Relics - Michael Jan Friedman [40]
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, Lassie. 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 glass 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 glass 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 glass 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 bloody 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, superstitious 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