Star Trek: TNG 064: Immortal Coil

  “I see,” Data said, frowning, the tone of his voice making it obvious that he didn't see at all. “Is there anything I can do to assist you, Doctor?”

  Crusher shook her head, then said, “When I talked to the captain this morning . . . wait, last night . . .” She rubbed her forehead. I hate dirtside lag, she thought, then began again. “He said you were investigating the accident. Shouldn't you be concentrating your efforts there?”

  Data looked down at his interlaced fingers and actually twiddled his thumbs. For a moment, Crusher wondered if he was trying out a new mannerism. “The investigation has reached an impasse, Doctor. I confess I was hoping there might be some chance Commander Maddox might simply awaken and tell us what occurred. That is, I see, an unrealistic expectation . . .”

  Crusher nodded, touched by Data's evident disappointment. Then, moved by the shadow of an intuition, she asked, “Is there something else, Data?”

  “What do you mean, Doctor?”

  “Is there something else you wanted to ask me?”

  “I . . . well, yes,” Data said, then paused for a long moment. “There is something I have been thinking about a great deal lately and I was hoping you might be able to . . .” He hesitated again, obviously struggling to find the right words. It was quite unlike Data's usual calm demeanor. Then she remembered her last conversation with Jean-Luc and his mentioning the stir created when Data and Rhea McAdams had gone dancing. Was Data about to ask for a lesson in waltzing? Romantic advice? Information about the birds and the bees?

  Suddenly, Beverly Crusher felt much more alert . . . and strangely on edge.

  But then she realized that Data wasn't thinking about the birds and the bees; she could see it in his eyes. He was thinking about other fundamentals. “It occurred to me recently,” he said, “that there is no one in my circle of . . . friends . . .” He paused for a moment to give her a chance, she realized, to react to the use of the word “friend.” Data was much closer to the other members of the senior staff, mostly because he worked more closely with them, but also because he had no particular need for her services. When Data had a “medical” problem, he usually went to see Geordi, not her. In any case, Crusher kept her face neutral and nodded for him to continue. “. . . who has had so much experience with death as you.” He paused again, watching Crusher's face carefully, perhaps to gauge her reaction.

  Crusher didn't find it difficult to keep her expression neutral. She was the chief medical officer of Starfleet's flagship and had served a term as the head of Starfleet Medical. It took a lot for her to display shock. That was not to say she wasn't a bit surprised with the turn the conversation had taken. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and nodded. “I suppose that's true, Data. I mean, as a physician, I've seen my share of death . . . though not too much, I hope. That's not one of the things you want to hang on your shingle . . .”

  Data looked at her quizzically. She shook her head. “Never mind, Data. It was a silly comment. Perhaps if you told me why you want to talk about this . . .”

  “Because, Doctor,” Data said, “I have been experiencing emotional fallout from the knowledge that I may live a great deal longer than, speaking frankly, everyone I know. According to the projections I have been calculating, without modifications of any sort to my neural net or positronic brain, I will probably live for a minimum of—”

  “Stop right there, Data,” Crusher said, feeling slightly peeved, but unable to say precisely why. “I get the idea—a long time. Please explain why you feel the need to discuss this with me.”

  Data's brow knotted, aware that he had upset her in some manner that he couldn't define, then began to stand, saying, “My apologies, Doctor. I have offended you. I will go.” Before he could stand straight, however, Crusher was waving him back into his seat.

  “No, no, Data. I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm just a little out of sorts. Let me guess: you're wondering what it's like to have patients die, how I feel when it happens.”

  Data nodded. “Yes,” he said, “and also how you feel knowing that some of the people you might be treating when that happens are your friends. How do you cope with knowing that you might be . . . left behind.”

  Crusher almost smiled despite herself, so suddenly came the understanding for why she had been feeling so put out with Data. This was, she realized, precisely the tone of the conversations she used to have with Wesley when he had been eleven or twelve years old, just on the cusp of adolescence and wrestling with the weighty moral and ethical concerns of a young man discovering his place in a larger universe. Data was reminding her of her son and it was not sitting well with her.

  Crusher and Troi had spent many long evenings discussing her son's fate—his journey of self-discovery accompanying the mysterious Traveler on an intergalactic quest—but no matter how Deanna sliced it, the story amounted to the same thing. Wesley was, for now at least, lost to her and she missed him terribly. She understood that he might return someday, possibly grown into a man, possibly unchanged by the years that were beginning to weigh on her, but the uncertainty was galling and she feared the passage of time might make her bitter.

  And now, here was Data, who had been one of Wes's closest friends, making her think of the one person whose memory caused her the greatest pain. No wonder she was feeling edgy. Data didn't understand the emotional minefield he was stumbling through and it would be unfair to punish him. He was struggling with problems of his own.

  “That's a difficult question you're asking, Data, one that people in the medical profession wrestle with constantly. I'll answer you the same way I answered Wes many years ago: the hardest part of being a doctor isn't knowing that you might sometimes lose patients; it's knowing that someday you might get used to it.” She paused for a moment to let the thought sink in, then continued. “I've talked to doctors who have been on the front lines, with units fighting the Dominion, and I can tell you this: the blackest terror they face is knowing they've seen so much death that they've gone numb inside. They cease to care, they seal themselves off, because they can't cope with the level of pain and suffering. They do the job, but part of them dies, too.”

  Data nodded. “I can see how that—”

  “I'm not finished, Data,” she said. “I wanted to tell you one more thing. The reason I've been talking to those field doctors is because I've been helping Starfleet Medical screen the doctors who go to the front lines—psych evaluations, personal profiles, that sort of thing. Here's the worst part, the thing we don't talk about too much: we can't risk sending the ones who would care too much, either. We have to choose, and we choose the ones who can save some part of themselves and do the job. It's a fine line we all walk every day: how much can we care? How much can we burden ourselves before we reach the point where we cannot see that it might be time to stop?”

  Crusher saw an expression of confusion, of something close to despair, wash across Data's features and she stopped herself. She was, she realized, saying too much. Data had been looking for a foothold, an anchor, and she was sweeping him out to sea. “But that's the worst of it,” she said, changing tacks. “The best of it is that doctors and nurses, all of us, are blessed . . .” She waved her hand around the ICU and gave Data a moment to let her choice of words sink in. “Occasionally, we get to see miracles, to see things that we can't explain, but know to be true. There's something inside human beings, something inside all sentient things, I believe, that can surprise even the most jaded of us . . .” She lapsed into silence, not knowing exactly how to finish the thought, but hoping Data would take some comfort from it.

  “And what of Commander Maddox?” he asked, turning to look at the monitor. “Has he reached the point where his only hope is a miracle?”

  Crusher pondered the question, wondering whether the truth was the best response or a little sugarcoating was called for. She decided to go with something in between. “Maybe not quite that yet. There are still a couple things we can try. But—and I'm not too proud to admit this
—every good doctor knows that sometimes the point comes when a patient might best be served by a power beyond herself.” She smiled, feeling her response was inadequate, but unable to think of anything better. She recalled that the weighty conversations with Wes frequently ended on such unsatisfactory notes, too.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Data said. “I appreciate your candor . . . and for sharing your thoughts with me. And, again, if there is ever anything I can do for you . . .”

  Wondering what had happened to Maury, Crusher was suddenly struck by a thought. “Actually, Data, there is. There's a replicator in that room . . .” She pointed in the general direction of the lounge. “It isn't working. Do you have a minute to take a look at it?”

  Data seemed surprised, but then shrugged and perked up, pleased at the opportunity to do something for her. “Of course, Doctor. I do not have any tools, but I could at least make a diagnosis. . . .” He grinned, pleased with his little joke.

  They rose together and she walked him out from behind the nurse's station, but she didn't want to stray too far from the monitors. Silly, she knew, given the level of reliable automated medical technology supplementing Maddox's care, but it was the physician's curse to never fully trust any mechanical device. As Data headed toward the lounge, Crusher turned back to the nurse's station, but then suddenly, looking down the hall, she could see into the dimly lit area where Maddox was lying and thought she saw . . . something. But what? A shadow moving in Maddox's room?

  Had Maury returned from the canteen and passed by the nurse's station without Crusher noticing? But, no, that didn't feel right. She wasn't that tired. Crusher started toward Maddox's room, but stopped when someone close behind her said, “Doctor Crusher?”

  Startled, she spun around and felt her hand come into contact with a cup of hot coffee. Crusher's senses, already jump-started by the shadowy form in Maddox's room, went into overdrive. Time slowed down. The mug and the steaming liquid made a very pretty parabola. The ruckus brought Data running and Maury, who had never before seen a gold-skinned, yellow-eyed android, yelped and jumped out of the way. Data lost his footing in the puddle of coffee and only kept himself from flopping over backward onto the floor by grabbing Crusher's outstretched hand.

  “I'm sorry!” Crusher said—much too loudly—while simultaneously trying to look back over her shoulder toward Maddox's room. All she succeeded in doing, however, was badly twisting her left ankle. “Dammit!” she shouted, trying to keep Data on his feet while at the same time trying not to put any weight on her injured ankle.

  “What is it?” Maury shouted. “What's going on?”

  “Maddox,” she tried to say, pointing toward the room, hopping on one foot. Maury didn't wait for another word, but took off for the room, Data at her heels. She was the last to reach the room and leaned heavily on the doorframe, favoring her ankle. Maury was checking all the monitors and looking puzzled.

  “What was it?” she asked, confusion in her voice. “I don't see anything.”

  And neither did Crusher. Everything looked perfectly normal. The biobed blinked contentedly. Maddox's heart beat steadily. He breathed in and out and dreamed who knew what dreams?

  “I . . . I don't know,” Crusher said. “I was sure I saw someone . . . Data, give me a hand back down the hall.” Data grabbed her arm and half-guided, half-carried her back to the nurse's station.

  Maury was standing on the other side of the station looking down at the two of them. “Would someone please tell me what just happened?” she asked, her voice cracking a little.

  Crusher looked up at the nurse and smiled apologetically. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't know. But I think I might need some sleep.”

  “Good,” Maury replied, accepting the apology, “because I don't think any more coffee is a good idea.”

  Maury went to get the muscle regenerator, leaving Crusher standing on one foot. She scanned the hall, willing something to be out of place. But nothing was, which only made her that much more angry.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rhea McAdams snored.

  Loudly.

  Data found this entrancing.

  Upon returning to his lab, he found McAdams leaning on a console, her head cushioned on her forearms, with a tiny bead of saliva suspended from the corner of her mouth. At first, he didn't know what to do, having very little experience with sleeping people. Though he could “sleep,” that is, shut down his system to a degree and enter a state resembling human unconsciousness, it was not something that he had to do. Rather, it was something he did because he found it interesting and even, occasionally, revealing. He could also dream—the part of sleeping he found most intriguing—and enjoyed replaying and analyzing the random images his subsystems generated.

  But he had very little experience with the social customs involving human sleep. Should he leave? Somehow announce his presence? Move as quietly as possible?

  Rhea solved the problem for him by waking on her own, stirred by the sound of the doors as he entered. She lifted her head and Data noticed that the side of her face was mottled with red stripes because the sleeve she had rested her head against was wrinkled. A lock of hair stuck out at an odd angle. He was captivated by these things, too. Rhea yawned. “What time is it?”

  “It is seventeen hundred hours, forty-five minutes,” Data replied. He almost added, “And forty-two seconds,” but decided against it, having learned over the years that humans, typically, were not interested in that level of detail. Instead, he asked, “How long have you been asleep?”

  Rhea looked around the room, orienting herself in time and space. “I don't know,” she replied, rubbing at something in the corner of her mouth. “When did you leave?”

  “Approximately two hours ago.”

  “Then I think that's when I fell asleep.” She looked down at Data's legs. “It was his fault,” she said pointing at Spot. “He was sitting on my lap and . . . and . . . purring. It was very, what's the word? Soporific.”

  “He is a cat,” Data said. “That is what he does.”

  “That's not an excuse,” Rhea replied, smiling and rubbing her eyes. “Do you want some coffee? No, wait—of course you don't. I do.” She stood, cracked her back, and walked stiffly toward the replicator. “Coffee, hot,” she said. “Double cream, one sugar.” The replicator chimed and she carefully removed the steaming cup. Blowing on the coffee, Rhea asked, “What news from the surface?”

  Data shook his head. “Nothing very encouraging, except that the Intensive Care Unit now has a functional replicator.” Rhea regarded Data quizzically, but she didn't ask for more detail and he didn't offer any. He continued, “Did your analysis of the interviews with the Institute personnel yield any results?”

  “Nothing very useful. I've decided that Commander Maddox was neither the most popular or unpopular person on campus. You might be interested to know that part of the reason some people don't like him is because they feel his badgering you to return here for more studies actually alienated you.”

  This surprised Data, who had never felt badgered by Maddox and couldn't imagine why anyone would care. He expressed this opinion, causing Rhea to shake her head and chuckle. “You had no idea you're a bit of a celebrity down there, did you?”

  “No.”

  Rhea finished her coffee, replaced the cup in the replicator and asked for a refill. “So, you're modest, too. I don't know what my mother would make of you.”

  “Why would your mother care if I was modest?”

  Removing the cup from the replicator, Rhea replied, “I think my mother had a fairly low opinion of men in general. She thought most of them were, well, she used to use the word, ‘phony.’ ”

  Data considered this. “I do not think I am phony,” Data replied, then paused. “However, I am artificial. Do you think that would have concerned her?”

  “You know,” Rhea said, “I've been thinking about that myself the past couple days and the truth is, I don't think she would care much at all. My mother wasn
't very concerned with where people came from. She was more interested in what they were made of.”

  “I am composed of approximately 24.6 kilograms of tripolymer composites, 11.8 kilograms of molybdenumcobalt alloys and 11.8 kilograms of bioplast sheeting. My skull—”

  “That's not what I meant.”

  “I know. I was trying to be funny.”

  “Ah,” McAdams said. “I just woke up. I never get jokes for the first ten-or-so minutes after I wake up. File that away somewhere.” Data did so. “Anyway,” Rhea continued, “no, not much from the other researchers about Maddox. Concerning Vaslovik—well, there's another story.”

  “That is encouraging,” Data said.

  “No,” Rhea replied. “You misunderstand. I mean . . . nobody knew anything about him. He didn't work with anyone except Maddox, not even Barclay, really, though I think the lieutenant was embarrassed to admit that. Vaslovik never socialized with anyone, ever. Would you believe, no one even knew where he lived? The only way I could find out was to check the DIT personnel database, which had his address, but not much else.”

  “Have you investigated his dwelling?”

  “Not yet,” Rhea said. “I was waiting for you . . . and then I fell asleep. But I figure we can take a look later. That's about what I've accomplished in the past, what? Twenty-four hours? Doesn't seem like much. Anything new on your side?”

  Data shook his head. “No, nothing.”

  “What about an isolation suit? You know, the kind Starfleet personnel use to cloak themselves when conducting covert sociological studies of prewarp cultures.”

  “I considered that. The suits give off a unique energy signature, which would have shown up in the full-spectrum sweep the Institute's security team conducted when they first arrived on the scene. It did not.”