Relics - Michael Jan Friedman [39]
“Thank ye, lad,” said Scott, eyeing his liquid portion with obvious fondness. “I’m forever indebted to ye. Bottoms-“
Suddenly, with the glass 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 glass back into the man’s hand.
The waiter looked at the glass. “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 assistance,” 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 substitute,” 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 passionate 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, lass. 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