fine,” La Forge said, approaching the control panel. “This thing’s so old it’ll probably blow up anyway.”

  “And Geordi?”

  “What?”

  “Please tell Lal I love her very much.”

  La Forge didn’t look back at Data, but he hung his head low. “Sure,” he said. “Do you want to write her a note or something?”

  “I do not think
that will be necessary,” Data replied. He beckoned to Moriarty. “Professor? We are ready to proceed.”

  * * *

  Lal knew the Countess was near. She knew Alice was in the room. She was very certain her father was nearby, too, despite what Alice said. Aware of her awareness, Lal’s consciousness spiraled out around her, gathering information, processing and structuring it. This is such an interesting puzzle, she thought, but I can’t find the beginning or end of it, the sides or the corners. She felt the Countess trying to rouse her, but Lal was distracted by another portion of her mind that was attempting to contact her. She was curious about what it might want. Images flickered past her inner eye, most of them nonsensical, but peculiarly familiar: birds and beasts and airplanes. June bugs, mandolins, and large Jimsonweed blossoms. The silhouette of a woman wearing a floppy hat standing in a golden field as the sun set behind her.

  I must be dreaming, she thought. How did that happen? Her father had told her about his own experiences with dreams, but she hadn’t any idea that this would be so simultaneously unsettling and familiar. Lal tried to catalog the images, to find connections between them or to her experiences of the past few days, but she could not find the linkages. This is happening too fast, she thought, feeling like she was being swept away by a riptide. I would like to wake up now.

  A voice replied, “I don’t think that would be a good idea just yet.”

  The parade of images continued to flicker past, unspooling more smoothly now. Lal had only just become aware of the sounds that accompanied each scene, but, even as the noise impinged on her awareness, they began to flatten out, to become a soft hum. “Who speaks?” Lal asked.

  “I do,” the voice said. It was low and gravelly, not unpleasant, but not particularly friendly, either. Lal thought the speaker, whoever he was, might be a person who didn’t have a lot of patience for foolishness.

  “Where are you?” Lal asked. “I can’t see you.”

  “Wait just a moment. Have some patience. This isn’t easy. There’s a lot going on here.” The fluttering images flattened out and became a wall. A door appeared and opened. A man stepped out, turned, and carefully shut the door behind him. He bent at the waist when he talked, his hand at the small of his back. When he neared Lal (who was pleased to discover she had a body again), he extended his hand in a businesslike fashion. She reached out and took the proffered hand, finding it soft and fragile-seeming, though the man’s grip was unexpectedly strong. “How do you do?” the man asked.