Survivors - Jean Lorrah [11]
However, Tasha seemed at ease with him here, so he decided their lack of interesting discussions before now was due simply to the fact that their varied duties kept them out of one another’s paths except on the bridge and a few busy away team assignments.
After a while Tasha grew hungry and dialed up a menu of what was available from the shuttle’s provisions console. “What is this?” she demanded. “Aldebaran wine? Quetzi ramekins? Oysters?!”
Data was concerned to recognize anger in her voice. He turned, explaining, “All the standard programs are there as well. I simply added those because they are foods I knew you liked.”
She stared at him for a moment, anger and astonishment warring with her careful control. Then, suddenly, amusement won over both, and she laughed. “Of course, Data-you couldn’t know the implications of those foods.”
“Implications?” he asked blankly.
Tasha blushed, but plunged on. “You installed the programs for the items I had in my room the time I … invited you in. You had no way of knowing that they all have the reputation of being … aphrodisiacs.”
If Data could have blushed in turn, he would have. “I-I’m sorry,” he stumbled.
“It’s all right,” Tasha said. “Do you like any of this?”
“I do not know. I never got the chance-” Data stopped again, dismayed. This, he suddenly recognized, was embarrassment. Perhaps later he would feel pleasure at comprehending another human trait. For now, he had absolutely no programming to cope with a sensation that was disagreeable indeed. All he could think to do was parrot what he had once overheard William Riker say, to himself rather than to the woman in question, in a somewhat similar situation: “Oh, damn.”
Tasha stared at him for a moment, and then burst into giggles. Quickly, though, she forced herself sober, and assured him, “It’s all right. All my fault.” She took a deep breath. “What shall I program up for you?”
“Any combination of proteins, carbohydrates, and electrolytes suitable for humans can be made use of by my nutritive fluids.”
“But don’t you have a preference?” Tasha persisted.
“A chicken sandwich, an apple, and a glass of milk,” he replied, falling back on the combination he had learned to dial up years ago at Starfleet Academy, so as not to draw stares or comments from his fellow students.
“Mm-hmm,” said Tasha. “Standard Starfleet misfit camouflage.”
“What?”
“When you’re as strange as you or me, you learn every way possible to avoid calling attention to yourself,” she replied.
“Now you are practicing telepathy,” he observed. “But,” he added, “you are not strange, Tasha.”
“I was then,” she explained. “When I entered Starfleet Academy I was eighteen years old, but only three years civilized. Barely. It was a very thin veneer. I’d crammed a whole education into those three years, with no time for social graces.”
Data blinked at her. “Why?” he asked. “I mean, I know your records, that you were rescued from New Paris when you were fifteen-but why did you feel you had to push so hard at education?”
“Starfleet,” she replied. “It was all I wanted, Data. Surely you know the feeling. You were also rescued by Starfleet; you must have wanted to become a part of it as much as I did.”
“Starfleet is the only place I can function to my full capacity,” he told her.
“Yes,” Tasha agreed with a nod, but Data sensed that she meant something far more profound than he did. Therefore he kept silent, waiting for a further response.
The food dispenser pinged, and Tasha removed from it a tray covered with small containers. No wonder it had taken so long to complete the program; this was definitely not a chicken sandwich, an apple, and a glass of milk!
“I decided to try some new items,” said Tasha. “How about you?” She frowned. “It’s not all the same to you, is it, Data?”
“Oh, I can distinguish the various tastes, textures, and aromas,” he replied, “probably