Chapter Text
Disclaimer: Star Trek: The Next Generation, the U.S.S. Enterprise , Lt. Commander Data, and anything else recognizable belong to Paramount/CBS. Zoe and her mother belong to me. This begins in mid-season three (around the time of "The Offspring," but Zoe never meets Lal.
Meetings
Stardate 43651.42
(Friday, 26 August, 2366, 18:30 hours, ship's time)
"Ask him." My mother leaned back in her chair, cradling her coffee mug between both hands and just watched me. She wouldn't speak again until I had. I think it was a negotiation tactic she learned at Starfleet Academy. Or maybe it was just parental thing. Either way, I knew I'd cave before she did.
I returned her gaze, noting that I was beginning to look a lot more like her than I had when I was younger. We both had chestnut hair, though hers was in a neat braid, and mine was in a lazy ponytail, dark eyes, and thick eyebrows. Mine had a sort of…quirk…in the middle making them more angled than arched, but we also both had heart-shaped faces.
We were sitting at a table in the Ten-Forward lounge aboard the Enterprise. My father had disappeared again, this time to conduct the Capital City Orchestra on an extended tour. He – and the orchestra – were based on my homeworld of Centaurus, but his tendency to wander had been a constant part of my life. As a small child, I'd been dragged along with him on his various gigs – some longer than others – and often stuck on stage when they needed a kid.
As I'd gotten older, and showing up to school had become a requirement, I'd been foisted off on my paternal grandmother, a social activist and folk singer of some notoriety – music ran in our family – who had since retired to her family's farm about half an hour's flitter ride away from the beachfront house that was technically home.
I'd been involved in the local arts community as both a musician and actor for practically my entire life, but things had started to spiral out of control when I reached high school and started paying attention to my father's behavior. Philandering wasn't really the worst of it, but coming home from school on the day before our winter break, the day before my mother was due to arrive home from space, and finding him in flagrante delicto with our au pair had been the last straw. In an attempt to punish him, I went to a bonfire on the beach that was hosted by a bunch of older kids, got really drunk and almost hooked up with one of my best male friends – he stopped things before we went too far.
I finished out the year at home on Centaurus, at which point my mother decided to avail herself of one of the selling points of being on Starfleet's flagship: families were allowed to travel with officers.
I'd been brought to the ship to experience enforced mother-daughter bonding, and to make sure I finished high school with the grades and accelerated classes my mother expected me to have. I suspected she also wanted to show me that Starfleet was an option I should consider, but that was never going to happen.
"Ask him," my mother repeated.
I'd spent the last two weeks doing batteries of placement tests because my guidance counselor from home had stuck a note in my file stating I wasn't living up to my full potential. Ms. Phelps, the high school administrator on the ship, concurred, and wanted me to be part of some accelerated math tutorial thing, and we were discussing it over dinner in the lounge because Mom assumed (rightfully so) that I was unlikely to pitch a fit in front of people.
"Isn't that sort of your job?" I asked her. "You know, arranging my education, and all?"
"If it was really a question of arranging, then yes, it would be," my mother answered in her best rational voice, the one she used when she was being more Lt. Harris than Mom. "But Zoe," she continued, "Ms. Phelps has already stated that Commander Data has offered his tutorial services to any student who asks, and I'm concerned that you're avoiding interaction with the officers and crew." She took a sip of her coffee, and went on, the way parents can when they have you trapped. "I know you're not thrilled about being here, but if you'd come out of your shell and stop being so moody and dark and shy, you'd find that everyone on this ship has something pretty interesting to offer. Most fifteen-year-olds don't get the opportunity to have their math classes taught by ranking officers."
"I'm not shy," I protested, focusing on that part of my mother's mini-lecture. "I'm just very selective about who I talk to." I sought refuge in a bite of chocolate mousse. "And anyway, I'm pretty sure Ms. Phelps made a mistake. I'm abysmal at math."
"Abysmal?" The corner of my mother's mouth quirked up in a slight smile. "Surely you're a little better than that. Your test scores have always been excellent."
I shrugged. "Maybe I just test well. Mom, I hate math. The last thing I want is a teacher who's literally made of it."
Her smile grew broader. "You do have a way with words, kidlet." She took another sip from her mug, then set it down on the table, and placed her hands palm-down on either side of it. She wasn't intentionally showing off her perfect manicure, but I couldn't help noticing, and thinking about how ugly my own fingers looked. Playing cello was not conducive to long, pretty fingernails.
I put my fork down, and folded my hands in my lap, waiting for her to finish. "I know you're not thrilled about being on the ship, and I do realize that math isn't your favorite subject, but you need to realize that I want the best for you. In just a few years you'll be going off to college, or the Academy –"
I interrupted with an ill-contained snort. "I am so not Starfleet material, Mom. College, yes. The Academy, never. Anyway, I'm going to the Martian, like Dad." 'The Martian' was shorthand for the Martian Academy of Music and the Arts. It was the premiere conservatory in sector one.
"– and then you can make your own decisions," she continued, as if I'd never interrupted her. "Until then, you're stuck with me, Kiddo, and I think you should follow your teacher's suggestion and take this tutorial with Commander Data, and in order to do that, you need to ask him."
I sighed, clenching my fingers into fists under the table then releasing them. "I'll do the tutorial," I said, "but can't you ask him? I mean, you see him every day – you report directly to him – and I've only ever said hello once." I was whining, and I hated it, but I really didn't want to go up to any officer and ask for math help, and especially not the only android in the 'fleet. I mean. Commander Data was the epitome of 'proper' and I was decidedly…not.
"Zoe…" My mother was still smiling, but her tone held that warning note. The one that meant if I didn't agree to her wishes she'd move to phase two. Nevertheless, I whined a little more.
"Mo-om. Please?"
But she was ready for me. "Zoe Lauren Harris, you are fifteen, not five. I love you, but you need to do this on your own," she said.
Once she'd used my middle name, I knew there was no chance of winning. "Alright," I said. "I'll do it. Is an intra-ship communication acceptable, or do I need to replicate stationery and use actual ink?" I'd moved from whiney to snarky, but that was usual for me. I lifted a hand to push a stray piece of my own chestnut-brown hair back behind my ear, then returned it to my lap.
"Intra-ship text may be fine with your friends, but it's not appropriate with senior officers," my mother decreed. "Commander Data's actually very nice, Zoe. Really. And you know, he's a musician, too."
Carrot. Stick. My mother knew me too well. I'd do almost anything that involved hanging out with other musicians. "Okay, okay," I said. "I'll ask him. But when I fry his circuits with my complete and total stupidity, I reserve the right to say, 'I told you so.'"
(=A=)
Stardate 43672.35
(Saturday, 3 September 2366, 09:47 hours, ship's time)
"You set me up on a blind date?" I asked my mother incredulously. "For breakfast? On a weekend? Even for you, Mom that's kind of pushing it."
"Having Wesley Crusher take you to the teen brunch in Ten-Forward is hardly a blind date, Zoe," my mother responded, not looking up from her padd. "You're too young to be dating, actually."
I rolled my eyes, knowing she couldn't see me. I'd already dated, sort of, back home. Of course, it was easy for her to be calm – she'd had her morning coffee already, and was currently – if I guessed correctly – catching up on news, first from around the ship, then other ships, then outside the 'fleet. "You might've at least asked me if I wanted to go," I grumped.
"Don't roll your eyes at me," she said off-handedly. How did she always know? "If I had asked would you have agreed to go?"
"Well, no," I admitted. I slouched into the other chair at the table in our quarters, which weren't all that bad, really. I mean, they were bigger than the average hotel suite and the art was personal, at least. "But Wesley?"
"What's wrong with Wesley?"
I stared at my mother for a long moment before answering. "Nothing, exactly, it's just…"
"Yes?" The word might have been neutral, but the tone in which she uttered it was decidedly…not.
"He's kind of stiff and…boring," I said. "All he wants to do is suck up to the engineering crew and get the senior officers to notice him." There weren't that many teenagers on the ship, so even though I'd only been aboard a few weeks, I already knew, or at least knew of, most of them.
"He has goals, Zoe. Just because they differ from yours…"
"Mom, you so don't get it. Wanting to be in Starfleet – I get that. I mean, I wouldn't do it if you begged, but I understand it. Wesley though…he just doesn't. Do. Anything. Else. He doesn't read, he doesn't keep up with holo-vids, he doesn't pay attention to music or art or even politics…"
My mother set down her padd. "No," she said, in calm agreement. Maybe too calm. "He doesn't do anything else. He's extremely focused, which is admirable in someone so young, and I know you're not without focus yourself, Ms. Martian School. Nice shirt, by the way."
I looked down at the faded sweatshirt from my father's alma mater, and it's dusty red planet surrounded by stylized comedy and tragedy masks, music notes, and a paintbrush and planet. The back bore the name of the school: Martian School of Music and The Arts. I knew it was a little too casual for the ship, but it was comfortable, and it smelled like home. "Okay, Mom," I said, toying with the glass of juice she'd set out for me. "Focus good, and all that, but…"
"But he's a nice boy doing a favor for a friend of his mother, and you might pause a moment to consider the notion that you might be good for each other," my mother pointed out.
"How so?"
"You're right about him not having any other interests. Beverly – that's Dr. Crusher to you, kiddo – is concerned about that as much as I'm concerned that you're passing up opportunities because you're afraid of success."
"I'm not afraid of anything," I said. It would have been more effective if my voice hadn't caught in the middle, though. "Well, not most things."
"Only new people, new situations, prospective tutors, and spiders."
"That's only four things," I said, in my best I'm-making-a-point-even-if-it's-silly tone. "And I'm not even afraid of the first two unless they involve Starfleet. Back home, or touring with Dad, there was no fear here. Besides, there are way more things than that that don't scare me." I sniffed, "Anyway, spiders are evil."
My mother laughed. "Fair enough," she said. "How about a deal, then?"
"A deal?"
"Mmhm. Go with Wesley and the other kids to the teen brunch. Stay for the concert that the wind ensemble is giving – Commander Data's part of it – and you can kill two birds with one stone…"
I peered closely at my mother. "And what do I get if I do this?"
"Skating with your favorite mother in the holo-deck one night this week."
Again my mother was proving how well she knew me. Ice skating was one of our only mother-daughter activities from when I was little, and even though I was really, really clumsy at it, I always had fun. "I guess that would be okay," I said. "If…"
"If…?"
"If you promise me I will never, ever have to wear one of those hideous gray jumpsuits. They're a bigger fashion 'don't' than wearing real leather on Vulcan, and no one looks good in them."
My mother laughed. "I promise," she said.
I stopped playing with my juice glass at that point, and lifted the glass to drain it, setting it down just as the annunciator chimed. My not-a-date had arrived. I smoothed my hair and went to the door, "See you later, Mom," I said, stepping into the corridor.
Wesley, thankfully, was not wearing a jumpsuit today, either, just a really bulky cinnamon colored sweater. "Hi," he said, grinning at me.
I forced a not-quite-sunny smile, "Hi," I said. "I'm really sorry our mothers forced you into this."
"I didn't mind."
"Oh…good. So, do these 'teen brunches' happen often?"
He started walking, and I fell into step beside him, listening. "About once a month. Ms. Phelps and Counselor Troi started them because they were concerned that the older kids didn't socialize enough. Different people from the crew come and talk to us about hobbies and interests, and if they're part of a musical group or the theater club they sometimes perform."
"There's a theater club?" I asked with more enthusiasm than was really necessary. "Really? Is it adults-only or can anyone join?"
"Oh, if there are parts for kids or teenagers, they let us know during school. Josh has been in a couple of plays, I think."
"Do you ever participate?"
"I don't have much time, really. I'm usually working on science or math, or helping out in engineering, when they let me."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at this. He was trying to be nice, after all, and even a wannabe Academy drone was better company than no one.
(=A=)
When we got to Ten-Forward, I noticed that several tables had been clustered closer together than I remembered from previous visits, and that the cluster of tables was set apart from the rest of the space.
"Josh, Dana, T'vek – come meet Zoe." Wesley called to a trio of kids who seemed to be about our age.
Josh was tall, and handsome verging on pretty. He had the long-ish brown hair and easy-going manner of a surfer. No surprise that he was into performing. Dana was about the same height as me, thinner, and blonde, but her hair was pulled into a lazy pony-tail and her grin was truly friendly. T'vek had shaggy black hair that threatened to touch his shoulders, but didn't, quite, and dusky skin that could have been from any Terran Asian ethnicity, though the black, black eyes and something about the way he carried himself also screamed 'Vulcan,' or maybe 'Vulcan hybrid,' and when our eyes met there was a glimmer of…something.
"Hi," I said to the group.
For several minutes the five of us stood around looking at each other sort of sheepishly. Finally T'vek said. "You're in our lit class, aren't you? You were arguing a point with the teacher during orientation the other day?"
Formal classes were only just beginning for the school year. "That's me," I said. "I think we're in 'Intro to Vulcan' together, too."
He grinned. "Yeah…the parentals thought I should learn my native language – well, one of them – from the ground up."
So he was a hybrid. Interesting. "Not a bad plan," I said.
We lapsed into awkward silence again, but then Dana said, "Zoe, you have no idea how good it is to have another girl here. The boys outnumber us like crazy. And they're nice and all, but…"
I laughed. "But they don't know the difference between trendy and tragic when it comes to important things like clothing and shoes?"
"Exactly," she said. "So, I heard your father is an orchestra conductor…do you know a lot of famous musicians?"
I found myself answering her questions without thinking about it, explaining that I never knew which of the musicians he worked with were famous or not, really, because there was basically a revolving door of guest artists coming through our house and our lives. Before I knew it, we were all sitting down, and the other couple of tables filled with teens both younger and a bit older than the five of us. Just as we were being presented with food, the open chair at our table – the one directly across from me - was filled by none other than the man I was tasked with meeting later.
"Data," Dana said, grinning at him. "This is Zoe Harris. She's new."
I looked across the table and slightly up, and found myself staring into the most amazing yellow eyes I'd ever seen. Okay, the only yellow eyes I'd ever seen, but still…
He paused for the merest fraction of a second before speaking. "Welcome to the Enterprise, Miss Harris. Are you adapting satisfactorily?"
I hesitated for a much more noticeable length of time. Was I supposed to call him by rank or by name, or…well…Dana had used his name… "I'm getting a little more comfortable, I guess," I said, avoiding the issue entirely. "It's different actually living here, instead of just visiting."
"Zoe's dad is a conductor, Data. Did you know?" Dana asked.
"Lieutenant Harris has mentioned as much," he answered her, then added in my direction. "She also said that you have inherited your father's love of music."
"I think in music," I admitted. "Well, in songs, anyway. But yeah, I mean, yes. Theatre, music, and surfing are my favorite things in life." I hesitated, not sure if I should keep talking or not, and finally, since everyone else was quiet, I added, "I play the cello, mostly."
"Interesting," Data said. "I have been engaged in a personal study of the violin. Perhaps we could duet sometime."
"Um, sure…?" I wasn't quite certain what the proper response to that was supposed to be.
Thankfully my mention of theater and surfing had caught Josh's attention, and he started chattering about the theater club, and how he was hoping the ship would be near Risa again soon so he could catch some waves.
Fortunately food was presented, and Josh chose to eat rather than keep talking. I liked him, I decided. He reminded me of some of my friends from home. Easy. Harmless. The distraction of food also prevented me from staring at Lt. Commander Data. There was something about him…something I couldn't put my finger on. Also he was a lot more animated than I'd expected an android to be. Really, I decided, he was just a gold-skinned slightly stiff person.
As the remains of brunch were cleared away, Data and several of the other adults present – a mix of officers and civilians – rose from their seats and moved to the small stage that had been erected against one wall of the lounge. He played the oboe as well as the violin, apparently. He was good, as far as I could tell, but the blonde woman with the clarinet was off-tempo, and telegraphed it with a frustrated expression.
After the wind ensemble's concert there was more time to mingle, and many of the kids formed new groups. Wes and a girl who was taller than Dana, but also blonde, were standing next to Data, and I recalled that I still had a task to complete. I excused myself from the conversation I was sort-of having with Josh, Dana, and T'vek, and approached the android and his…groupies.
The threesome paused their conversation when I approached, and I blushed when Data turned his yellow-eyed gaze to me. "I'm sorry to interrupt," I began, following my favorite rule ('it never hurts to be polite'), "Commander Data, could I have a minute of your time, please?"
"Of course," he replied. "Wesley, Annette, do you mind?"
Annette! Of course! We had a history class together!
Both she and Wesley said they didn't mind, and the latter said, "Find me when you're ready, and I'll walk you home if you want."
Once they were gone, though, I froze, momentarily forgetting what I was supposed to be asking about.
"Is something wrong, Miss Harris?" Data asked softly.
I shook my head, clearing it, and wrinkled my nose. "Commander Data, could you just call me 'Zoe?'" I requested. "When people call me 'Miss Harris' I always expect that I'm about to be grounded, or something."
"Of course," he said again, "if you will call me 'Data,' as the other young people do."
"It's a deal," I said, and the phrase kicked me back into gear. "Ms. Phelps mentioned to my mother that you offer a math tutorial to students who ask, and I promised Mom I would. Ask you, I mean. I'm pretty sure it's a mistake, because I'm an epic failure with anything beyond basic arithmetic, but I already tried arguing with Mom, and I lost, so if there's room in your class, may I join…please?"
He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to determine what species I really was, then said. "I have experienced your mother's persuasive discussion style, Zoe. She is a formidable opponent in debate. As well, Ms. Phelps spoke to me about you. I have reviewed your test scores and they imply that you are not, in fact, an 'epic failure.'" He managed to make the quotation marks around my phrase audible. "I would be pleased to include you in the tutorial," he continued. "We meet at ten-hundred hours, three days a week. I will send this week's assignment to your terminal."
"Thank you," I said, "I'll try not to scare you with my utter lack of computational skills."
He opened his mouth to say something – probably to tell me he couldn't be scared – but then his name was being called, and he moved to leave, saying only, "Excuse me, Zoe. I will see you in class."
I waited for him to exit before re-joining Wesley. Almost everyone else had gone already. "What was that about?" he asked.
"Math class," I grumbled. "I was 'strongly encouraged' to ask to join his tutorial."
"That's great!" Wesley said. "Data's an amazing teacher, really. Really patient. And it'll be nice having another student."
"Oh, yes, I'm sure it'll be fabulous," I snarked,
He frowned slightly. "You don't want to be in our class?"
I was forced to confess, "I hate math."
The walk back to the turbo-lift, and then back to my mother's quarters was mostly silent.