Star Trek - Relics. Part 11

"As a matter of fact," Data told him, "I am off-duty right now."

A stroke of luck-one of the few Scott had had since boarding this ship. "Are ye now? Splendid. Then maybe there's some place we can chew the fat a bit."

The android looked at him, his golden eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Then, abruptly, he seemed to understand.

"Chew the fat," he repeated. "Converse. Engage in discussion." A pause. "I would like that," he concluded. "And I believe I have an appropriate venue in mind. It is called Ten-Forward."

"Wherever ye like, laddie," said Scott. He'd never heard of Ten-Forward; it was probably a lab of some kind. But then, that didn't really matter, did it? After all, they were going there to exchange information, not to swap tall tales over a bottle of Saurian brandy.

Data had barely escorted Captain Scott into the Ten-Forward lounge when he knew he had made the right decision. It was obvious from the man's broad grin and the way he rubbed his hands together that Scott felt right at home here.

"Why did ye nae tell me ye had a tavern on board?" he asked the android.

Data looked at him. "You did not ask," he replied.

That brought a flood of laughter from Scott. "Ah, Mr. Data, I had my doubts about ye, I must admit-but ye're nothing like the androids I used to know." He slapped Data on the back. "Lay on, Macduff."

The android looked at him. It took his positronic brain a moment to find the reference. And even after it had, he didn't quite grasp the connection.

"Macduff was a character in William Shakespeare's Macbeth," he noted. "What does that have to do with-"

"It's only an expression, lad, only an expression. Here now, that looks like the bar. What do ye say we belly up to it?" And without waiting for an answer, he took the second officer by the arm and pulled him in the necessary direction.

As they sat down on neighboring stools, a waiter came over to them. "May I help you, sir?" he asked Scott, who was nearer to him.

"Aye, lad. Scotch. Neat."

"And you, sir?" the waiter asked Data.

"I will have the same, " the android replied.

Scott gazed at him with new admiration. "Thatta boy, Mr. Data-though I would nae have figured ye fer a scotch man."

"I am not a scotch man," the android told him. "In fact, this is the first time I have ever placed such an order."

"Is that so?" said Scott. "Well, then, ye're in fer a most pleasant surprise." He paused. "Unless, of course, alcohol does nae agree with ye." Then he rolled his eyes and chuckled. "What am I thinking? If it did nae agree with ye, ye would nae have brought me here, now would ye?"

As Data puzzled over Captain Scott's remarks, the waiter brought them their drinks. Scotch was an amber-colored beverage, the android noted. And as his companion requested, it had been served without ice in short, squat gla.s.ses.

"Thank ye, lad," said Scott, eyeing his liquid portion with obvious fondness. "I'm forever indebted to ye. Bottoms-"

Suddenly, with the gla.s.s halfway to his lips, he noticed something amiss-or at least, it seemed that way to Data. For a moment, he held his drink up to the light and inspected it.

Perhaps it was not the quality of scotch the man was accustomed to, the android surmised. In any case, Scott didn't carry on his inspection for very long. Shrugging, he turned to Data.

"Oh well," he said. "Any port in a storm, eh?" And his doubts apparently overcome, he took a hearty gulp of the stuff.

The android did the same. But he'd barely swallowed when he heard the sound of something hard striking the surface of the bar.

"Are ye trying to poison me?" Scott demanded. There was a look of disgust on his face as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What in blazes is this?"

The waiter was by their side in record time. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"I'll say something's wrong," the older man spat. "Ye did nae bring me what I asked for."

"Didn't you order scotch?" asked the plainly confused waiter.

"That I did," said Scott, thrusting the gla.s.s back into the man's hand.

The waiter looked at the gla.s.s. "But... but that's what I brought you, sir. Scotch."

Scott leaned close to the man and said, in a voice taut with frustration "Laddie, I was drinkin' scotch about a hundred years before ye were born, and I can tell ye one thing fer certain whatever this is, it is most definitely not scotch."

The waiter was at a loss. He just stood there for a moment, baffled.

But Data had figured it out. "I believe I may be of some a.s.sistance," he offered. "You see, Captain Scott is unaware of the existence of synthehol."

The older man turned to him. "Synthehol?" he asked, making it sound like a curse. "What the bleedin' blazes is that?"

"It is an alcohol subst.i.tute," said the android. "Synthehol simulates the appearance, smell and taste of alcohol, but its intoxicating effects can be dismissed in humanoids with a mental effort. Therefore, one may imbibe to one's heart's content-without suffering any negative consequences afterward. Though it was originally developed by the Ferengi, it is now served aboard all Federation starships."

Scott just looked at him. He did not seem happy.

"Synthehol," he echoed.

"That is correct," Data responded.

"And the Ferengi... ?" he started to ask-but quickly erased the question with a wave of his hand. "No, dinnae tell me. I dinnae want to know."

The android answered him anyway. "The Ferengi Alliance is made up of a number of planetary systems with a centralized government. The Ferengi themselves are intergalactic traders whose main motivation is profit. In appearance, they are quite short, dark, highly energetic humanoids with exceedingly large..."

"Mr. Data!" cried Scott. "I said I did nae want to know!"

"... ears," the android finished, and was still. Obviously, the human's statement had been meant literally rather than colloquially.

Scott sighed. "Synthetic scotch and synthetic commanders. I'm beginning t' hate the twenty-fourth century," he said with pa.s.sionate sincerity.

"I'm sorry to hear that," replied a feminine voice. Data and his companion turned at the same time, tracing the voice to its source.

"Guinan," declared the android.

"In the flesh," she said. And then to Captain Scott "I don't believe we've been introduced. You are... ?"

"Montgomery Scott," the human answered-a bit wearily, Data thought.

"Nice to meet you, Montgomery Scott. Say... aren't you the fellow they fished out of the Jenolen?"

He nodded. "One and the same, la.s.s. Though I'm beginnin' to wonder if it was worth it."

Guinan smiled placidly. "I don't think you mean that, Montgomery Scott. I think you've been saying a lot of things you don't mean."

Scott looked at her, narrow-eyed. "Dinnae tell me ye're another of those counselors." He uttered the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

She shook her head. "Nope. I'm not one of those. I'm the person who runs this place." She indicated Ten-Forward with a sweep of her arm.

The man's eyes lit up with indignation. "I see. Then you're the one responsible for serving that synthewhoozis instead of real scotch."

Guinan shrugged. "I've never had any complaints before."

"Well," Scott told her, "ye've got one now. Let me tell ye something, La.s.sie. I was drinkin' scotch about a hundred years before ye were born-"

"I doubt it," she replied.

He looked at her disbelievingly. "I beg your pardon?"

"You weren't drinking scotch a hundred years before I was born," she corrected. "And for that matter, neither was your great-great-grandfather. But of course, that's another story entirely."

Scott considered her for a moment or two and then turned to Data. "Is she on the level?"

The android nodded. "I have seen firsthand evidence of her veracity."

"True," said Guinan, drawing the human's attention again, and Data's as well. "In any case, Captain Scott, since you don't care for what we're serving here..."

Walking around to the back of the bar, she bent down and reached for something. When she came up again, she had a very old, dusty bottle full of a green liquid. Blowing on it, she dislodged a considerable amount of dust. Then, with something of a flourish, she placed it next to a clean gla.s.s on the bar's polished surface.

Scott's eyes asked a question. Guinan answered it.

"I keep a ... shall we say ... limited supply of nonsyntheholic beverages behind the bar. Perhaps this one will be more to your liking, Captain."

Data tried to read the label, but he was unable to. It had faded too badly from the effects of age and spillage.

Scott looked at the bottle, then at Guinan, and then back to the bottle again. Curious, Data picked it up, removed the cap and sniffed the contents.

"What is it?" asked the human.

Data told Scott the only thing he knew for certain. "It is green," he said.

Scott eyed the bottle again and shrugged. "Well," he declared, "I guess that's good enough fer me."

Data could hardly disagree with the observation. Turning the bottle over to Scott, he watched the man pour himself two fingers' worth. Then he raised his gla.s.s and saluted Guinan and the android.

"Cheers," Scott said. And then, with something of a make-do expression on his face, he drank.

Chapter Eight.

IN A CORRIDOR, Scott was standing just outside the doors of a holodeck. He was still carrying the bottle of green liquor and the gla.s.s from Ten-Forward, and he was more than a little drunk. He activated the bulkhead computer terminal.

"Please enter program," said the computer's smooth, synthetic voice.

"The android at the bar told me ye could show me my old ship. So lemme see the old girl."

"Insufficient data. Please quantify parameters."

"The Enterprise. Show me the bridge of the Enterprise, ye chattering piece of-"

"There have been five Federation ships with that name," the computer informed him. "Please specify by registry number."

Scott cursed beneath his breath. "NCC-One-Seven-Oh-One. No b.l.o.o.d.y A, B, C or D!"

"Program complete," the computer announced softly. "Enter when ready."

Scott took a step toward the strange interlocking doors of the holodeck-and then stopped. What was holding him back?

The possibility that the fantasy wouldn't live up to the reality? Some vague, superst.i.tious fear of waking the dead-for the Enterprise-no-suffix was certainly that. He knew; he'd seen her die with his own eyes.

"Ah, blast," he said to no one in particular. "Faint heart never won fair lady." And with that, he stepped forward again.

The doors parted. And a moment later, as if by magic, Scotty found himself on the bridge of his old ship. Kirk's old ship. All the monitors were blinking and flashing and the sound of the old scanners filled the air.

For a second or two, as he moved to a spot beside the captain's chair, Scott felt as if he'd come home. Going over to his old station, just to one side of the turbolift, he turned and took a look around.

And was unexpectedly depressed. There was n.o.body here. n.o.body at all. It didn't seem right to be alone on a place that was once such a hive of activity.

Without his old friends manning the consoles and stations, without Spock and McCoy exchanging barbs and the captain laughing up his sleeve at them, the Enterprise was like a ghost ship. The Flying Dutchman, Scott thought.

No. The Flying Scotsman, he amended. Doomed to wander the universe in perpetuity, no longer wanted, no longer needed.

Like Scott himself. He heaved a sigh.

d.a.m.n. He hadn't come here to hold a wake for himself. He'd come to remind himself of a time when he was wanted and needed.

Scott poured himself a stiff drink, trying to shake his feelings of melancholy. Lifting his gla.s.s, he saluted the people who weren't there.

"Here's to ye, lads," he intoned, as if at a wake. He drank down the libation.

And then he realized ... this holodeck could recreate a lot more than places and things, if he'd understood correctly. It could recreate people as well.

"Computer," he said, "I need some company here. Some familiar faces."

"Please specify," came the response.

He ch uckled and straightened in his seat. "Captain James T. Kirk. First Officer Spock. Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy."