Whoosh. Sands was becoming thoroughly sick of the sound of that door, but at least it always heralded the start of the next amusing interlude. He wondered who he could annoy this time.
"Mom?" Teenage voice. Oh dear. Wesley. No, no, anybody but Wesley. "Oh, hi. Have you seen my mother?"
Idiot boy. "Have you seen my eyes?"
"No."
"Then I haven't seen your mother." Let him digest that, Sands thought. Five, four, three...
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" Wesley sounded very embarrassed. "The captain said... you lost your eyes in a gunfight?"
Oh great. Spaceship gossip item. "Not in a gunfight. Before the gunfight."
"Then how could you see where to shoot?" Teenage curiosity. Rampant disease. Someone call a doctor.
"Same way I could shoot you right now," Sands said. "Point gun at blabbering mouth. Pull trigger. Works every time."
Small silence. "You don't have a gun."
Oh, brilliant. "You are without a doubt the master of stating the obvious," Sands told him, oozing admiration.
"You're not being very nice, are you?"
Sands gaped at him. There's a laugh. "I'll try to be nicer if you'll try to be smarter," he said with the air of someone offering a bargain.
Wesley laughed. "Okay, I deserved that. My name's Wesley, by the way."
"I know," Sands said. Amazing, the kid had a brain after all. Or at least a sense of humor. The first he'd come across on this so-called ship.
"Here comes my mother," Wesley said. Whoosh. "Hi Mom, you said to meet you here?"
"Yes," she said. "I want you to take Mr. Sands to his quarters on D-deck. Explain the layout, how the replicator works and how he can access the computer, please."
Sands heard her approach his bed. "Mr. Sands, we've mended the clothes you were wearing when we found you, but you might find ship suits like the one you're wearing now more comfortable. You can get new issue from the replicator. You'll need to wear a comm badge. With it, you can contact us if you need help and we can monitor your life signs. Here, take it."
Sands put out his hand and she dropped the little gadget in it. "Just press it to your chest, it will affix itself."
Sands complied. So what if they could track him. He had nowhere to go. There was one little matter, something Wesley had reminded him of. "What happened to my guns?"
"Mr. Worf has them in safe keeping," she replied. "You don't need weapons while on board."
Of course not.
"All right," he said. "Let's give this a try." He sat up and swung his legs to the floor. As that didn't cause too much protestation, he completed the maneuver and stood up next to the bunk. Surprisingly, the wounds in his thighs didn't hurt at all. The stuff Crusher kept spraying into him must've really worked wonders.
"Okay, that's not too bad. My thanks, Doctor. Mr. Crusher, if you'd be so kind." Someone must have taught the kid some manners because he didn't grab Sands by the arm, but instead stepped close and let Sands take his arm. "Wonderful! Let's go."
Wesley turned out to be a good enough guide. At least he never let Sands whack his head on anything. As they walked he kept up a running commentary of the route they were going, somewhat to Sands' irritation. It's not as if he would remember the route. But it was better than walking in an awkward silence.
They stepped into a turbo lift, the kid said. Its door opened and closed with that same familiar whoosh. It gave no feeling of movement at all, sparking Sands' suspicion about the reality of the ship once again. He could so far think exactly how he could mock up the same kind of environment to fool a blind man that he was on a spaceship. He just couldn't think why anyone would.
After what seemed like a very long walk, Wesley finally stopped. "This is it." He did something and a door whooshed open. "Your quarters."
Sands followed him inside. Place looked like nothing at all, he thought mordantly. "Okay, tell me about it."
Wesley explained the layout of the room... bed, desk, facilities. "If you need to change anything in here, just ask the computer," he said. "It responds to voice commands so you don't need the desktop access point. You can also ask the computer to program the replicator to provide anything you need."
"Anything?" Sands asked with a grin.
"Well, anything within reason," Wesley amended. "Normal crew members get replicator rations – it is part of their salary and can be suspended for disciplinary reasons. Because you're a guest you basically can have anything you want, but they'll let you know if you're spending too much."
"That is certainly reasonable," Sands remarked. "Well, I'd better get settled in. Oh, one second. Where are my clothes, the ones that have been mended?"
"Right here on the bed," Wesley answered. "Why is there a picture of a green leaf on your belt buckle?"
Sands laughed. "It's Cannabis sativa, boy. Only thing that makes Mexico bearable."
"How so?"
"I think you're too young to be told," Sands said. "Your mother won't forgive me and your captain will have me thrown in the brig for pushing drugs."
"Oh." Wesley got it.
"Well, I think that's it," Sands said. "Thanks for your help."
"Are you sure you'll be okay?"
Mentally, Sands rolled what would have been his eyes. "Sure, I'm sure. Scoot."
Wesley left and Sands stood in the middle of his new room wondering what he was doing there. While he had been in Sick Bay he could look forward to getting out. Now that he was out, what was left? Oh yes, the vague possibility of some techno gadget to restore his sight... in a few days' time. But what to do until then? Twiddle his thumbs? Try to catch the "ship" in a contradiction or a lie? That could prove interesting.
First up, clothes. He wasn't planning on walking around in a Star Trek uniform. For all he knew, he was wearing a red shirt. And it is common knowledge that red shirted people always die in Star Trek. No thank you. Anyway, he liked his black gunfighter costume. Made him look like The Crow. If it made people uncomfortable, so be it.
He put on his own clothes, managing well enough with buttons, zips, laces and buckles. He'd gotten dressed in the dark often enough in his life. Having accomplished that goal, he suddenly couldn't stand the quiet. He wondered if anyone would stop him from wandering around. If only he had a way of knowing where he was.
Might have to try that computer after all. "Computer," he said. A chirp indicated that he had the machine's attention. "Can you direct me to the nearest restaurant?"
"The nearest restaurant is Ten Forward," the computer responded. "Proceed to the turbo lift, request B-deck and then proceed straight on."
That didn't help much. How to find the turbo lift. "I am unable to see," he told the computer, feeling silly. "I need something to indicate direction and distance."
"Processing," the computer said. It even sounded like Majel Barrett. After a few seconds there was a hum from the corner.
"Turn left," the computer instructed. Sands did so. "Walk four steps towards the replicator." Sands carefully walked the four steps and found himself just touching the wall with his hand. He stepped closer and found the replicator outlet. Inside was a piece of cloth. He examined it.
"It is a glove," the computer volunteered. "If you wear it on your left hand, you can request directions from the computer. The glove will indicate distance by a tingling on the length of your middle finger. The closer you are to your destination, the nearer to the end of you finger the tingling will be. Similar sensations on your thumb and little finger will indicate right and left turns."
Sands put the glove on, very impressed. It fit snugly. He just hoped it went well with the rest of his costume. "What color is it?" he asked.
"The glove is black," the computer said. "Based on your choice of wardrobe it was designed not to be conspicuous."
Perfect. "Okay, let's test this thing. Computer, direct me to my door."
Instantly there was a tingling feeling in his little finger. He turned left. A tingle started somewhere near the end of his middle finger. He stepped forward and the tingle moved a bit closer to the end. By the time he'd reached the door, the tingle was right at the very tip of his finger. It really worked. Much better than tapping along with some cane, Sands thought.
"Alright! Computer, direct me to Ten Forward," he instructed. Life could go on, after all.
He arrived at Ten Forward with no serious mishaps. It took some getting used to, concentrating on the glove's stimuli while also listening closely to avoid people in his way. He'd passed people in the hallways but no-one had spoken to him. He paused when the glove indicated that he'd reached his destination. That seemed to be just outside the door of the place, as he could hear the unmistakable sound of a restaurant within. Well, he'd wanted to come here. Better go through with it.
"Computer, direct me to the bar." There had to be a bar, right?
The glove responded and he walked forward. The door slid open and he stepped inside. Still going forward as instructed, he wondered for a moment where the tables and chairs were in relation to him. Then he found them.
As he went down, all conversation in the place died. His fall seemed to happen in slow motion as he tripped over a chair, fell over a table which proceeded to overturn, and finally hit the floor. As he tried to get his breath back, he reflected that there was something to be said for the old cane after all. He considered staying down there. Perhaps everyone would ignore the incident and just forget about him. Some things were too humiliating to even want to get out of. Better stay there and die.
"Let me help you up," a voice said.
He'd not even heard anyone approach. Oh, the voice had been sitting at the table he'd knocked down. Just great. He reached out a hand and was pulled upright. He checked that his glasses were still in place. "I'm sorry," he said.
"It doesn't matter," the voice said. "I have just finished imbibing my daily requirement of lubricant."
Nobody speaks that way, do they? "You must be Data," Sands realized.
"That is correct," the android said. "Can I assist you to the bar? Judging by your trajectory, it was to be your ultimate destination."
"Yes, please," Sands sighed. "This glove is a little unreliable regarding small objects."
As he spoke, Data guided him around some more obstacles and the conversations in the place resumed. Data took him right up to the bar, placed his hand on a barstool and stepped back as he seated himself.
Sands experienced a moment of panic that he'd be left alone. Stupid panic. He'd always been alone. He preferred being alone. He... "Mr. Data, would you please join me?" It just slipped out. Darn.
"Certainly," Data responded. "May I look at the glove you mentioned?" He sat down beside Sands.
Why not? Sands peeled off the glove and put it on the bar. "The computer came up with that."
"A device to indicate distance and direction, as controlled by the computer," Data said. "You are correct; this would not be useful in circumstances where the floor is obstructed with objects not indicated on the floor plans. Until you can procure a visor, I suggest you carry some kind of cane to feel out the way."
Sands mentally revised his earlier statement to Wesley. Data was the master of stating the obvious. But he felt kind of bad about falling through the android's liquid lunch, so he refrained from mentioning it.
"Actually," he said. "I was wondering if you could help me. I need to practice moving around just by ear. Somewhere safe, where I wouldn't be bothering people or damaging stuff."
"The holodeck would be appropriate for that purpose," Data responded. "You can program it to reflect any kind of environment you wish to familiarize yourself with. The inbuilt safety features will prevent you from injuring yourself."
"Yeah, that sounds great," Sands said. Holodecks, now? Perhaps this was real after all. "Can we do that tomorrow? I mean, would you help me?"
"I would gladly help you," Data said. "Holodeck programming is in fact one of my hobbies. I will meet you at your quarters at 0900 tomorrow." He stood up. "I am afraid I have to leave now, I am on duty on the bridge. Your glove is on the bar in front of you."
"Thank you, Mr. Data," Sands said as the android walked away. He'd said 'thank you' more often in the last two days than in any given month before. It could get to be a habit. He just wasn't sure whether it would be a good or a bad habit to have.
"Are you alright?" a low, slow voice asked from opposite the bar. Sands identified Guinan, as played by Whoopi Goldberg.
"Yes, I'm fine," he replied. "Sorry for upsetting the atmosphere."
She chuckled. "I've had brawls in here. One table is nothing. So what can I get you?"
"I don't suppose you have Mexican food in this dive," Sands said. "I'm dying for a good plate of peurco pibil and a tequila with lime."
"Let me check," she said. "And mister, I object to my place being referred to as a dive." After a moment she made a sound of surprise. "Well, you're in luck. Peurco pibil is on file."
"What do you mean, on file? Do you have the recipe?" Having the recipe of course was great, but it needed hours and hours of preparation time and almost four hours of cooking, and he was hungry now.
"I mean, we have the replicator pattern stored. I can get you a plate in about 2 minutes."
Sands suddenly wasn't so sure. "You mean it's going to be assembled from stray atoms? It couldn't possibly be any good. The real thing needs careful and slow cooking."
She sighed. "What you taste when you eat is just a collection of chemicals. The replicator will give you the exact composition of the original dish. And keep in mind that these patterns are recorded from only the very best dishes."
"Oh all right," he capitulated. "I'll give it a try."
Two minutes later he was eating by far the best pibil he'd ever come across. It was hot and spicy, but not overly so. The exotic taste of the achiote spices complimented the sweet-sour taste of the tender pork perfectly.
"This is great," he told Guinan. "You should try some." Half his life he'd been sharing pibil with acquaintances. "I wonder who the chef is, the one that made the original dish?"
"Whoever he was," she said. "He's long dead."
Sands almost giggled into his plate. Very appropriate, considering his history with pibil and cooks.
Finishing his meal, he pushed the plate away. "Tell me, Guinan. If they can record the exact pattern of some obscure dish, and keep it on file here, why don't they have the pattern for a visor on file as well?"
"I really can't say," she said.
"Or why can't they just record La Forge's visor pattern and replicate one for me?"
"I'm just the bartender," she told him. "But perhaps your visor would have to be different. Geordi does have eyes, you know. You don't."
Oh. Such tact. But she might have a point there. "I guess so," he sighed. "Well, don't let me keep you," he said brightly. "I'll just sit here and soak in the ambience."
"As you wish," she said and moved away.
He spent hours there, sitting and listening, very much ignored by the people coming and going. His reputation must have spread, which was good for his ego. He reflected that he must have some sick mind to be proud of the fact that nobody liked him.
Guinan finally threw him out when she closed Ten Forward, and he made his way back to his quarters using the computer's directions. Once there he instructed the computer to raise the room temperature a bit and to wake him up at 0800 the next day. After that he dumped himself on the bed and slept.