Immortal Coil - Jeffrey Lang [97]
“I prefer the violin,” Data said, “though I have been told that my playing sometimes lacks shade and variation. I believe that this problem has lessened somewhat since I installed my emotion chip …” He let the thought trickle away into silence, realizing that he had no desire to talk about music.
Both of them let the silence stretch out for several long seconds. Then, Rhea played a soft chord with her left hand, but it was flat and quickly fell still. “So,” she said, looking at the keys, “he told you everything?”
It was, Data decided, a purposefully ambiguous question. He considered several hundred ways to respond, then settled on the simplest. “Yes,” he said. “Everything except where we are to go from here.”
With a quick, precise motion, Rhea pulled the cover over the keyboard with a dull thunk. “I’m afraid I don’t have that answer,” she said. She looked up at the dome of stars over their heads and Data saw, to his helpless dismay, that there were tears in the corners of her eyes. “Strange as this may seem, Data, I don’t completely understand this universe I was created to live in.” She sniffed and one of the tears broke free and ran down her cheek. “Does anyone? But … but my existence seems to have catalyzed so much conflict, so much strife. I’ve been online …” Rhea laughed derisively at her own choice of words and started again, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I’ve been alive for only a couple of weeks, but I’ve been afraid almost every moment of it.” She looked into Data’s eyes. “Except when I’ve been with you.”
Data looked down into Rhea’s eyes and was almost overcome by a surge of muddled emotions. Not since the days right after he had installed the chip had he felt so confused or so vulnerable. Data wanted desperately to say something—preferably something profound and heartfelt—but his tongue felt like a lump of wet cardboard in his mouth. He looked into the eyes of a person whom he was almost certain he loved desperately, and, like so many lovers in the annals of humankind, he resorted to impulse. “Rhea,” he blurted out, “would you interface with me?”
Rhea stared at him blankly for several seconds. She had stopped crying at least. Then, an eyebrow twitched and the left corner of her mouth slowly inched upward. “Why, Data,” she said dryly. “Are you coming on to me?”
Now it was Data’s turn to stare. He said, “I am on.” Then, he blinked. “Oh. I see. Humor. That was funny.”
“So, why aren’t you laughing?”
“I am not certain,” Data said. “So I have stored away that particular emotional response for a more appropriate moment.”
She climbed up onto the bench and knelt so their faces were on a level. Rhea cocked her head to the side, considered, then nodded. “Good enough,” she said. “And to answer your question, I’m afraid our systems aren’t compatible … that way.” She reached up and lightly brushed his cheek with the tips of her fingers. The sensation sent a shiver down Data’s spine. “We’re going to have to find out about each other the way the humans do—one minute at a time. One thought at a time. One kiss at a time.” She leaned forward then and touched her lips to his; a feather’s brush, but it almost sent Data reeling back on his heels.
Data reached up and almost touched his mouth, but did not for fear that it would erase the lingering sensation. “I believe,” he said, “I can live with that.” He looked at her and saw her smiling, relaxed, unafraid. He hated to have to pursue another topic, but he felt he had no choice. “But what of Vaslovik?” he asked.
The smile did not leave Rhea’s face, not immediately, but Data saw sadness steal into her eyes. She laid her hand on his and squeezed it, saying, “He’s a very old and lonely man, Data. He’s been everything—great, meaningless, good, evil, creative, destructive, selfish, selfless—everything. He’s known dear friends, terrible enemies,