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 around the same time as "The Offspring" (Season 3) but Zoe has no contact with Data during those events.
ASK HIM
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.'"
Notes: Takes place a few days before the Stardate referenced in "The Offspring," but Zoe never actually meets Lal, nor does she have any contact with Data until after Lal has already been permanently deactivated. (Originally written in 2008. Updated in 2015 to add dates, and fix minor typos and continuity errors.)
