I, Data

My name is Data. I am a Starfleet officer but I am uncertain of my rank at this time. I have been a Lieutenant Commander—and even made history as the first android to command a starship as her Captain—but this and all other minute detail about me depends on where this author’s mind takes this story.

Starfleet, with which you may not be familiar unless you are a fan of the Star Trek mythology, is the military branch—I mean, ‘space exploration’ branch—of the United Federation of Planets, of which the Earth is a member. I state this because I just learned that this story appears to take place on Earth. I find this interesting as most of my time is spent in stories set on the Enterprise, the starship on which I had lived much of my existence, or on some planet (usually M class) which may or may not be a member of the Federation.

I am inside a home that I do not recognize but it is, in my opinion, aesthetically pleasant in a retro decorative style replete with twenty-first century sensibilities. A fire is burning in the hearth; the crackling sounds activate a multitude of sensors in my positronic network that triggers a reaction approximating a sense of calm within me. I gather I am sitting on a couch across from the hearth, and someone is resting snugly against me. I watch a hand snake across my left thigh and rest there.

“This is nice,” a female voice coos softly. I turn my head and recognize the unmistakable visage of Dr. Beverly Crusher, my colleague on the Enterprise. She is wearing a green satin nightgown that compliments her fiery hair and lithe ballerina physique. I assume we are coupled—or are about to be—in this story.

“Fascinating,” I say.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“I mean, indeed, it is nice,” I reply and take a sip from a glass I just realized I was holding. The taste receptors on my tongue instantly register the dark-hued liquid as a simulation of bourbon. I cannot discern whether this is synthehol or the real thing. The author makes no distinction between one and the other.

In my time onboard the Enterprise, I had never felt, per se, any romantic tendencies toward Dr. Crusher. She was and still is a remarkable individual and friend. Moreover, she certainly had never expressed any interest in me. Our relationship had always been and continues to be platonic. She was not devoid of romantic trysts, mind you, and her closeness with the Captain was unmistakable. Rumor has it that they had actually consummated their relationship at one point but it was never confirmed. To see myself with her here now in this fashion is intriguing to say the least.

I wonder what the author intends to happen. I have one specific assumption, of course. After all, although I am an android, my father, Dr. Noonian Soong—who should never be confused with Khan Noonien Singh, an entirely different character and one who will be forever remembered as among the gravest threats to the Federation (second only to the Romulans, in my opinion)—had created me to be fully functional and programmed in multiple techniques, a broad variety of pleasuring. That last part is verbatim in the script for episode three in season one of Star Trek: The Next Generation, as you may have surmised. If you were a fan of the show, that is. The author appears to be uncertain of how to proceed so I decide to take matters into my own hands. “Doctor, what are we doing here?”

Beverly raises her head and her eyes meet mine, her lips curling into a wry smile. “I like it when you play coy.” Her left hand wanders northward up my robed thigh.

“I am not playing coy, Doctor,” I say, gently pushing her hand away. “Are you being coerced at the moment?”

I notice a slight quiver in the doctor’s lips before she grins and brings them to my ear. “He’s watching…”

“Who is watching?” I whisper in kind.

“Play along,” she says before rising. She extends her hand as if to beckon me. I grab it, setting my bourbon atop the coffee table as I stand. She begins to lead us through the kitchen and into the foyer stopping at a flight of stairs at the top of which I assume is our bedroom.

She holds both of my hands, mine over hers, and I suddenly discern patterns in the light tapping she had been making with her right index finger against my left palm. The raven haired officer maintains a smile throughout her coded transmission. I nod and we both turn to ascend the staircase. At the top, we round a corner and enter the master bedroom. The four-post bed is almost too tongue in cheek for the moment but also simultaneously appropriate for the setting. The author clearly did some research.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Beverly says and disappears into the en suite. I disrobe and slide into the right side of the bed because the left side faces the en suite and, as a courtesy to Dr. Crusher, I will leave that open.

I scan the bedroom and attempt to look for anything that might provide clues to support the doctor’s comment downstairs that someone is watching. There does not appear to be any camera systems, unless, of course, they are hidden. It is then that I see it—a framed photo above the gas fireplace in the room momentarily flickers. A pair of untrained eyes may miss the occurrence but I do not. We are in a holodeck simulation.

I wonder who it is the author intends to be the observer of the proceedings. And, to what end? Why put me and Dr. Crusher in this particular situation? Is it to prove that I indeed am fully functional and to have whoever is watching document it? Could the watcher be Q? This sounds like something his twisted mind would be interested in observing.

The en suite’s door opens to reveal the doctor dressed in red lingerie that leaves little to the imagination. She walks toward the bed and slides under the covers next to me, a hand feels its way toward my droidhood. She holds a breath. “Why are you naked?”

I shoot her a quizzical look. “You told me to make myself comfortable.”

“Yes,” she says with a sigh. “Didn’t you get my message, though?”

“I did,” I say.

“What part of ‘we’ll make a run for it once we’re in the bedroom’ warrants your being naked?”

“I thought it made for a more realistic scene,” I say. “I could put my boxers back on…”

“No,” she says curtly. “It’s too late. We’ll have to go with it. So, did you notice anything peculiar in the room?”

I nod. “The framed photo above the gas fireplace flickered in and out of resolution a few minutes ago.”

“That’s it,” Dr. Crusher says, restraining the triumph in her voice. “That’s where the panel must be.”

“Whoever is watching would not have made it that obvious, would you agree?” I ask.

“Are you kidding?” she says, then, in the direction of the ceiling. “Hey, this isn’t working! You need to give up on this story idea. You hear me? Data and I will never end up in this scenario. I mean, he certainly is not lacking down there but—“

Dr. Crusher suddenly disappears right before my very eyes and the left side of the bed is rendered empty. I wonder if she, too, was part of the simulation somehow. I then hear the toilet in the en suite flush and the door I am certain was already open is once again closed. When it reopens, out walks a toweled Geordi La Forge bearing a wide grin.

“What the hell?” I say. My best friend discards his towel and slides into the side of the bed that Dr. Crusher had occupied moments ago. He removes his visor and sets it on the nightstand then turns to me.

“Just play along, buddy” he says, then lays his head on my chest. “He’s watching…”


Written for the June 2020 prompt of "Journey Through Genres: Official Contest" 
Prompt: Fanfiction
Word Count: 1,364