Star Trek: TNG 064: Immortal Coil

  “I will guess . . . marine biology.”

  “Right!” Rhea said, laughing again. “So I went into security. I figured it was the one thing I could do where I would be least likely to come into contact with fish.”

  “Have you encountered any fish so far in your career as a Starfleet security officer?”

  “I had to arrest an Antedean once,” Rhea said, “but that's been about it.” She retrieved a bottle of wine and a corkscrew from the dining area. “Do you drink wine?” she asked.

  “Occasionally,” Data replied. “When my emotion chip is on, I enjoy the flavor, but alcohol does not affect me as it affects humans.”

  “Never?”

  Data considered the question before replying. “A xenovirus once invaded my positronic systems. It had an effect analogous to inebriation.”

  “Ah,” McAdams said, and finished pouring the wine. She handed him a glass and smiled. “Cheers.”

  They clinked glasses, and Data sniffed the wine, then tasted it, raised his eyebrows appreciatively. “This was not replicated?” Data asked, accepting the glass.

  “Wine from a replicator . . .” She made a disgusted face.

  “Did you know that Captain Picard's family owns a vineyard?”

  Rhea sipped from her glass, then smiled. “Yes, I did. I've had some of their wine. Most of it is quite good, though they have problems with some of their sparkling wines.”

  “Really?” Data asked. “You should tell him. I believe his sister-in-law is currently managing the winery, but there have been times he has intimated that he might like to retire there someday.”

  Rhea laughed again. “If I'm ever looking for a fast transfer off the ship, I'll be sure to mention it to him.”

  Data returned to studying the holograms. “And this is your father? Was he also a fisherman?”

  “No,” Rhea replied, her voice softening. “He was a marine engineer. He and my mom met when he was in Kobe building a dock for her boats. They didn't stay married for a very long time, though they were friends until he died. I was only seven and he didn't live in Kobe very many years, so all I remember was this large, friendly man.”

  “Forgive my ignorance,” Data said indicating the table, “but is this altar meant only to honor the dead?”

  Rhea smiled sadly. “Only the dead, I'm afraid,” she said. “My grandmother died about ten years ago. And my mom . . .” She hesitated and it seemed to Data that she was struggling with how to say what she wanted to say next.

  “If this subject is unpleasant for you,” Data said, “please do not feel like you must continue.”

  Rhea looked up at him and said, “That's not it. I was afraid to say too much about it because it might be painful for you. My mother died recently, too, about a year ago. She got tangled in a net and was pulled overboard . . .” She paused, collecting her thoughts. “It's funny. We weren't really very close most of my life because she was away a lot, but the last of couple of years—since I graduated from the Academy, especially—whenever we got together, it was different. Somehow, not doing what she thought I was going to do altered her perception of me. It got so that we could actually talk about things.”

  “You became friends,” Data realized.

  Rhea grinned brightly, then surprised Data by reaching up and lightly touching his cheek. “You are a rare treasure, Mr. Data, and you have a way with words.”

  Data did not reply immediately because he was too stunned to speak. People rarely initiated physical contact with him and he was uncertain how to respond. Rhea's gesture, in particular, had confused him, being neither openly flirtatious nor purely platonic. He consulted his behavioral files, but found very little that was useful. Data decided his best response was to catalog observations and review them later.

  And then, several milliseconds after these insights and decisions had been filed, there came a warm sensation of pleasure that began at the spot where Rhea had touched his cheek and radiated outward and down through Data's neural net. His emotional responses, Data noted, always seemed to lag behind his intellectual observations.

  Data sipped the Cabernet and decided he liked it. Rhea returned to the dining area to check on the dinner and Data followed.

  “What are we having if we are not having fish?”

  “At first, I thought to make you real sukiyaki because replicator beef is actually pretty good and they grow scallions in the arboretum, but then I wondered if you might be a vegetarian. Are you?”

  “I do not think so,” he said.

  “Well,” Rhea said, checking a pair of pots on a small heating device, “you are tonight. Fettucini with marinara sauce and a mushroom salad. Figured I'd be on safe ground.” She stirred the sauce, then stripped the foil pouch off two servings of pasta and threw them into the boiling water. “Okay,” she said, “I've talked enough for now. I'm cooking; you talk.”

  “What would you like me to talk about?”

  “Tell me about your mother,” Rhea said, opening a cabinet door. “What was she like?”

  Data sat on one of the two metal stools that stood next to the counter and rested his wineglass on his knee. “I did not know her very well,” Data said. “We met for the first time only four years ago and had seen each other on only a few occasions since then.” He stopped and thought, trying to encapsulate the things he remembered about their visits. “She was a fine scientist; she did not like to cook, but enjoyed cleaning up afterward; most of her earrings were green because she liked the way it went with her hair; she wished to learn how to make pottery on a wheel, but never had time . . .”

  Rhea, who had ceased searching the cabinets for a colander and was listening attentively, asked, “Yes, what else?”

  Data tipped his glass from side to side, observing the play of the refracted light in the ruby liquid. Finally, after what seemed a long time to him, he said very softly, “She might have learned how to turn pots if she had known she was an android.” He reached up and dabbed at his eyelids with his fingertips. They came away wet. “I have decided that I could grow weary of this feeling very soon.”

  “What feeling?” Rhea asked quietly.

  Data sipped some wine and thought about trying to change the subject. He knew this was considered acceptable behavior, but, unaccountably, he decided to try to answer her question. “I do not yet know how to identify it,” he said finally. “Regret, perhaps. Not for myself or my own life, but for the opportunities that they missed.” Data didn't say who “they” were, but Rhea seemed to understand who he meant: Lore, Lal, the nameless androids and even Juliana Tainer, who (by Dr. Soong's standards) had lived a long, full life. “The changes in my emotional status from moment to moment have taken a toll,” Data concluded. “I have fought Borg drones with my bare hands, but never before in my life have I felt so battered.”

  Rhea began to reach across the counter, but then the pasta water boiled over, and she had to hastily turn down the heat. The moment lost, she went back to stirring the sauce. “You know,” she said, “one of the most useful pieces of advice my mother ever gave me was that you can't battle life. Actually, she said this about the sea, but as far as Mom was concerned, it was the same thing. ‘You can't battle life,’ she said. ‘You have to learn to treat it like a waltz and your problems are your partner. Step lightly, try to keep time with the music and smile.’ ” Unconsciously, Rhea moved the spoon like a conductor's baton and flicked sauce onto the floor and the wall.

  “Oh, very graceful,” she laughed, and began looking around for a towel. Data saw it first and used it to wipe up the spilled sauce. “Like my mother,” he said, “I, too, prefer cleaning to cooking.”

  “As I said,” Rhea replied, “you are a rare treasure, sir.”

  “I am also an accomplished dancer,” Data replied, “so I should find it simple to follow your mother's advice.”

  “Really?” Rhea asked. “Accomplished?”

  “Yes,” he said sincerely. “I have received instruction from one of the finest dance
rs in Starfleet.”

  Rhea stared at him for a moment as if considering a challenge, then reached over and turned off both burners and put a lid on the sauce pot. “Accomplished,” she repeated. “Hmm. All right—prove it.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Picard sat at the end of the bar in a small alcove that had come to be known as “the Captain's Nook.” He pretended not to know that the crew called it that and, in return, the crew pretended not to notice him when he sat there. No one sat in the stool next to his unless every other seat in the lounge was taken and that almost never happened because Picard only visited it during off-peak hours. It was one of the ways, he knew, that he had changed since taking command of the Enterprise-D more than a decade ago. Then, he would never have allowed himself to socialize with the crew, not even to the extent of sitting in a quiet lounge and reading, but he had learned a few things since those days. Isolation would not make him a better captain. Truth be told, he found the gentle background hum of hushed conversations very soothing.

  Off in the corner, someone—Ensign Ubango—was assaying a difficult classical piece. She stopped periodically cally to run through a few particularly troublesome bars, then resumed.

  From behind him, Picard heard Will Riker ask, “Bach?”

  “Tchaikovsky,” Picard said. He had often wondered if Riker really didn't know anything about classical music or merely enjoyed giving his captain the opportunity to correct him. “Have a seat, Will.” Riker pulled out the stool next to Picard's, then flagged down the bartender who smiled and set about pouring him a single malt whiskey. Since coming aboard the Enterprise-E, Picard and Riker had made it a habit to meet once or twice a week in the lounge to discuss whatever matters either of them decided were important, but felt, for one reason or another, shouldn't make it into the official logs. In essence, this meant gossip, but gossip of a particular caliber. Picard had learned long ago that in any community as complex as the Enterprise, gossip was one of life's essential fluids. He never underestimated the importance of whatever unofficial information was being traded about the ship and relied on Riker to collect it for him.

  Predictably, most of the gossip was about the escalating hostilities with the ongoing Dominion conflict and the possibilities of a treaty with the Romulans. Though many of the crew of the Enterprise-D had rotated into new posts while its Sovereign-class successor was being commissioned, there were still enough old hands around who remembered encounters with the Romulans and their gigantic D'deridex-class warbirds. Having them as allies would certainly change the balance of power, but how long could the Federation actually trust them? And, of course, how long could Romulans and Klingons work shoulder to shoulder before old animosities resurfaced?

  Riker pointed at the padd Picard had set down on the bar and asked, “What's that? Looks dense.”

  Picard massaged the bridge of his nose and said, “It is, I'm afraid. I've been trying to review the recent decisions regarding the civil rights of artificial life forms.”

  Riker picked up the padd and clicked through a few screens, skimming the text. Then, wincing, he laid it back down on the bar. “I'd rather fight the Borg, thank you.”

  Picard chuckled in agreement, then said, “Ah, but you're at least partially responsible for all this. It's all a direct result of the hearing we held where Judge Louvois decided that Data is entitled to full constitutional rights and isn't the property of Starfleet.”

  Riker shuddered extravagantly. “I take comfort in knowing that though I'm a terrible prosecutor, I'm a fine trombone player.”

  “Terrible? Are you being modest? I thought you performed brilliantly. When you reached behind Data and turned him off, I almost walked out of the hearing.” It had been a near thing, Picard remembered. Judge Louvois had been appointed to determine whether Data could legally refuse Bruce Maddox's request that he allow himself to be disassembled. Only Data's eloquence, and Picard's own impassioned arguments, had saved him, and the repercussions of Louvois's decision were still, apparently, echoing throughout the Federation.

  Riker grinned at the memory and said, “That was rather good, wasn't it? At the time, I hated myself for it. But Louvois didn't give me much of a choice. Said that if she didn't believe I was doing my best, she would rule against Data. In the end, virtue triumphed, as always . . . .” and he raised his glass in a toast. Picard touched the brim of his glass to Riker's and the conversation shifted to his discussion with Admiral Haftel about Data's investigation of Maddox's accident. Just as Picard finished repeating Haftel's grudging decision, Troi entered the lounge and pulled up the chair next to Riker's, handing Picard an isolinear chip. She had just finished her bridge shift, she explained, when Dr. Crusher's latest report came in, and she decided to bring it to Picard personally. The captain immediately slid the chip into his padd.

  “Maddox's condition is essentially the same,” Picard read aloud. “She can't seem to pin down the coma to any known agent and she's getting frustrated. Not trauma-induced. No infectious agents. They've even done a poison screening.”

  Troi smiled. “Beverly hates a mystery.”

  “Yes,” Picard replied. “She does. And she's decided to stay on the surface until she can sort this out.”

  “Couldn't she transport Maddox to the Enterprise?” Riker asked.

  “I asked her the same thing this morning,” Troi related. “But she said there's nothing up here that they don't have down there. Personally, I think she's decided the infirmary staff is lax and is taking the opportunity to whip them into shape.” Picard and Riker chuckled. “So, what else have I missed?” Troi asked. She knew about Riker and Picard's debriefing sessions. “Already covered all the news of the day?”

  Riker beckoned to the civilian bartender who, when he saw who his new customer was, grinned brilliantly and asked, “What would you like, Deanna?”

  “Hot chocolate,” Troi said smiling warmly in response. “With whipped cream, please.”

  Deanna studied the bartender's back as he programmed her request into the food replicator. Riker seemed to note with amusement that her gaze lingered, then asked, “So, you two have met?”

  “Oh, yes,” Troi replied distractedly. “Standard psych evaluation. We had a very interesting conversation.”

  “How interesting?”

  “Very interesting, Commander,” she teased. “We talked about art and music and seeing the galaxy as a member of a starship support staff.” When the bartender returned, Troi said, “Sam, allow me to introduce you to Commander Riker.”

  “We've met,” Sam said. “He has great taste in single malts.”

  Riker raised his glass in acknowledgment and sipped his drink. “How are you adjusting, Sam?”

  Sam stood up straight, surveyed the lounge, then unconsciously smoothed back his thick hair with a well-manicured hand. He looks, thought Picard, like a lion who has just checked his domain and is satisfied with what he sees. “It's a fascinating place,” he remarked. “An intriguing mix of individuals. I understand, though, that you used to have more civilians. Families, even.”

  “True,” Riker said. “Different time, different Enterprise.”

  “That's too bad,” Sam said. “I would have liked to have seen that. I'm sure it made things even more . . . unpredictable.”

  Picard, who had been listening in on the conversation said, “We'll do what we can to keep things lively.”

  Sam grinned, then wiped at a nonexistent spot on the bar top. “Well, that sounds fine, Captain. I could do without the time travel and the Borg, though, so don't go out of your way on either of those.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “You know,” Sam said, suddenly straightening, “that reminds me of something. Hang on. I'll be right back.” He disappeared into the storage area behind the bar and they heard the sounds of containers being shifted about.

  Picard said to Troi, “I was telling Will about my conversation with Admiral Haftel. I've assigned Data and Lieutenant McAdams to investigate the mystery on
Galor IV. I think they'll work very well together.” Smiling, he added, “A veritable Nick and Nora Charles.”

  Riker and Troi stared at Picard blankly.

  “Nick and Nora Charles,” he repeated. “The Thin Man . . . ?”

  Riker turned to look at Troi. “I'm guessing a detective novel.”

  “Hmmm,” Troi agreed, sipping her hot chocolate. “One of these days, one of us has to give him something else to read.”

  Feigning disgust, Picard sat back in his chair. “I don't know why I even bother bringing these things up.”

  Sam reappeared carrying a foil-wrapped parcel and a corkscrew. He peeled the foil away from the bottle's neck, then removed the cork. “Normally, I'd decant something like this, but, for time's sake, let's just let it breathe for a moment.”

  “Speaking of Lieutenant McAdams,” Riker said to Troi, “did I mention that she pinned me four times in mok'bara practice yesterday?”

  “Yes,” Troi replied with mock disgust. “Four times. You told me. I think you enjoyed that a little too much.”

  Riker raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders in a Who wouldn't? gesture and finished his drink. “Well,” he said starting to rise, “I have reports to review—”

  Sam reappeared with four glasses and said, “Hold on, Commander. Try some of this.” He poured a small amount of ruby liquid into one of the glasses and placed it before Picard, who held the wine up to the light and studied its color. Then, he expertly inhaled the bouquet, sipped and swished. Swallowing, he raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “That's astonishing,” he said. “A Bordeaux, if I'm not mistaken. Comte de Vogue. Maison St. Gaspar?”

  Sam nodded. “Excellent palate, Captain. Vintage?”

  Picard took another sip and considered. “Very fruity. Very balanced. Long, elegant finish.” He pondered. “Either the '67 or the '65.”

  Sam unwrapped the bottle and handed it to Picard. “The '65, Captain. I'm impressed.”

  Picard took the bottle and examined the label. “This is extraordinary. My brother was friends with their grower and even he couldn't get a bottle of this out of him. How did you get it?”