Publisher Description

Returning to the story begun in the novel Immortal Coil and continuing in the bestselling Cold Equations trilogy, this is the next fascinating chapter in the artificial life of one of Star Trek's most enduring characters.

He was perhaps the ultimate human achievement: a sentient artificial life-form-self-aware, self-determining, possessing a mind and body far surpassing that of his makers, and imbued with the potential to evolve beyond the scope of his programming. And then Data was destroyed. Four years later, Data's creator, Noonien Soong, sacrificed his life and resurrected his android son, who in turn revived the positronic brain of his own artificial daughter, Lal. Having resigned his commission, the former Starfleet officer now works to make his way on an alien world, while also coming to grips with the very human notion of wanting versus having a child. But complicating Data's new life is an unexpected nemesis from years ago on the U.S.S. Enterprise-the holographic master criminal Professor James Moriarty. Long believed to be imprisoned in a memory solid, Moriarty has created a siphon into the "real" world as a being of light and thought. Moriarity wants the solid form that he was once told he could never have, and seeks to manipulate Data into finding another android body for him to permanently inhabit...even if it means evicting the current owner, and even if that is Data himself.

(TM), (R), & (c) 2013 CBS Studios, Inc. STAR TREK and related marks are trademarks of CBS Studios, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

Author Biography

Jeffrey Lang has authored or coauthored several Star Trek novels and short stories, including Immortal Coil, Section 31: Abyss, The Left Hand of Destiny, "Foundlings" (in the anthology Prophecy and Change), and "Mirror Eyes" (with Heather Jarman, in the anthology Tales of the Dominion War). He lives in Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania, with his partner Helen, his son Andrew, an irascible cat named Samuel and a fearful hamster named Scritchy.

Excerpt from Book

Star Trek: The Next Generation: The Light Fantastic 1 November 2385 (ACE)--The Present The short-order cook finished wiping down the flat-top cast-iron grill with his kitchen cloth. He bent low to inspect the surface, like a billiard player lining up a shot, checking for dings or other small imperfections in the play surface. Some of the other cooks had the bad habit of smacking the flat-top with the edge of a spatula. He had been trying to dissuade them with both gentle reminders and terse threats, but he worked only the breakfast shift and couldn''t control what happened the rest of the day. Still, he always liked to make sure the cooktop was clean and lubricated before he headed out the door. The diner owner, a Cardassian expat name Oban, didn''t mind paying him for the extra few minutes on his timecard, especially since the short-order cook was the main reason the business had been turning a profit for the past few weeks. Before his arrival, the diner''s sole virtue resided in the fact that patrons knew they could sit at the counter and nurse a cup of tepid coffee or raktajino for as long as they liked without being rousted out, mostly because no one else wanted their seat. Now, thanks to the new morning cook, there was a line out the door most days, and the patrons weren''t only locals looking for a quick bite before heading to work. Word had spread through the food-lovers underground: Many of the patrons were tourists, eager to spend credits on eggs and bacon, waffles, and a strange delicacy called "chipped beef on toast." Diners had started posting reviews on culinary sites, but only for breakfast. Sure, there was some spillover to the other shifts, but all the chatter was about breakfast, breakfast, breakfast and the wonder of this one cook who could crank out delicacies at a clockwork pace. In a world full of replicated fare, simple food made well was a draw, even if the customers had to find their way to a seedy little grease-stained pit in the middle of nowhere. The short-order cook knew all about the buzz, but he never mentioned it. Oban paid him a decent wage, and the Cardassian was smart enough not to ask too many questions. Their conversations were limited to simple questions like, "You almost done there, Davey?" The short-order cook didn''t respond. He was too absorbed with the process of re-lubricating the cooking surface. "Davey?" The short-order cook looked up. Oban was standing in the narrow doorway that led to the prep kitchen and, past that, to Oban''s tiny office. "Hello?" "Sorry," the short-order cook said. "Wasn''t listening. You want something?" "Yeah," Oban said. "Come on back to the office when you''re done. Got something I need to ask ya." The short-order cook sighed. "Sure. Yeah. Be there in a minute." He finished wiping down his workstation and collected his tools so he could drop them off in the dish room before leaving. Just before he left the kitchen, he pointed at the second grill station, the one where the lunch cook, an Orion native named Settu, was working. "Flip those eggs. They''re about to overcook." Settu pouted. "They''re fine. Barely been on the grill for two minutes." "Then you''ve got the temp too high. They''re going to go rock solid in 30 seconds." "How can you tell?" "I can smell ''em." Settu waved him off. "Go punch out. Your shift is over." The short-order cook sighed again and turned to leave. "Fine. Whatever. Kelly isn''t going to like it when you cost her a tip." Settu had a crush on Kelly. Behind him, the short-order cook heard the spatula being slipped under the eggs and turned. Then, a moment later, the soft click of the heat controls being adjusted. The short-order cook smiled, but only a little. * * * "What can I do for you, boss?" the short-order cook asked, standing in the office door. "Sit down a minute, Davey." "I don''t have time to sit down. I have to get home. I like to see my kid before she heads off to school." "I understand," Oban said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. The Cardassian always looked like he was a day or two away from his last shave. "I remember those days. Being a parent, it can be hard. Especially if you''re doing it all by yourself, am I right?" "If you say so." "So, you''re not doing it all by yourself?" "I didn''t say that," the short-order cook said. "You don''t say much about yourself at all." The short-order cook untied his apron and wadded it up into a ball. Outside the door, there was a bin where kitchen staff threw dirty clothes and towels at the end of their shifts. He tossed the apron into the bin. Freed from the restrictions of the apron, his belly dropped down a bit over the top of his belt. "Do you have something you want to ask me?" "I just wanted to let you know I looked into the whole chicken egg thing for you." "And?" "I found a place that has live Terran chickens. They sell them for the meat, but the owner says, yeah, they lay eggs, too, and he''s willing to sell them to me if I want. But, he says, most Orion folk have an allergic reaction to chicken eggs." "Then we won''t feed ''em to Orions. We''ll tell the waitstaff not to let Orions order them." "Why are these chicken eggs such a big deal?" "Get them for me and I''ll show you. I''ll make you an omelet. These eggs you get--what are they again?" "The birds are called paradins." "Well, whatever. The protein-to-water ratio is all wrong. Chicken eggs are perfect for omelets. We start making omelets and you''ll start getting Terran customers. They''ll go nuts. You can charge whatever you want and they''ll pay it." "Really?" "Sure." "And how do you know this?" "I used to work with Terrans. Back in the day." "Another restaurant?" "Sure. A restaurant. Nice place, but crazy hours. Couldn''t stand the hours after I became a dad." "I can see that," Oban said. "A father has to be there." "So you''ll get the chicken eggs?" "I''ll get the chicken eggs. And then you can make me an omelet." "Good. You won''t regret it. Anything else? I need to get going." "Just one more thing," Oban said. He rubbed the back of his neck with one big, meaty hand. "I wanted to let you know--yesterday, these guys came by looking for you." "?''These guys''?" the short-order cook asked. "What guys? I don''t know any guys. What did they look like?" Oban shrugged. "I dunno. Just . . . guys." "Big? Small? Orion? Human?" "Nah, not Orion. Maybe human. Maybe not. You know I have trouble telling them apart. Just . . . guys." "Two of them?" "Yep." "Cops? Feds?" "Don''t think so. Leastways they didn''t show me a badge or anything." "Did they say what they wanted?" The short-order cook tried to sound casual, but the hairs were standing up on the back of his neck. "Not really. Just . . . did you work here? How long? Did I know anything about your life outside work?" "And you said . . . ?" Oban threw his hands up, imploring. "Hey, c''mon, Davey. Whataya think I said? Told ''em to get bent. This is Orion. We don''t have to say nuthin'' about nobody if we don''t want to. And you, you know, you''re like . . . well, you ain''t given me any trouble, so I don''t make trouble for you." The short-order cook felt the sense of alarm subside. Oban might not be telling the entire truth, but there was little chance that he had told the "guys" anything meaningful for the simple reason that there was so little he could have said. He had been careful, very careful, about not revealing anything important about himself. "Well, okay," he said. "Thanks, Oban. Appreciate the word. They didn''t leave names or comm info or anything like that?" "Naw, naw. They just slid out, all casual. Nobody saw where they went." "Okay. Maybe it was someone I used to work with. Probably I owe them money." "Sure, Davey. I figured it was something like that." "Yeah," the short-order cook said. "No doubt." He turned to leave, waving back over his shoulder. "Well, let me know if these guys turn up again, okay? See you tomorrow, Oban. Thanks for looking into the eggs for me." "No problem, Davey. See you in the morning." On his way out of the kitchen, the short-order cook stopped at the time-clock station and waved his employee identification under the scanner so it could log his hours. Then, he walked through the still-crowded dining room, pausing only to wave at a couple of regular patrons and to exchange words with the servers he had become friendly with over the past month. Kelly, the server who Settu was crushing on, gave him a quick smile and a thumbs-up. Like him, she was a Terran, a student on sabbatical from her university. He suspected she was homesick for some interaction with a familiar face shape and skin color, but the short-order cook was already running late. He waved back and said, "Have to run." Kelly acknowledged the wave and asked, "See you tomorrow?" "Sure. Tomorrow. If I''m

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