Received: from [66.218.66.158] by n20.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 09 Feb 2004 05:31:02 -0000 X-Sender: stephenbratliff@earthlink.net X-Apparently-To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 81137 invoked from network); 9 Feb 2004 05:31:00 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.166) by m18.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 9 Feb 2004 05:31:00 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO cardinal.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.121.226) by mta5.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 9 Feb 2004 05:31:00 -0000 Received: from sdn-ap-021dcwashp0340.dialsprint.net ([63.191.145.86]) by cardinal.mail.pas.earthlink.net with smtp (Exim 3.33 #1) id 1Aq408-0000kU-00 for ascl@yahoogroups.com; Sun, 08 Feb 2004 21:30:33 -0800 To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Organization: Alt.StarTrek.Creative Virtual Staff Office Message-ID: X-Mailer: Forte Agent 1.92/32.572 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 207.217.121.226 From: ASC-VSO X-Yahoo-Profile: oldmanasc MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCL@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCL@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Mon, 09 Feb 2004 00:29:08 -0500 Subject: [ASC] NEW TNG: Echoes P/C, D/f (R) Pt 151/? Reply-To: ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Content-Type: text/html; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek .creative or directly to the author. ADVERTISEMENT My Groups | ASCL Main Page Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 8 Feb 2004 11:18:07 -0800 In: alt.startrek.creative From: keeroth@startrek.net (Ke Roth) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 151/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 151 "I must admit I am concerned," Data said as he put the padd aside. "We have been searching out the system monitors for eight days, now - and to date, we have removed fifty-four of the devices. Even so, we have been unable to reinstate the ship's recorder system, indicating there are additional monitoring devices as yet undiscovered. "This troubles me, Ginger," he told Andile from his place beside her bed, where he had spent almost every free hour since the accident, watching her face intently as he spoke - though he knew there would be no reaction to his words, to his concerns, to the troubles he lay upon her brow. There might never be a response, he knew - and yet, somehow he felt better speaking to her - not because she could hear him, he knew - but because one day she would awaken, and he knew she would never forgive him if he had not told her everything that was happening in the ship. And everything that was happening in his heart. "I do not believe Cmdr. James was capable of placing so many devices on board the ship in the brief time she was here, even with the relative degree of freedom she had while we were at Utopia Planitia - nor would there have been any reason to place them in as many locations as she did. Indeed, the majority of the devices have been placed so covertly as to suggest that no one was aware of their presence - except the one or ones responsible for their implantation. But if she was not responsible, then who? - and if the intent was not just to monitor the events on the ship during this mission, then why?" He shook his head and gave one of his perfect, practiced sighs. She would not approve the feeble attempt, he knew - and so he drew another breath, and let it out again, a little less evenly this time, a little more raggedly - and so much more humanly. "I am practicing," he told her gently. "I am trying to accept the feelings, Andile, to live with them - but it is very difficult. The feelings - _my_ feelings - are much harder to control than the ones the chip generates; they feel... different, as though they were the ones that were artificial - while the ones that I know come from the chip still feel 'real' to me. I know this is simply a matter of adaptation; that in time, as I experience these genuine emotions more and more, I will learn to accept them as being real. But it is difficult, Ginger," he confessed, leaning close to her ear, whispering softly. "There are days I do not believe I can bear it... alone. "There are days, Ginger, when I believe I can bear nothing... alone," he told her softly. "Come back to me, Ginger. I miss your wisdom; I miss your insight. I miss you." He bent his head into her shoulder, feeling the thick, oily tear slide from his eye to his cheek, then drop heavily onto her bare shoulder. He raised his head slightly, watching as the tear traced a viscous path to the bed below her - then he placed a finger on the damp spot, gently rubbing the tear away - then lowered his head, kissing the spot tenderly. A tiny shudder vibrated in the woman as her body responded to the change from warm wetness to the room's cooler air - and in an almost equally automatic response, Data took one of the blankets that stood neatly stacked near the biobed and carefully draped it over Andile's shoulders and arm, sheltering them against the chill that seemed to be the only thing that penetrated her inactive mind. "Ah, my little one is cold again," a deep voice boomed behind Data, a giant hand clapping him roughly on the shoulder. "Do not worry. I will take you home to Romulus, my little _baj_, to my house on the desert plains - and there, you will bake in the heat of the sun, until you are warm to the heart of your bones!" Tiron roared as he looked down at the tiny woman. "Not until she has been to Cardassia first," Zumell countered softly, pushing her way out from behind the giant Romulan. "Ignore him, my little one; I will take you to my home on Cardassia first, and there I will cook for you until you are well and healthy. You have not enjoyed life until you have tasted home-made _vis ha ji_." She glared up at the massive Romulan. "Warmth will do those bones no good until she puts some meat on them first!" she insisted to him. "And who will put meat on _your_ bones, old woman?" Tiron laughed back playfully. "No, you will both come to my home - and there, you will sit in the sun and _I_ will feed you until you are both big and plump and warm and content as old women and beautiful young girls should be!" He leaned forward, smiling down at Andile. "Wouldn't you like that, my little one? A nice long vacation on a warm, warm planet, with your _patchni_ ready to grant you your every wish?" He glanced back at Data, then added, in a not-too-subtle whisper, "Or perhaps not every wish, my little _baj_ who is not so little? Perhaps there are some wishes only this young _tu'j_ can satisfy - yes?" Tiron straightened turned to Data and gave him another powerful clap on the shoulder - but let the hand rest there after the thunderous blow. "You will come with us, Mr. Data? Back to Romulus, so that the little one can recuperate among the ones who love her - and who she loves?" he asked. Data hesitated. "I am not certain whether Federation citizens would be welcome on Romulus, Mr. Ambassador..." "Nonsense!" Tiron replied. "Allegiance and fidelity to one's people is very important on Romulus - but money has any equally loud voice - and I am very powerful, Mr. Data - and very wealthy. If need be, I will adopt you both, make you both my heirs - and thus citizens, and you can walk about as free citizens." "Andile can not yet walk, Ambassador," Data reminded him. Tiron met his eyes, then patted his shoulder once more, gently this time. "She will, Mr. Data; she will. We must have faith - and patience - and courage." "And love," Zumell added. "But you have that in plenty," she said softly, pushing past the two men to take her place next to the bed. "Good morning, my little one," she said softly. "I hope you slept well. I have a new book for you - one of mine, this time. Stories from my world. Better stories than you learned when you were there," she added sadly, then patted her arm and looked at Tiron. "We should be going, Ambassador," she reminded him. "The little one starts her therapy in a few minutes - and we should not deprive Mr. Data of his time with her. We will have ours later," she reminded him, then stepped away from the bed. Data turned to follow the two to the door. "I wish to thank you both for your attendance on Andile - but she would not wish you to forsake your ambassadorial duties for her sake..." "Mr. Data, our duties mean nothing if there is not a person at the heart of them - and in our little one, we remember that heart, that person every day," Zumell said. "And..." "And your captain is busy with the Breen today," Tiron added, grinning. "Yes," Data murmured, as though he had forgotten the arrival of the Breen ambassador - as though he could forget anything... even those things he wished he would forget. "We have postponed the day's meetings until tomorrow so that he can fulfill his other duties - and so that we can rest. Your captain is a fine negotiator," Tiron added, a hint of disappointment in his words. "Had we known he would so admirably represent his people, we might well have opted to postpone the meeting until someone less competent could be found." Zumell gave the huge Romulan a contemptuous look, added a ineffectual slap at his round belly, then shook her head as she turned back to Data. "Never mind you him; your captain is a worthy delegate. If he has his way, we might all find peace yet," she said. "Come, Mr. Ambassador," she added, pulling at his arm - then smiled at Data. "We are going to your Ten Forward for our morning meal," she told him. "And then for a walk in your arboretum," Tiron said - then took Zumell's arm - and gave Data a wink. For a moment, the android stared at the departing couple in unmitigated astonishment - then turned back to Andile. "Ginger... I believe... I believe that Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell might be at risk of damaging their objectivity. Indeed, they may even be acting in collusion in the current negotiations," he said worriedly. "They're not conspiring, Data," Beverly interjected as she entered Andile's room. "I beg your pardon?" "They're not conspiring," she repeated, "they're... enjoying themselves. They're learning about one another - and about their respective worlds. Losing their objectivity? Yes, perhaps - but in an enlightening way. But collusion? I don't think so. If nothing else, they're not being very subtle about their friendship. I don't think there's a member of the crew who hasn't seen them together." "I had not," he reminded her. "Because you've been spending all your time here, Data," she reminded him, then turned, drawing one of the bedside table next to the bed and placing a blue wrapped package on the stand. "And if someone's to blame for that, Data, it would be Biji here; Tiron and Zumell both offered to take a turn reading to her - and since they both had time only after the day's negotiations, they ended up coming down at the same time, taking turns reading to her - then leaving together." She smiled down at the unmoving body as she began to unwrap the package. "Still trying to bring people together, even while you're asleep, eh, Lieutenant?" she asked. There was no response from the body, nor from the android beside it. Instead, Data's attention was focused on the package. "Doctor? Is that not a dressing change kit?" he asked worriedly. "You've seen enough of them to know that it is, Data," she replied, glancing back at him before continuing to unwrap the package. "You know, if Biji were awake, she'd tell you that dancing around the question you really want to ask can be somewhat annoying. If there's something you want to know, then just ask," she instructed him. Data pursed his lips, cocked his head - and considered. "It was not my intention to be annoying, Doctor," he said. She forced a pleasant smile to her lips, not willing to tell him that the slight whine in his tone was, on occasion, equally annoying. "Data, if and when you ever have children, you'll learn to distinguish between what they do and who they are. You are not annoying; your behavior, on the other hand, can be. On occasion," she added diplomatically as she slid a pad beneath Andile's left arm and hand, then turned on the sterile field. Pulling out a pair of gloves from the kit, she slid them over her hands before looking at the android again. "Rather than dancing around the topic, Data, why don't you just ask me?" Data thought over the idea, then gave a single nod. "Perhaps you are correct. Andile was always forthright - and she did seem to reach the heart of a topic most expeditiously." "Indeed," Beverly murmured. A nice way to phrase it, she thought to herself, although the rest of your friends would generously call it 'audacious' - and everyone else would call it out-right rudeness. But Data was right - Biji did get to the heart of things - and, she added, remembering the slightly dark stain of a tear on Data's cheek, to more than a few hearts as well. And now that you've reached those hearts, Beverly thought to the woman, we can't let them be broken; one broken heart per starship ought to be the limit, she proclaimed, taking a small device from the kit and behind to neatly cut open the bandages on Andile's hand. Data considered silently as Beverly peeled away the soiled bandage. "Then allow me to be somewhat more forthright, Doctor," he announced a moment later: Andile's dressing changes are performed in the evening, after the conclusion of her physical therapy; that you are performing them now suggests that something untoward is happening. I would like to know what is the nature of that event," he said - rather formally, Beverly noted. "I am changing her bandages," Beverly replied as she deftly removed the silver metallic wrapper from the still raw flesh and began to carefully examine the tissue, "because the Breen physician - Jemat - has asked if he may examine her - and the Captain has granted him permission to do so - as part of the initial talks between the Breen and the Federation." "The Breen physician?" Data repeated warily. Beverly nodded, her attention locked on her task. "The Captain has indicated that this Jemat directed the surgery that restored the infrastructure layers to Andile's hands and feet on the Breen vessel. If that's so, then it's possible he will be able to complete the reconfiguration of the outer epidermal layers again - something that I can not do," she added. She looked at Data. "At best, Data, I could give her a epidermal layer not unlike yours - but I have no way to restore nerve systems, especially at the concentration levels that humans hands have. Based on what I've seen on Andile's hands, the Breen do have the ability to do so - and if Andile's to regain her sense of touch, we're going to have to investigate every possibility. And..." She drew a deep breath. "'And' what, Doctor?" Data prompted. "Data, if they can restore the fine musculature and vasculature of her hands, then they must also have the knowledge that would let me do the same for the right side of her chest. Rebuild that - and we can reattach her arm," she added enthusiastically. "That would not correct the damage to her brain - or free her from the external oxygenator," he reminded her. "Data," Beverly sighed, wondering if the android's pessimism was born of the same fatigue that had been wearing at her, "every day means another chance to find a solution. You just have to have a little faith that someone, somewhere, is going to look at the problem - and help find a solution. By the time we get back to Earth, who knows what we'll find? Maybe someone will find a way to overcome her autoantibodies - and I can clone new lungs for her. Maybe someone will have discovered a way to oxygenated the blood efficiently - and using a smaller unit. Maybe... maybe many things, Data," she sighed. "There are many 'maybes' within your statement, Doctor," Data replied. "Indeed, there are far too many 'maybes' for me to feel sanguine about Andile's long-term rehabilitation," he added. "Then don't rely on 'maybes', Data; go look for your own answers," she countered. He looked at her, then cocked his head to one side - and fell silent. Beverly glanced at him - then turned her attention back to Andile's hand. She hadn't been exaggerating in her appraisal of the Breen's work; the musculature and vasculature they had created for her was far beyond the technology of anything the Federation had, incredibly fine and detailed. Add skin and nerves to it, she thought, add a few months of physical therapy - and she would have her hand - maybe even both hands - back. And no scars, she added, noting that the Breen had excised the thick white tissue that had encircled her wrist. That would have been necessary, she told herself; the old and thick scars would have hampered the blood flow to her hands and imperiled the recovery of the extremities. And possibly imperiled the recovery of the woman as well, she added, knowing that the scars were somehow linked to the tragic loss of the child... Varel, she thought, reminding herself of the child's name, her heart surging with grief for the girl - and for Andile. She looked at Andile's face, aching for the woman - then stopped. Something was different, she thought; something was... wrong. She glanced at the bandage change kit, wondering if something had fallen to the floor, or rolled from the sterile field - but everything was where it was supposed to be. She looked at Andile, studying her face, searching out some change - some slight movement of her eyes, her mouth, perhaps? But saw nothing different there, either. For moment she tried to convince herself it was nothing more than her imagination - but her years of medical experience kept insisting something had changed. A machine, maybe? She wondered, glancing at the various displays, looking for something out of place. Her blood pressure was elevated fractionally, she noted - though there was nothing terribly abnormal in that; a person - even an unconscious person - underwent changes in blood pressure throughout the day. Her oxygen saturation levels were normal, her temperature was slightly elevated - but still within normal range, and her respirations were steady at fourteen point one per minute. She looked back at Andile, staring at her in confusion, knowing something was different, but unable to put her finger on it... Fourteen point one, Beverly thought with a frown, suspecting the slight aberration was the cause of her unease. It should be exactly fourteen, she knew; indeed, she had set the level when she had implanted the pacemaker in Andile's diaphragm, beginning the process that would, in time, allow the woman to breath for herself. Even if she only had half a lung in which to draw air, Beverly added. But half a lung still meant regaining the ability to speak, something the ECMO would never grant her, she reminded herself. Breathing, Beverly thought with a sorrowful smile; speaking. How I dream, she thought solemnly, knowing full well there was little chance that Andile would ever be capable of doing either again. She reached for the machine, about to reset the level - and watched as an erratic spike flashed across the monitor. She stared at the woman for a moment - then spoke softly. "Data?" The android stirred himself. "Yes, Doctor?" "I think she's trying to breathe." He stared at the physician for a moment - then looked at Andile. "Perhaps an involuntary spasm of the diaphragm," he countered. "She was subject to them..." "At first; immediately after the pacemaker was implanted," Beverly agreed. "But that was a week ago! Ever since, the machine has regulated the contraction of the diaphragm with perfect regularity." "Perhaps the levels was reset accidentally..." "I checked it before I went off duty last night, Data - and you've been with her ever since. Did _you_ change it? Did anyone else change it?" "I would not alter the settings on the equipment used to regulate Andile's condition, Doctor," he replied, in as close to a hurt tone as his android persona would permit, "and neither of her night attendants altered any of the machine settings." "And yet it has changed," she pointed out. "I think she's trying to breathe - or rather, her body's trying to breathe," she conceded. "I don't think it's a conscious action. But..." She hesitated, then faced Data, smiling. "I think it's a positive sign, Data; her brain is beginning to exert control over her autonomous functions." "And her attempt to breathe...?" "Without her normal lung capacity, she's probably feeling as though she's fighting for air - even though her blood and tissues are showing excellent perfusion levels." Beverly gave a soft sigh. "You wouldn't understand the sensation, Data, of fighting for air - but it can be terrifying, even traumatic - as if you're drowning." "But such a feeling would be a conscious reaction," Data pointed out, "and she is not conscious. Furthermore, you indicated her oxygenation levels are adequate." "They are - but the functions of inhalation and exhalation aren't controlled strictly by oxygenation levels. The pH balance may have been off for a moment, her metabolism might be spiking as she goes through a phase of regeneration - I could give you half a dozen reasons why her body might be trying to make her take an extra breath - but they all boil down to the basic fact that her body needs an extra inhalation - but the pacemaker prevents that. "It's preset to initiate inhalations at the preprogrammed rate," Beverly explained, "but it's not permitting the body to exert any control in response to those changes. That's a good sign - she's trying to re-establish autonomic control - but for now, I can't remove the pacemaker. Her body is just too weak to maintain control of the diaphragm. What I can do is to reset the pacemaker, allowing her body to, in effect, override the setting when she feels the need for an additional inhalation." She smiled at the android again. "It's a good sign, Data," she said softly. "The best one yet. But," she added cautiously, "it's only one sign. It's no guarantee that she'll recover further, that she'll ever be able to come out of her current state - and I think that we both need to keep that thought firmly in mind," she added firmly. Data looked at her curiously. "I am confused, Doctor," he admitted - though there seemed to be no hint of confusion in his expression. "Confused? About what?" Beverly replied. "You said that I should have faith - that a stranger, who has never met Andile and has no idea of her needs - or my need for her - would provide her with the appropriate technology to help her recover the abilities she once had - and yet I should not place that same faith in her? That I, knowing what her capabilities are, knowing of her ability to heal, to recover, to overcome odds that would daunt almost any other being, should believe less in her than in someone I have never met? That I should have faith in someone I do not know - but not in the ones I do?" he asked. Beverly looked at him for a long time - then down at her patient. He doesn't understand, she thought to herself - and to the silent woman lying on the bed. He doesn't understand what you've been through, the pain you've faced... he doesn't understand that sometimes you just can bear to face the hurt, even just once more. Even for him. Especially for him. She looked up, studying the android - and saw the hope their, the faith - the need, she realized, to make right what had gone so terribly wrong. But correcting that mistake - any mistake, she added, would take faith... and hope, and long hard work on his part. On both their parts, she added. It's going to be a long road, Biji, she thought silently to the woman - but he's worth it; you're both worth it. We all are. "I stand corrected, Data," she said softly. "Perhaps the faith we really need is in ourselves - and in those we know best. Maybe... maybe it's just somehow easier to believe in those we don't know than those we do," she added. He nodded. "I understand, Doctor. Sometimes fear - of repeating failure, of being hurt, of hurting those we love, even unwillingly, unintentionally, scares us away from doing what we know in our hearts and in our minds to be the correct course of action," he said, then looked at Andile for a moment, studying her expressionless face. "But I am willing to take that risk," he told her, told them both. He watched the motionless face for a moment, a newfound determination shining bright from his golden eyes - then looked at Beverly once again. "Doctor, you had indicated that you knew of others who would be interested in reading to Andile - that is, aside from Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell? To provide additional mental stimulation throughout the day?" he asked. "Know of others?" she echoed lightly, smiling at him. "Data, there are so many who want to help Biji that I've had to make a waiting list!" she replied, almost laughingly - though telling the nearly countless volunteers that Andile's free time was already spoken for had been anything but a laughing matter - or rather, it hadn't been until she had explained that it was Data who was occupying Andile's resting hours, she added. "Perhaps, then, you could make arrangements for one or more of them to spend time with Andile during at least part of the next few evenings?" he asked. Beverly gave him a curious, and slightly disappointed look - then nodded reluctantly. "Of course. I'm sure there will be no problem, but... why?" she asked, wondering if her faith in him... in everyone... had been misplaced. "Aren't you going to be here tonight?" she asked disappointedly. "I shall - but there is something I must do first," he said. "If you could make arrangements for someone to be with her until the end of beta shift?" he asked hopefully. "Of course," she replied, then watched as he leaned over her body, placing a gentle kiss on Andile's forehead, then carefully removing an errant strand of raven hair from her face before neatly tucking the blanket under her bandaged shoulder. "Do not let her become chilled," he cautioned Beverly, then turned on his heel and left the room. Beverly watched the android leaved, then sighed, and looked down at Andile. "He loves you, you know," she said softly. "Whatever happened between you, he still loves you - and I think he'd do anything for you. Give him a chance, Andile; don't give up - on him - or on yourself. Love - real love, that kind that endures - the kind he feels for you - is so rare, so precious - don't throw it away. Don't let go. Let him try to make it right - for the both of you." The sound of a communicator chirping interrupted her litany of sage advice to the somnolent woman. "Picard to Crusher," came the captain's voice, gruff and formal with command. To her surprise, the sound of his voice, terse at it was, sent a shiver through her soul. Don't be stupid, she chided herself; that's all done with... isn't it? Do I want it to be? Do I want to give up on him, on me, on us? She looked at the unconscious woman in question - then tapped her commbadge. "Crusher here," she replied softly. There was a moment of hesitation before he spoke again - and for that moment, Beverly wondered if he, too, was aching at the sound of her voice. Nonsense, she insisted; he's probably just preoccupied with his duties. And yet the voice that came back was softer, gentler. "Jemat and the Breen ambassador will be arriving shortly. Transporter room three," he added. "I'll be there," she replied, tapped her badge again to break the connection, then looked at Andile - and gave a rueful laugh. "I know, I know," she sighed. "I'm just setting myself up for another disappointment, another bruising. I loved Jack - and he died; I loved Wesley - and he's gone. I... I love Jean-Luc," she finished softly. "I don't want to lose him, too. "But then," she added softly, "I've never really had him to lose, have I?" she asked the unmoving form - then sighed. "In a way, I'm jealous of you and Data. For everything that went wrong, the two of you at least tried. We never have. Maybe that was just wise precaution on both our parts." "Or complete cowardice," she added after a moment's thought. "Or both," she conceded. She attended to the dressing, neatly removing the last of the old bandage before examining the raw tissue, carefully cleaning the flesh, then neatly re-bandaging it. Piling the used materials into the wrapper, she rolled it up, peeled off the gloves, dropping the whole mess into a disposer unit, watching the faint blue flash as it turned into aseptic ash, then touched the control that turned off the sterile field. "There," she said with an air of finality and satisfaction. "You're all ready for the Breen. Don't worry; I won't let them hurt you," she began - then stopped. "No, Beej, that's not true; if they can repair your hand, help me rebuild your shoulder and reattach your arm, then yes, it will hurt - but I'll do everything I can to make it as easy on you as possible. But if it works, it will be worth the pain," she added - then stopped once again, biting her lip - then shook her head and smiled. "Yes," she said softly. "It will be worth the pain." -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Stories Only Forwarding In the Pattern Buffer at: http//trekiverse.crosswinds.net/feed/ Yahoo! Groups Links To visit your group on the web, go to:http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of Service. From ???@??? Mon Feb 09 00:31:34 2004 Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n40.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.108]) by robin (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1aQ40X5X3NZFjX1 for ; Sun, 8 Feb 2004 21:31:23 -0800 (PST) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-13150-1076304658-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo. oo.com Received: from [66.218.67.195] by n36.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 24 Feb 2004 04:52:45 -0000 X-Sender: stephenbratliffasc@earthlink.net X-Apparently-To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 59079 invoked from network); 24 Feb 2004 04:52:45 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.217) by m2.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 24 Feb 2004 04:52:45 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO swan.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.123) by mta2.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 24 Feb 2004 04:52:45 -0000 Received: from sdn-ap-018dcwashp0230.dialsprint.net ([63.188.176.230]) by swan.mail.pas.earthlink.net with smtp (Exim 3.33 #1) id 1AvUYh-0002ME-00 for ascl@yahoogroups.com; Mon, 23 Feb 2004 20:52:40 -0800 To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Organization: Alt.StarTrek.Creative Virtual Staff Office Message-ID: X-Mailer: Forte Agent 1.92/32.572 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 207.217.120.123 From: ASC-VSO X-Yahoo-Profile: oldmanasc MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCL@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCL@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Mon, 23 Feb 2004 23:53:01 -0500 Subject: [ASC] NEW TNG: "Echoes" P/C, D/f (R) Pt 152/? Reply-To: ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Buy Ink Cartridges or Refill Kits for your HP, Epson, Canon or Lexmark & Cana Printer at MyInks.com. Free s/h on orders $50 or more to the US da. http://www.c1tracking.com/l.asp?cid=5511 http://us.click.yahoo.com/mOAaAA/3exGAA/qnsNAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 23 Feb 2004 04:14:00 -0800 In: alt.startrek.creative From: keeroth@startrek.net (Ke Roth) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 152/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 152 Despite himself, Worf was impressed. He had never thought Ballorians to be much more than adequate Starfleet officers; they were to rigidly attuned to the specifics of rules and regulations to see behind them, to understand the spirit - as opposed to the letter - of the laws that structured Starfleet and the Federation. For the most part, they seemed to have little internal inspiration, doing what was necessary - according to the requirements - but little more, never finding in themselves the personal motivation that marked them in the eyes of their superiors as prime candidates for promotion - or the esprit de corps that would mark in the eyes of their compatriots. And so to find G'Sef, the ship's Ballorian transporter chief, hurriedly dictating notes about the readouts from his transporter console as well as rapidly describing the play of shimmering pink and silver light before him as the Breen began their transport sequence, astonished him - and impressed him. After all, Breen transport cycles had been observed - and documented, albeit sketchily - for the last several decades, but no one had yet been able to reverse engineer the process from those observations; for G'Sef to try - perhaps even presume that he would succeed where no one else had - spoke highly of the alien's faith in his knowledge and abilities, his determination to give the Federation an upper hand in their interactions with the unknown species - and, Worf conceded, of G'Sef's personal drive. He glanced at the captain who was standing beside him before the transporter console, but the man was oblivious to the minor miracle playing out just behind him, his concentration fixed and absolute - though whether it was on the display presenting itself on the transport platform, the potential glories - or disasters - that these negotiation could yield, or whether Picard was desperately concentrating on trying not to notice the red-haired physician standing on his other side, Worf didn't know. Most likely the former two, Worf told himself, reminding himself of the man's dedication to his work, his near absolute denial of a meaningful personal life; he would not allow himself to be distracted by his personal feelings... even, perhaps, he added grimly, when he should. A Klingon warrior could not always fight for the honor of the Empire, he reminded himself; sometimes, he had to fight for some thing more important. For some _one_. There was nothing wrong in having a personal relationship, he admonished the two silently; it enhanced one's life; it gave life a meaning, a depth, a reason, that nothing else, not even glory - not even honor - could replace. And yet you both choose not to even try, he admonished the two senior officers; what honor, what glory, could there be in blind resignation? But the people he knew, the physician and the captain that he had come to know - and respect - would never yield to such resignation, he told himself. Indeed, even now, even as they stood beside each other in the transporter room, each intently focused on the platform, seemingly unaware of the other beside them, they seemed keenly aware of the other's presence, studiously keeping a distance between themselves, bobbing and weaving in unconscious response to one another's accidental approach, one occasionally brushing a dress uniform sleeve against the other's arm, making slight adjustments of position as the faint currents of air carried his cologne to her, and her perfume to him... No, Worf decided, they had not yet abandoned the relationship - for watching them, he found the scene no different from any other time they had met in the transporter room to greet a visiting dignitary; they had always played at this game, bobbing, dancing, their sleeves and scents meeting and mingling, teasing and tormenting one another - but always light-heartedly, joyfully, both silently playing at who would dare to go further before they both had to don their professional personas one more time - and become the Captain and the Doctor once again. Today, however, there was no joy on either face - but neither was there any trace of the pain that had marred both of their expressions in the last few weeks, he conceded - though whether by sheer dint of time and fatigue, or by some mutual consent to try - or not to try - to resolve the situation, Worf didn't know. But the weariness that had blunted their animosity had taken its toll on Picard's perspicacity as well, Worf thought - else he would have noticed the transporter chief's unusual behavior - and complimented the man on it. That the captain was preoccupied didn't absolve the Security chief of that same obligation, however; he leaned toward the Ballorian. "I applaud your efforts, Mr. G'Sef. Although no one to date has been able to reverse engineer the Breen transporter technology, I admire your dedication in attempting to gather sufficient information to make the same attempt." G'Sef smiled at Worf, knowing high praise from a Klingon when he heard it - and shaking his head. "I won't take credit when it's not due me, sir; I may understand these boards better than anyone else on this ship - but I'm no engineer. And that's what it's going to take to solve this riddle - someone who knows transporters and engineering." Worf affixed the Ballorian with a confused look. "Then...?" "I got a shift reading to the Lieutenant this evening," G'Sef replied proudly. The Klingon frowned. "I was not aware that such opportunities existed," he grumbled. "They didn't - until this morning," G'Sef explained. "Apparently Mr. Data had some obligation - and Dr. Crusher started calling some of the people who had volunteered," he said, gesturing with his head at Beverly. "And you were selected?" Worf muttered. The Ballorian shook his head. "No. I wasn't even close to the top of the list - but one of my staff was," he added. "When I heard about it, I offered him two weeks of my shore leave to trade with me." Worf considered. "And he accepted?" he said at last - though the disapproval was evident in his voice. "Grudgingly - but he had used up all his leave just before we left Earth, and has nothing coming when we finally get back home. I'll admit it was a little unfair," G'Sef conceded. "On the contrary," Worf replied, "it is an object lesson in the conservation of resources. Better planning on his part would have given him a stronger position," he concurred - then considered again. "I will offer you three weeks of leave in exchange for your shift with the lieutenant," he countered. G'Sef smiled - then shook his head. "I appreciate the offer - but I have plenty of leave coming. And more importantly, I want to be the one who tells her the specifications of the Breen transport cycle. If that's not the challenge that helps her wake up, then nothing will," he insisted. Worf's expression tightened. "I appreciate your position," he replied respectfully, then added, "Four weeks." G'Sef only grinned. "Mr. Worf," Picard interrupted, bowing his head at the two forms beginning to materialize on the platform. Worf turned, his attention focused on the Breen bodies coalescing - then glanced once more at G'Sef. "Five weeks," he mouthed silently. G'Sef's grin broadened, but he shook his head. Turning his attention to the console before him, he let his fingers fly across the board, then spoke. "Captain, I have confirmation from the Breen ship that their transporters cycle is completed; the Breen ambassadors should be materializing... now," he announced - then looked up to study, for the first time, their enemy. The hardest part of having an enemy, G'Sef knew, was finding out they weren't so different from you. It was easy to hate - and fear - the mysterious beings in the black body armor, with their almost undefeatable weapons, with their unknown technology; it was easy to hate and fear something with a thousand tentacles, or that breathed a nitrogen atmosphere, or that clattered about in a chitinous exoskeleton. It was much harder to automatically hate the two beings standing on the platform before them, both rather human in their appearance - albeit with more planar faces, less hair, and both of unimpressive physical stature - both dressed in rather unimpressive brown and gold uniforms, and each carrying only a small bag that, according to his Security scan, carried padds, a small book, and a few innocuous instruments. Yet they had crippled the ship, G'Sef reminded himself; they had killed some of her crew; they had kidnapped the Captain and the lieutenant - almost killing her in the process, he added bitterly - then stopped himself. They hadn't, he reminded himself sharply; the captain had been explicit about that point in his announcement to the crew about the forthcoming meeting; everything that had happened, every death, every injury, every act of sabotage, had been the doing of their own people, Federation members and Starfleet officers. Whatever supposition, rumor and gossip had claimed about the Breen's involvement was simply that, Picard had reminded them all: supposition, rumor and gossip. These meeting would begin on an assumption of innocence - and with the hope of a peaceful resolution for both races. The announcement had stilled much of the growing disquiet on the ship, G'Sef thought, for above everything else, the crew held to the certain knowledge that their captain would not lie to them. He would, of course, withhold the truth as decorum and politics required, G'Sef reminded himself - but without a focal point for the gossip-mongerers to grab onto, the rumors were varied and scattered, ranging from conspiracy to madness to another invasion by parasitic organisms - and each died a rapid death as other, newer and more interesting events came to pass. Such as the presence of these two, G'Sef reminded himself, noting the readouts from the scanners, hoping that the information they revealed might help the lieutenant to put together some of the other pieces of the puzzle and solve the mystery of the Breen transporters. He started to make a note about their physiology - then stopped, and slowly raised his head. The Breen were still standing on the platform, unmoving - and one of them was looking at him. Staring at him. Smiling. The row of razor sharp teeth glinted white and shiny in the light of the transporter room, eerie and terrifying in the dazzling white sharpness - but there was nothing of malice - or hunger, G'Sef thought - in the expression behind them. Instead there was a peacefulness, a gentleness, that the Ballorian had never thought to find in the eyes of so reputedly brutal an enemy. I'll tell her about this too, he began to think - then felt a soft touch at the back of his mind. _Have faith,_ a voice echoed through his thoughts, soft and reassuring. _Faith and love. These, above all else, are what she needs._ G'Sef stared at the being, captivated by the expression, lost in the comfort and certainty of the being's voiceless words - then blinked and realized that somehow the two were already making their way down from the platform, stepping toward the captain, Dr. Crusher and Cmdr. Worf, the words of greeting already filling the room. He glanced around him, shaking his head to dismiss the sensation - and the memory - instantly chalking up the moment to... fatigue? he wondered. Worry? Imagination? Whatever it was, he had other things to think about now - like realigning the pattern buffers to prevent the Breen for wantonly using their platform without their permission - though, he added, it would stop them from beaming anyone to any other part of the ship if they decided to do so. Maybe there was something in that alignment configuration the Breen ahd provided, he mused to himself, his attention falling from the two visitors and back to the console before him. Jemat smiled to himself - then turned to face Picard. "Captain," he said quietly, extending his hand in the human fashion, "I am pleased to see you. How are you feeling?" he added, an expression of professional concern crossing his face. "_Outo_ Jemat," Picard answered, taking the proffered hand. "It is..." He hesitated - but only slightly, as worry and experience tempered that automatic response. "It is good to see you again," he said after a fraction of a second's pause. Jemat smiled, then turned to his companion. "You are warned, Ferata; the captain's hesitates to speak outside the truth. It is not good that we are meeting again, for it is sorrow and pain that has brought us to this point. But it is good in that this may be a beginning for us all. Perhaps tomorrow he will be able to speak those words without hesitation," he advised the being beside him, then turned back to Picard. "Captain Picard, I am pleased to present Ferata, our representative to your people for these discussions." The second Breen, slightly taller and heavier set than Jemat stepped forward, extended his hand awkwardly and uncertainly - then withdrew it, giving a half bow instead. Picard responded with a half bow of his own - then looked at Jemat, surprised. "Then you will not be at these discussions, _outo_?" he asked. Jemat shook his head. "I am not a diplomat, Captain; I am _outo_ and physician; I am here to see in what ways - if any - my people and our medicine might help to heal Garave. Ferata, on the other hand, is trained in the ways of a diplomat; I would hope that he can heal the wounds between our people as well as I would like to heal Garave's wounds," he said solemnly. Beverly stepped forward. "Garave?" she repeated, confused. Picard turned to her, the explanation on his lips - and his eyes met hers. It was the first time he had looked directly into her eyes since the day of that desperate and terrifying surgery, the first time he had seen her since he had realized the awesome responsibility of her field, of her career, of the life she had chosen for herself. The week had not been kind, he thought; her eye had sunk into the depths of her exquisitely carved cheekbones, lost in darkening circles of fatigue and worry - and loneliness, he knew; the planes of her face had grown stark, haunting, paling from the ivory porcelain clarity to a chilling, chalky grey, her lips colorless, raw from being chewed on as she worried over a patient who was not recovering, who might never recover - and grieved for a friendship she knew was lost forever. A friendship I destroyed, he reminded himself. I'm sorry, he thought to her. There were things I should have told, things you needed to know... No, he stopped himself harshly. Those were only explanations, justifications - excuses - for what I did. And didn't do. I should have told you - but I didn't - and now... Now, he knew with a certainty that tore at the very breath in his lungs, now it was too late. For a moment, a wave of regret washed over him - but this wasn't the time for regret - or for apologies, he reminded himself harshly; he was a starship captain: he had duties to perform, obligations to attend to; this was not the time or the place to give in to his personal problems. There would be time enough for that later. Indeed, there would be the balance of a lifetime he could spend in empty, solitary regret. "Excuse me," he apologized to the Breen. "_Outo_ Jemat, Ambassador Ferata, may I present the ship's Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Beverly Crusher." Beverly stepped forward, offering her hand to each of the Breen - and after a moment's hesitation, receiving theirs in return. "Doctor, I am pleased to meet you," Jemat said, "and I thank you most sincerely for the information you have provided on the lieutenant's condition. In return, I hope that I may be able to assist you in resolving the complications you've encountered." "As do I," she said. "Although the lieutenant is continuing to recover - very slowly - I'm growing concerned about her hands and feet. I've seen some fluctuations in her immune system, and I'm concerned that she may be becoming susceptible to infection. In humans, the epidermal layer is one of the strongest defenses against infection - and while I can keep her hands and feet covered much of the time, they need to be exposed for both dressing changes and range-of-motion therapies. I'm concerned that it's simply a matter of time until infection sets in," she explained. Jemat nodded knowingly. "It is much the same with our people, Doctor," he agreed. "Indeed, if she had remained with us, I would like to think she would have regained the full use of both her hands and feet by this time. But," he sighed regretfully, "what we wish and what comes to be are often far different, are they not, Doctor?" he added, studying her intently as her gaze flickered from him to Picard and back again, his eyes taking in every nuance of her expression as she did so. But whatever hurt she was feeling was held in carefully check, he realized as she spoke. "I'm afraid you're correct. However, I was hoping you would be able to share your techniques us, here aboard the Enterprise, so that we might be able to repair that damage, even now, _outo_," she said, trying out the Breen honorific - and earning a smile in return. "Despite your captain's usage of the term, _outo_ is not a medical title, Doctor," he explained. "I would be pleased if you would simply address me as Jemat." "Of course... Jemat," she replied. "But if _outo_ doesn't mean 'doctor', then what does it mean?" she asked. Jemat considered, then glanced at Ferata, who gave a slight jerk of his head in negation. Jemat sighed, then looked back at Beverly. "I am afraid we do not know your language or your culture well enough to find an accurate translation. Perhaps Garave can assist us - later, of course," he added. Beverly shook her head. "I'm sorry? Garave? That's the second time you've used that word - but I don't know what it means," she confessed. Jemat gave her a confused look. "What it means...?" he said - then looked at Picard. "Captain? You have not told her?" "Told me what?" Beverly pressed. Picard looked at her. "Garave," he said quietly, "is the lieutenant's real name." Jemat made a soft sound. "That would not be entirely correct, Captain; it is her birth name - but she has come to see herself as being 'Andile'," he advised him. "That word is not a name; it's an obscenity," Picard snapped instantly, angrily "As she knows it, yes," Jemat agreed, "but it was not always so. The derivation is from an ancient word..." "Jemat," Picard suddenly interrupted the Breen, the caution - the concern - evident on his voice. The Breen looked at him, surprised at the interruption - and by the sternness in the human's tone. "Captain?" he asked confusedly. Picard hesitated, then spoke. "This is not the... proper venue for this discussion," he explained. "Venue? For discussing Garave...?" Jemat began, puzzled - then stopped abruptly, understanding suddenly registering. _Then... you have not told them? None of them?_ he added, glancing at Beverly then back at Picard in astonishment. _Not who she is? To us - to you? Nothing?!_ he thought, clearly incredulous - then closed his eyes, and Picard felt his own eyes close as the soft touch of the Breen _outo's_ thoughts reached into his own. Picard staggered, the touch in his mind at once familiar and yet startlingly unfamiliar, sending him reeling against the transporter console. He reached out to steady himself - but not before G'Sef rounded the console, his phaser coming out of the holster even as Worf stepped between the human and the Breen, shielding the captain - and as Beverly reached for Picard's arm, steadying him. "Captain?" she said softly, gently - worriedly. "Jean-Luc?" For a moment, the man did nothing, then slowly his eyes opened, focused on her - and he nodded. "I'm fine," he answered in his usual, professional tone - but for a moment his eyes lingered on hers. For an instant, hope flared in both their souls... ... and faded away. Tightening his grasp on the console, Picard turned to Worf. "At ease, Mr. Worf, Mr. G'Sef; Jemat was not trying to harm me. It's simply one of the ways the Breen communicate," he informed the Klingon. Worf glared at the two suspiciously, then back at Picard, who nodded again. Reluctantly, the Klingon gestured to the Ballorian to return to his place, then returned his phaser to its holster - but not without another glare at the Breen. "We are aware that your race is highly telepathic; however, you will restrict your communications to verbal methods while on board this ship," he growled at the two. "Any further exhibitions of such... communications... will be interpreted as an assault - and will be dealt with accordingly." Ferata nodded diplomatically, bowing his head in slow, but dignified acceptance of the dictum. "As you require," he agreed. "I too, apologize," Jemat concurred. "But there are things we must discuss, Captain," he added worriedly, then glanced at Beverly, still holding Picard's arm. "Things we assumed... things that should have been discussed before now," he added, disapproval unmistakable in his voice. Beverly stared at him curiosity and worry filling her eyes. "Jean-Luc?" she asked in a troubled voice. He shook his head, dismissing her concern, then turned to Jemat. "Humans are not the Breen, _outo_," he reminded the being. "Our thoughts, our minds, are our own; there are some topics we prefer not to share, topics that are personally offensive, topics we don't openly discuss." "Offensive?" Ferata interjected. "To whom, Captain? Her? Or you?" Picard stared at the Breen, his jaw tightening at the remark - then felt the gentle pressure on his arm. He looked down, surprised to find Beverly's hand still resting there - then slowly raised his eyes to hers. Sadness, she thought; such sadness, such regret - such shame, she added. "What is it?" she said softly, her voice barely louder than a whisper, inaudible to anyone else in the room. For a moment, she saw the temptation in his eyes, the desire to tell her, the need to break down the barriers he... no, she corrected herself, the barriers they both had spent most of their lives building. But he was not a man who yielded to temptation - no matter how desperately he might wish to - and even as she watched, the hope in his eyes faded away. He looked down, gently lifting her hand from his sleeve, then released it, letting it drop away - then looked at Jemat and Ferata. "Perhaps we can continue this conversation in the conference room, gentlemen," he said - then turned to Beverly. "I'll have Jemat escorted to Sickbay as soon as we're finished, Doctor," he began - only to see her mouth drop in outraged astonishment. We're in this position because you can't let me into your life, she raged at him silently - and now you're going to leave me out - again! Not this time! she seethed. I'm not going to let you block me out this time! "Captain," she growled through gritted teeth, "if this... 'discussion'... has anything to do with my patient's health, I demand to be present." Jemat turned to her. "And I insist upon it, Doctor," he agreed. Picard glared the two, his anger suddenly flaring - then felt it damped down, pushed back in part by his own efforts - and, in part by Jemat's. Despite Jemat's promise to Worf, Picard felt the words, gentle and calming, touching his mind. _You can not continue like this, Captain. Your pride, your vanity, your doubt - it will destroy you... and her... and perhaps, in the end, destroy us all._ Picard stared at the man, the vestiges of rage still glowing in his heart - then gave a reluctant nod. "Worf, please inform your Security team that the visit to Sickbay will be delayed... briefly," he added pointedly. Jemat gave a tolerant, toothy smile, deigning not to argue with the man - though Beverly could see in his expression the same look she had seen in her own frequently enough when dealing with the recalcitrant captain: regardless of the captain's words, the final decision was going to be his. And she realized as he turned to add her to his intense gaze, hers as well. I think we're going to get along splendidly, she thought to herself. _As do I_, Jemat replied wordlessly. Her eyes widened at the unaccustomed touch in her thoughts - and then she gave a slight bow of her head to the Breen. He nodded back - then proffered a crooked arm. "Doctor?" he said. She slid her hand into his arm, taking it as though they were old friends. "My name is Beverly," she replied quietly. Jemat smiled. "Beverly," he replied - then glanced at Picard. "If you are ready, Captain?" Picard stared at the two, gave a resigned sigh, then led the group from the transporter room. -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Stories Only Forwarding In the Pattern Buffer at: http//trekiverse.crosswinds.net/feed/ ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek .creative or directly to the author. Yahoo! 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Fri Feb 27 20:30:39 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n10.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.65]) by mamo.mail.pas.earthlink.net (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1aWTfe47a3NZFk70 for ; Fri, 27 Feb 2004 17:26:19 -0800 (PST) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-13230-1077931579-stephenbratliffasc=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yah oo.com Received: from [66.218.67.194] by n33.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 13 Mar 2004 01:07:05 -0000 X-Sender: stephen@trekiverse.org X-Apparently-To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 89517 invoked from network); 13 Mar 2004 01:07:04 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.166) by m12.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 13 Mar 2004 01:07:04 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO grouse.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.116) by mta5.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 13 Mar 2004 01:07:04 -0000 Received: from sdn-ap-014dcwashp0395.dialsprint.net ([63.188.137.141]) by grouse.mail.pas.earthlink.net with smtp (Exim 3.33 #1) id 1B1xcB-0007lF-00 for ascl@yahoogroups.com; Fri, 12 Mar 2004 17:06:59 -0800 To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Organization: Alt.StarTrek.Creative Virtual Staff Office Message-ID: X-Mailer: Forte Agent 1.92/32.572 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 207.217.120.116 X-eGroups-From: Stephen Ratliff From: Stephen Ratliff X-Yahoo-Profile: oldmanasc MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCL@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCL@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Fri, 12 Mar 2004 20:06:56 -0500 Subject: [ASC] REP: TNG: Echoes P/C, D/f (R) Pt 151 Reply-To: ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Buy Ink Cartridges or Refill Kits for your HP, Epson, Canon or Lexmark & Cana Printer at MyInks.com. Free s/h on orders $50 or more to the US da. http://www.c1tracking.com/l.asp?cid=5511 http://us.click.yahoo.com/mOAaAA/3exGAA/qnsNAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 12 Mar 2004 15:08:59 -0800 In: alt.startrek.creative From: keeroth@startrek.net (Ke Roth) Reposted for Dee Ess 57 Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 151/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 151 "I must admit I am concerned," Data said as he put the padd aside. "We have been searching out the system monitors for eight days, now - and to date, we have removed fifty-four of the devices. Even so, we have been unable to reinstate the ship's recorder system, indicating there are additional monitoring devices as yet undiscovered. "This troubles me, Ginger," he told Andile from his place beside her bed, where he had spent almost every free hour since the accident, watching her face intently as he spoke - though he knew there would be no reaction to his words, to his concerns, to the troubles he lay upon her brow. There might never be a response, he knew - and yet, somehow he felt better speaking to her - not because she could hear him, he knew - but because one day she would awaken, and he knew she would never forgive him if he had not told her everything that was happening in the ship. And everything that was happening in his heart. "I do not believe Cmdr. James was capable of placing so many devices on board the ship in the brief time she was here, even with the relative degree of freedom she had while we were at Utopia Planitia - nor would there have been any reason to place them in as many locations as she did. Indeed, the majority of the devices have been placed so covertly as to suggest that no one was aware of their presence - except the one or ones responsible for their implantation. But if she was not responsible, then who? - and if the intent was not just to monitor the events on the ship during this mission, then why?" He shook his head and gave one of his perfect, practiced sighs. She would not approve the feeble attempt, he knew - and so he drew another breath, and let it out again, a little less evenly this time, a little more raggedly - and so much more humanly. "I am practicing," he told her gently. "I am trying to accept the feelings, Andile, to live with them - but it is very difficult. The feelings - _my_ feelings - are much harder to control than the ones the chip generates; they feel... different, as though they were the ones that were artificial - while the ones that I know come from the chip still feel 'real' to me. I know this is simply a matter of adaptation; that in time, as I experience these genuine emotions more and more, I will learn to accept them as being real. But it is difficult, Ginger," he confessed, leaning close to her ear, whispering softly. "There are days I do not believe I can bear it... alone. "There are days, Ginger, when I believe I can bear nothing... alone," he told her softly. "Come back to me, Ginger. I miss your wisdom; I miss your insight. I miss you." He bent his head into her shoulder, feeling the thick, oily tear slide from his eye to his cheek, then drop heavily onto her bare shoulder. He raised his head slightly, watching as the tear traced a viscous path to the bed below her - then he placed a finger on the damp spot, gently rubbing the tear away - then lowered his head, kissing the spot tenderly. A tiny shudder vibrated in the woman as her body responded to the change from warm wetness to the room's cooler air - and in an almost equally automatic response, Data took one of the blankets that stood neatly stacked near the biobed and carefully draped it over Andile's shoulders and arm, sheltering them against the chill that seemed to be the only thing that penetrated her inactive mind. "Ah, my little one is cold again," a deep voice boomed behind Data, a giant hand clapping him roughly on the shoulder. "Do not worry. I will take you home to Romulus, my little _baj_, to my house on the desert plains - and there, you will bake in the heat of the sun, until you are warm to the heart of your bones!" Tiron roared as he looked down at the tiny woman. "Not until she has been to Cardassia first," Zumell countered softly, pushing her way out from behind the giant Romulan. "Ignore him, my little one; I will take you to my home on Cardassia first, and there I will cook for you until you are well and healthy. You have not enjoyed life until you have tasted home-made _vis ha ji_." She glared up at the massive Romulan. "Warmth will do those bones no good until she puts some meat on them first!" she insisted to him. "And who will put meat on _your_ bones, old woman?" Tiron laughed back playfully. "No, you will both come to my home - and there, you will sit in the sun and _I_ will feed you until you are both big and plump and warm and content as old women and beautiful young girls should be!" He leaned forward, smiling down at Andile. "Wouldn't you like that, my little one? A nice long vacation on a warm, warm planet, with your _patchni_ ready to grant you your every wish?" He glanced back at Data, then added, in a not-too-subtle whisper, "Or perhaps not every wish, my little _baj_ who is not so little? Perhaps there are some wishes only this young _tu'j_ can satisfy - yes?" Tiron straightened turned to Data and gave him another powerful clap on the shoulder - but let the hand rest there after the thunderous blow. "You will come with us, Mr. Data? Back to Romulus, so that the little one can recuperate among the ones who love her - and who she loves?" he asked. Data hesitated. "I am not certain whether Federation citizens would be welcome on Romulus, Mr. Ambassador..." "Nonsense!" Tiron replied. "Allegiance and fidelity to one's people is very important on Romulus - but money has any equally loud voice - and I am very powerful, Mr. Data - and very wealthy. If need be, I will adopt you both, make you both my heirs - and thus citizens, and you can walk about as free citizens." "Andile can not yet walk, Ambassador," Data reminded him. Tiron met his eyes, then patted his shoulder once more, gently this time. "She will, Mr. Data; she will. We must have faith - and patience - and courage." "And love," Zumell added. "But you have that in plenty," she said softly, pushing past the two men to take her place next to the bed. "Good morning, my little one," she said softly. "I hope you slept well. I have a new book for you - one of mine, this time. Stories from my world. Better stories than you learned when you were there," she added sadly, then patted her arm and looked at Tiron. "We should be going, Ambassador," she reminded him. "The little one starts her therapy in a few minutes - and we should not deprive Mr. Data of his time with her. We will have ours later," she reminded him, then stepped away from the bed. Data turned to follow the two to the door. "I wish to thank you both for your attendance on Andile - but she would not wish you to forsake your ambassadorial duties for her sake..." "Mr. Data, our duties mean nothing if there is not a person at the heart of them - and in our little one, we remember that heart, that person every day," Zumell said. "And..." "And your captain is busy with the Breen today," Tiron added, grinning. "Yes," Data murmured, as though he had forgotten the arrival of the Breen ambassador - as though he could forget anything... even those things he wished he would forget. "We have postponed the day's meetings until tomorrow so that he can fulfill his other duties - and so that we can rest. Your captain is a fine negotiator," Tiron added, a hint of disappointment in his words. "Had we known he would so admirably represent his people, we might well have opted to postpone the meeting until someone less competent could be found." Zumell gave the huge Romulan a contemptuous look, added a ineffectual slap at his round belly, then shook her head as she turned back to Data. "Never mind you him; your captain is a worthy delegate. If he has his way, we might all find peace yet," she said. "Come, Mr. Ambassador," she added, pulling at his arm - then smiled at Data. "We are going to your Ten Forward for our morning meal," she told him. "And then for a walk in your arboretum," Tiron said - then took Zumell's arm - and gave Data a wink. For a moment, the android stared at the departing couple in unmitigated astonishment - then turned back to Andile. "Ginger... I believe... I believe that Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell might be at risk of damaging their objectivity. Indeed, they may even be acting in collusion in the current negotiations," he said worriedly. "They're not conspiring, Data," Beverly interjected as she entered Andile's room. "I beg your pardon?" "They're not conspiring," she repeated, "they're... enjoying themselves. They're learning about one another - and about their respective worlds. Losing their objectivity? Yes, perhaps - but in an enlightening way. But collusion? I don't think so. If nothing else, they're not being very subtle about their friendship. I don't think there's a member of the crew who hasn't seen them together." "I had not," he reminded her. "Because you've been spending all your time here, Data," she reminded him, then turned, drawing one of the bedside table next to the bed and placing a blue wrapped package on the stand. "And if someone's to blame for that, Data, it would be Biji here; Tiron and Zumell both offered to take a turn reading to her - and since they both had time only after the day's negotiations, they ended up coming down at the same time, taking turns reading to her - then leaving together." She smiled down at the unmoving body as she began to unwrap the package. "Still trying to bring people together, even while you're asleep, eh, Lieutenant?" she asked. There was no response from the body, nor from the android beside it. Instead, Data's attention was focused on the package. "Doctor? Is that not a dressing change kit?" he asked worriedly. "You've seen enough of them to know that it is, Data," she replied, glancing back at him before continuing to unwrap the package. "You know, if Biji were awake, she'd tell you that dancing around the question you really want to ask can be somewhat annoying. If there's something you want to know, then just ask," she instructed him. Data pursed his lips, cocked his head - and considered. "It was not my intention to be annoying, Doctor," he said. She forced a pleasant smile to her lips, not willing to tell him that the slight whine in his tone was, on occasion, equally annoying. "Data, if and when you ever have children, you'll learn to distinguish between what they do and who they are. You are not annoying; your behavior, on the other hand, can be. On occasion," she added diplomatically as she slid a pad beneath Andile's left arm and hand, then turned on the sterile field. Pulling out a pair of gloves from the kit, she slid them over her hands before looking at the android again. "Rather than dancing around the topic, Data, why don't you just ask me?" Data thought over the idea, then gave a single nod. "Perhaps you are correct. Andile was always forthright - and she did seem to reach the heart of a topic most expeditiously." "Indeed," Beverly murmured. A nice way to phrase it, she thought to herself, although the rest of your friends would generously call it 'audacious' - and everyone else would call it out-right rudeness. But Data was right - Biji did get to the heart of things - and, she added, remembering the slightly dark stain of a tear on Data's cheek, to more than a few hearts as well. And now that you've reached those hearts, Beverly thought to the woman, we can't let them be broken; one broken heart per starship ought to be the limit, she proclaimed, taking a small device from the kit and behind to neatly cut open the bandages on Andile's hand. Data considered silently as Beverly peeled away the soiled bandage. "Then allow me to be somewhat more forthright, Doctor," he announced a moment later: Andile's dressing changes are performed in the evening, after the conclusion of her physical therapy; that you are performing them now suggests that something untoward is happening. I would like to know what is the nature of that event," he said - rather formally, Beverly noted. "I am changing her bandages," Beverly replied as she deftly removed the silver metallic wrapper from the still raw flesh and began to carefully examine the tissue, "because the Breen physician - Jemat - has asked if he may examine her - and the Captain has granted him permission to do so - as part of the initial talks between the Breen and the Federation." "The Breen physician?" Data repeated warily. Beverly nodded, her attention locked on her task. "The Captain has indicated that this Jemat directed the surgery that restored the infrastructure layers to Andile's hands and feet on the Breen vessel. If that's so, then it's possible he will be able to complete the reconfiguration of the outer epidermal layers again - something that I can not do," she added. She looked at Data. "At best, Data, I could give her a epidermal layer not unlike yours - but I have no way to restore nerve systems, especially at the concentration levels that humans hands have. Based on what I've seen on Andile's hands, the Breen do have the ability to do so - and if Andile's to regain her sense of touch, we're going to have to investigate every possibility. And..." She drew a deep breath. "'And' what, Doctor?" Data prompted. "Data, if they can restore the fine musculature and vasculature of her hands, then they must also have the knowledge that would let me do the same for the right side of her chest. Rebuild that - and we can reattach her arm," she added enthusiastically. "That would not correct the damage to her brain - or free her from the external oxygenator," he reminded her. "Data," Beverly sighed, wondering if the android's pessimism was born of the same fatigue that had been wearing at her, "every day means another chance to find a solution. You just have to have a little faith that someone, somewhere, is going to look at the problem - and help find a solution. By the time we get back to Earth, who knows what we'll find? Maybe someone will find a way to overcome her autoantibodies - and I can clone new lungs for her. Maybe someone will have discovered a way to oxygenated the blood efficiently - and using a smaller unit. Maybe... maybe many things, Data," she sighed. "There are many 'maybes' within your statement, Doctor," Data replied. "Indeed, there are far too many 'maybes' for me to feel sanguine about Andile's long-term rehabilitation," he added. "Then don't rely on 'maybes', Data; go look for your own answers," she countered. He looked at her, then cocked his head to one side - and fell silent. Beverly glanced at him - then turned her attention back to Andile's hand. She hadn't been exaggerating in her appraisal of the Breen's work; the musculature and vasculature they had created for her was far beyond the technology of anything the Federation had, incredibly fine and detailed. Add skin and nerves to it, she thought, add a few months of physical therapy - and she would have her hand - maybe even both hands - back. And no scars, she added, noting that the Breen had excised the thick white tissue that had encircled her wrist. That would have been necessary, she told herself; the old and thick scars would have hampered the blood flow to her hands and imperiled the recovery of the extremities. And possibly imperiled the recovery of the woman as well, she added, knowing that the scars were somehow linked to the tragic loss of the child... Varel, she thought, reminding herself of the child's name, her heart surging with grief for the girl - and for Andile. She looked at Andile's face, aching for the woman - then stopped. Something was different, she thought; something was... wrong. She glanced at the bandage change kit, wondering if something had fallen to the floor, or rolled from the sterile field - but everything was where it was supposed to be. She looked at Andile, studying her face, searching out some change - some slight movement of her eyes, her mouth, perhaps? But saw nothing different there, either. For moment she tried to convince herself it was nothing more than her imagination - but her years of medical experience kept insisting something had changed. A machine, maybe? She wondered, glancing at the various displays, looking for something out of place. Her blood pressure was elevated fractionally, she noted - though there was nothing terribly abnormal in that; a person - even an unconscious person - underwent changes in blood pressure throughout the day. Her oxygen saturation levels were normal, her temperature was slightly elevated - but still within normal range, and her respirations were steady at fourteen point one per minute. She looked back at Andile, staring at her in confusion, knowing something was different, but unable to put her finger on it... Fourteen point one, Beverly thought with a frown, suspecting the slight aberration was the cause of her unease. It should be exactly fourteen, she knew; indeed, she had set the level when she had implanted the pacemaker in Andile's diaphragm, beginning the process that would, in time, allow the woman to breath for herself. Even if she only had half a lung in which to draw air, Beverly added. But half a lung still meant regaining the ability to speak, something the ECMO would never grant her, she reminded herself. Breathing, Beverly thought with a sorrowful smile; speaking. How I dream, she thought solemnly, knowing full well there was little chance that Andile would ever be capable of doing either again. She reached for the machine, about to reset the level - and watched as an erratic spike flashed across the monitor. She stared at the woman for a moment - then spoke softly. "Data?" The android stirred himself. "Yes, Doctor?" "I think she's trying to breathe." He stared at the physician for a moment - then looked at Andile. "Perhaps an involuntary spasm of the diaphragm," he countered. "She was subject to them..." "At first; immediately after the pacemaker was implanted," Beverly agreed. "But that was a week ago! Ever since, the machine has regulated the contraction of the diaphragm with perfect regularity." "Perhaps the levels was reset accidentally..." "I checked it before I went off duty last night, Data - and you've been with her ever since. Did _you_ change it? Did anyone else change it?" "I would not alter the settings on the equipment used to regulate Andile's condition, Doctor," he replied, in as close to a hurt tone as his android persona would permit, "and neither of her night attendants altered any of the machine settings." "And yet it has changed," she pointed out. "I think she's trying to breathe - or rather, her body's trying to breathe," she conceded. "I don't think it's a conscious action. But..." She hesitated, then faced Data, smiling. "I think it's a positive sign, Data; her brain is beginning to exert control over her autonomous functions." "And her attempt to breathe...?" "Without her normal lung capacity, she's probably feeling as though she's fighting for air - even though her blood and tissues are showing excellent perfusion levels." Beverly gave a soft sigh. "You wouldn't understand the sensation, Data, of fighting for air - but it can be terrifying, even traumatic - as if you're drowning." "But such a feeling would be a conscious reaction," Data pointed out, "and she is not conscious. Furthermore, you indicated her oxygenation levels are adequate." "They are - but the functions of inhalation and exhalation aren't controlled strictly by oxygenation levels. The pH balance may have been off for a moment, her metabolism might be spiking as she goes through a phase of regeneration - I could give you half a dozen reasons why her body might be trying to make her take an extra breath - but they all boil down to the basic fact that her body needs an extra inhalation - but the pacemaker prevents that. "It's preset to initiate inhalations at the preprogrammed rate," Beverly explained, "but it's not permitting the body to exert any control in response to those changes. That's a good sign - she's trying to re-establish autonomic control - but for now, I can't remove the pacemaker. Her body is just too weak to maintain control of the diaphragm. What I can do is to reset the pacemaker, allowing her body to, in effect, override the setting when she feels the need for an additional inhalation." She smiled at the android again. "It's a good sign, Data," she said softly. "The best one yet. But," she added cautiously, "it's only one sign. It's no guarantee that she'll recover further, that she'll ever be able to come out of her current state - and I think that we both need to keep that thought firmly in mind," she added firmly. Data looked at her curiously. "I am confused, Doctor," he admitted - though there seemed to be no hint of confusion in his expression. "Confused? About what?" Beverly replied. "You said that I should have faith - that a stranger, who has never met Andile and has no idea of her needs - or my need for her - would provide her with the appropriate technology to help her recover the abilities she once had - and yet I should not place that same faith in her? That I, knowing what her capabilities are, knowing of her ability to heal, to recover, to overcome odds that would daunt almost any other being, should believe less in her than in someone I have never met? That I should have faith in someone I do not know - but not in the ones I do?" he asked. Beverly looked at him for a long time - then down at her patient. He doesn't understand, she thought to herself - and to the silent woman lying on the bed. He doesn't understand what you've been through, the pain you've faced... he doesn't understand that sometimes you just can bear to face the hurt, even just once more. Even for him. Especially for him. She looked up, studying the android - and saw the hope their, the faith - the need, she realized, to make right what had gone so terribly wrong. But correcting that mistake - any mistake, she added, would take faith... and hope, and long hard work on his part. On both their parts, she added. It's going to be a long road, Biji, she thought silently to the woman - but he's worth it; you're both worth it. We all are. "I stand corrected, Data," she said softly. "Perhaps the faith we really need is in ourselves - and in those we know best. Maybe... maybe it's just somehow easier to believe in those we don't know than those we do," she added. He nodded. "I understand, Doctor. Sometimes fear - of repeating failure, of being hurt, of hurting those we love, even unwillingly, unintentionally, scares us away from doing what we know in our hearts and in our minds to be the correct course of action," he said, then looked at Andile for a moment, studying her expressionless face. "But I am willing to take that risk," he told her, told them both. He watched the motionless face for a moment, a newfound determination shining bright from his golden eyes - then looked at Beverly once again. "Doctor, you had indicated that you knew of others who would be interested in reading to Andile - that is, aside from Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell? To provide additional mental stimulation throughout the day?" he asked. "Know of others?" she echoed lightly, smiling at him. "Data, there are so many who want to help Biji that I've had to make a waiting list!" she replied, almost laughingly - though telling the nearly countless volunteers that Andile's free time was already spoken for had been anything but a laughing matter - or rather, it hadn't been until she had explained that it was Data who was occupying Andile's resting hours, she added. "Perhaps, then, you could make arrangements for one or more of them to spend time with Andile during at least part of the next few evenings?" he asked. Beverly gave him a curious, and slightly disappointed look - then nodded reluctantly. "Of course. I'm sure there will be no problem, but... why?" she asked, wondering if her faith in him... in everyone... had been misplaced. "Aren't you going to be here tonight?" she asked disappointedly. "I shall - but there is something I must do first," he said. "If you could make arrangements for someone to be with her until the end of beta shift?" he asked hopefully. "Of course," she replied, then watched as he leaned over her body, placing a gentle kiss on Andile's forehead, then carefully removing an errant strand of raven hair from her face before neatly tucking the blanket under her bandaged shoulder. "Do not let her become chilled," he cautioned Beverly, then turned on his heel and left the room. Beverly watched the android leaved, then sighed, and looked down at Andile. "He loves you, you know," she said softly. "Whatever happened between you, he still loves you - and I think he'd do anything for you. Give him a chance, Andile; don't give up - on him - or on yourself. Love - real love, that kind that endures - the kind he feels for you - is so rare, so precious - don't throw it away. Don't let go. Let him try to make it right - for the both of you." The sound of a communicator chirping interrupted her litany of sage advice to the somnolent woman. "Picard to Crusher," came the captain's voice, gruff and formal with command. To her surprise, the sound of his voice, terse at it was, sent a shiver through her soul. Don't be stupid, she chided herself; that's all done with... isn't it? Do I want it to be? Do I want to give up on him, on me, on us? She looked at the unconscious woman in question - then tapped her commbadge. "Crusher here," she replied softly. There was a moment of hesitation before he spoke again - and for that moment, Beverly wondered if he, too, was aching at the sound of her voice. Nonsense, she insisted; he's probably just preoccupied with his duties. And yet the voice that came back was softer, gentler. "Jemat and the Breen ambassador will be arriving shortly. Transporter room three," he added. "I'll be there," she replied, tapped her badge again to break the connection, then looked at Andile - and gave a rueful laugh. "I know, I know," she sighed. "I'm just setting myself up for another disappointment, another bruising. I loved Jack - and he died; I loved Wesley - and he's gone. I... I love Jean-Luc," she finished softly. "I don't want to lose him, too. "But then," she added softly, "I've never really had him to lose, have I?" she asked the unmoving form - then sighed. "In a way, I'm jealous of you and Data. For everything that went wrong, the two of you at least tried. We never have. Maybe that was just wise precaution on both our parts." "Or complete cowardice," she added after a moment's thought. "Or both," she conceded. She attended to the dressing, neatly removing the last of the old bandage before examining the raw tissue, carefully cleaning the flesh, then neatly re-bandaging it. Piling the used materials into the wrapper, she rolled it up, peeled off the gloves, dropping the whole mess into a disposer unit, watching the faint blue flash as it turned into aseptic ash, then touched the control that turned off the sterile field. "There," she said with an air of finality and satisfaction. "You're all ready for the Breen. Don't worry; I won't let them hurt you," she began - then stopped. "No, Beej, that's not true; if they can repair your hand, help me rebuild your shoulder and reattach your arm, then yes, it will hurt - but I'll do everything I can to make it as easy on you as possible. But if it works, it will be worth the pain," she added - then stopped once again, biting her lip - then shook her head and smiled. "Yes," she said softly. "It will be worth the pain." -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Awards Tech Support http://www.trekiverse.us/ASCAwards/commenting/ No Tribbles were harmed in the running of these Awards ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek .creative or directly to the author. Yahoo! Groups Links To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sun Mar 14 06:37:33 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n35.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.103]) by killdeer (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1b2rZg1mI3NZFlr1 for ; Sun, 14 Mar 2004 01:32:50 -0800 (PST) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-13298-1079256767-stephenbratliffasc=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yah oo.com Received: from [66.218.67.192] by n11.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 28 Mar 2004 21:54:13 -0000 X-Sender: stephen@trekiverse.org X-Apparently-To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 14014 invoked from network); 28 Mar 2004 21:54:12 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.217) by m10.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 28 Mar 2004 21:54:12 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO cardinal.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.121.226) by mta2.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 28 Mar 2004 21:54:12 -0000 Received: from sdn-ap-040dcwashp0149.dialsprint.net ([207.9.248.149]) by cardinal.mail.pas.earthlink.net with smtp (Exim 3.33 #1) id 1B7iDr-0004KN-00 for ascl@yahoogroups.com; Sun, 28 Mar 2004 13:53:40 -0800 To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Organization: Alt.StarTrek.Creative Virtual Staff Office Message-ID: X-Mailer: Forte Agent 1.92/32.572 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 207.217.121.226 X-eGroups-From: Stephen From: Stephen X-Yahoo-Profile: oldmanasc MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCL@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCL@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 28 Mar 2004 16:53:34 -0500 Subject: [ASC] NEW TNG: "Echoes" P/C, D/f (R) Pt 153/? Reply-To: ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 28 Mar 2004 06:47:05 -0800 In: alt.startrek.creative From: keeroth@startrek.net (Ke Roth) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 153/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 153 Ideally, Picard thought as they entered the conference room, ideally, this meeting would be taking place in one of the larger conference rooms that lined the exterior edge of the ship, the floor-to-ceiling windows exhibiting the glorious expanse of stars beyond to all who entered the room - and, Picard knew, subtly and simultaneously reminding them of the technological prowess possessed by the Federation in being able to create and build a ship that could allow such a display. Of course, they would also be facing on to the view of the Breen ship, with its graceful web of tendrils enveloping the vessel - a reminder of the technology that the Federation was confronting - and, Picard added, a reminder of the fact that they had yet to understand, let alone to best, that same technology. But it wasn't the subtle one-upsmanship that had determined the location of this meeting; that had been Worf's doing, choosing this smaller - and more secluded - room because of pragmatic concerns rather than psychological ones: here, deep in the bowels of the ship, the Breen would have a far more difficult time trying to beam in a boarding party; here, a hidden bomb carried by one of the Breen delegates could do less damage to the critical systems of the Enterprise - or to Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell; and, Picard knew, here, he could assign guards to patrol both the horizontally and vertically adjacent areas, protecting the Breen themselves from any attacks by outraged crewmembers - just as he had lined every passage between the transporter room and the conference room with Security officers. Perhaps 'lined' was not the correct term, Picard amended his thoughts; while there were an ample number of guards positioned through the halls, they were discreetly positioned - and while they were armed, their weapons were in their holsters, readily accessible - but not out in the open, not held at the ready. Still, the presence of the guards stationed in the hall had an oppressive effect on the four; they separated, moving in single file, silently trooping through the passage, then into the small room, each finding a place at the small table and took their positions. Or rather, Picard realized, they all sat down - except for Jemat. Instead, the Breen stood at one side of the square table, studying the two humans - then gave a soft sigh in preparation of starting the discussion. But before he could speak, however, Picard began, suspecting he knew all too well the direction the _outo_ intended for this discussion - and not willing to go down that path without a fight - or at least without letting his disapproval - and his objections - be known. "Jemat, I do not believe this is the proper venue for these discussions. Your ambassador - and you - were invited aboard with the express purpose of an initial discussion that would, I hope, lead to peaceful negotiations between our races. To depart from that purpose..." "Captain," Jemat interrupted sharply, every trace of the kindheartedness that had marked his arrival gone, "you misunderstand. If Garave dies, there will be no negotiations." Picard and Beverly gaped at the alien. "But..." they each began, only to be cut off once again. "Indeed, if she dies," Jemat continued, "it is very possible that our two civilizations will find themselves at war with one another - and this time, we will not back down. Now, if you feel that your ego, your possible embarrassment at your own actions are more important than the survival of two cultures, then so be it. We will end this conversation here and now - and Garave will die. And then both of our races will follow her. So which is it to be?" he asked finally. He watched as the two humans glanced across the table at one another, Beverly's eyes filling with confusion and concern as she saw Picard's fill with rage and defiance - then watched as the emotions faded and pragmatism - and duty - replaced them. "Proceed," Picard said at last - though the undercurrent of resentment was impossible to miss. "Then..." Jemat started - and stopped, looking at Beverly, seated across the table from Picard. Not next to him, Jemat thought quietly, nor beside him, as she had appeared in so many of the man's memories - and in his thoughts. In his mind, she was his equal, his companion, his compatriot, his confidant - but across from him, as far distant as he could place her, across from him, as though she was his opponent, rather than his dearest intimate. I am sorry, he told her - told them both - silently. Had I known... But I did know, he reminded himself; I knew what humans were, how they acted - and didn't act; I knew them from what we have learned as scientists - and I knew you from what I had learned from your thoughts, he added, looking at Picard. And yet I saw in you so much that was Breen, so much that reminded me of my people that I committed the greatest crime a researcher can commit: I assumed. I assumed that since you had some of our attributes, that you were as we were, after all Breen: that you would think as we do, reason as we do - and act as we do. But you are not Breen: you are human - and even among that race, you are unique. Something we never truly are - and something, perhaps, that we will never truly understand. I erred - and perhaps we will all pay the price. Or perhaps not, he added, hope flaring in his soul. "Then I will digress, for a moment," Jemat continued, "so that we might bring the good doctor here up to the same level of understanding that we three have - of the Breen race - and the Breen culture," he said, looking at Ferata and Picard. "Jemat, that isn't necessary..." Beverly protested. "On the contrary, Doctor, it is. Your patient's survival, and my patient's recovery," he added, looking at Picard for a moment before turning back to her, "are contingent on you understanding what has happened - and what must happen." Whether it was the reminder that Jemat still saw him as a patient - a role he was loathe to play even in her Sickbay - or whether it was the reminder that something - an indiscretion or perhaps private revelation was about to made public - Beverly heard Picard draw in a sharp, disapproving breath, and glancing at him, saw the muscles of his jaw tightening. No, she thought; whatever happened to him, whatever has or has not happened between us, I will not them humiliate him. "No," she said firmly. "If there is something you need to tell me, then we can do so later, in private and in professional confidence, as physician to physician," she said firmly. "Whatever your ethics may be, mine prevent the embarrassment or humiliation of a patient..." "Doctor," Jemat interrupted, "Garave's survival depends on your understanding of what has happened." She hesitated, the needs of her patients - both of them - fighting for pre-eminence in her mind - then shook her head. "No. The captain is as much my patient as Andile is; I can not violate my duty to him - even to save her." "Beverly," Picard interrupted, turning to her, their eyes meeting - and nodded. "It's all right," he assured her. She looked at him uncertainly - but there was an expression of certain reassurance in his expression. Or rather, she thought, a very uncertain reassurance - but with a determination that was unquestionable. Whatever Jemat was about to say, whatever humiliation he was about to reveal, he could take it. Still, Beverly hesitated... "It's all right, Beverly," Picard repeated - and reached across the table, placing his hand gently over hers. "It will be all right." She studied him for a long moment, knowing that the confidence in his words was not mirrored in his heart - but knowing that his own devotion to duty overrode everything in his heart - even personal humiliation. And knowing, she realized with a start, that despite everything that had happened, he trusted her. For a moment, she stared at him in stunned amazement - then upturned her hand, accepting the gentle touch, feeling him squeeze her hand in response - then broke the grasp and turned to Jemat. "Go ahead, _outo_," she said after a moment. Jemat nodded - but before he spoke, he paced for a moment, as though collecting his thoughts - then stopped and turned to face Beverly. "From the moment a Breen is aware, Doctor," he said quietly, "from the moment we are cognizant of our selves as individual, sentient beings, we begin preparing ourselves for death." He must have seen the shock in her expression, for he quickly took a seat at the table beside her. "Oh, do not misunderstand what I am saying; we Breen do not crave death; we do not actively seek a rapid end to our lives, searching out and ending in some blaze of glory or self-sacrifice; we are, in many ways, no different from you. Though we each have our own motivations and goals, in general, we all would like a long, full life, rich in the pleasures of our existence - and full to the extent a long life can grant. "But unlike you humans, indeed, unlike most species, when our lives are over, our lives are over." Beverly shook her head. "That's no different from any other species, Jemat; death is the end of all our existences," she countered. "No," he protested. "In your species, life continues - in the form of children. You share not only your culture and beliefs with your offspring, but the blending of both parents' genetic heritage as well. And that, Doctor, is a gift we can not give our children," he said with a sad finality. "But your society has survived - even thrived - without that," she reminded him. "Yes, we have - because we have learned that while we can not pass on the fullness of a more diverse genetic heritage, we can pass on the learning that each of us, as individuals, have accumulated - and not just for our own budlings," he informed her, informed them both. "You see, as telepaths, we have..." He searched for a word, then continued, "... 'access' to the thoughts of those within our society. However, every society requires a degree of privacy in order to function, to maintain a sense of self - and so, we do not freely share every thought, every idea, every experience, with one another. And yet, accumulated over the span of our lives - which average three hundred of your years - those experiences - and the learning and wisdom borne of those experiences - are a wealth of information; information we can pass on to the next generation. And at the moment of our deaths, we do just that - we impart a full lifespan of education, experience, wisdom - everything that made us the creatures we were - into the fullness of the entire Breen society." "That sounds very much like the Vulcans and their preservation of the katra," Beverly remarked. Jemat smiled. "You'll forgive my saying so, Doctor, but for the Vulcans, the preservation of the katra is a frivolity, an emotional sop for a race that refuses to accept their emotions - and yet can not fully accept the emotional of corporeal death. They die - and what they were dies with them. Unable to accept that finality, unable to yield to the grief that fills them yet that they deny themselves, they put away the essence of their being - their katra... and do what with it? Haul it out in remembrance or on holidays? Ignore it?" he said disparagingly. "It is their repository of knowledge," Picard protested. "Only of some knowledge," Jemat corrected him. "After all, less than one percent of Vulcans participate in the ceremony. Indeed, only a few prepare themselves for the transfer - and even when they do, when death comes, too often they find themselves either alone, or with a being who can not carry the katra back to the Hall of Thoughts, or in places where such a transference can not take place. These days, most Vulcans lease their knowledge and wisdom to the next generations through writing, teaching - and genetics. The Hall of Thought is used less and less as a repository of knowledge - and more as a Hall of remembrance, a place for those who deny themselves grief to hold on to the memories of those they have lost. "I do not say this to denigrate the Vulcans; they once needed the Hall of Thought for their survival. But that time has come - and gone. We, on the other hand, survive only because of our ability to share our final moment of existence with the totality of our people. Thus, we spend much of our lives preparing for that moment. "And sometimes a moment is all we have, for death can be as unexpected among our people as it is with anyone else." He stopped, drew a long breath, then looked at Beverly. "This is how we survive - and grow - as a species, Doctor; each of us is dependent on his fellow Breen to explore life, to learn and enrich themselves, to expand on the fullness of life that every other Breen has experienced - and to move beyond that. We each strive to become more - and then to share that with our brethren so that they may continue the journey from that point forward. "Our death gift is the ultimate moment of our life, for with that gift, we can progress as a race - and that is, after all, the ultimate intent of every culture." He hesitated for a moment, an expression of what could have only been sorrow crossing his planar face. "Jemat?" Beverly said worriedly - and was rewarded with a weary smile. "Forgive me, Doctor," he said softly. "I am tired - as we all are. These last few weeks have been tiring for all of us. But I would rather face fatigue instead of the finality of a war." "As would we all," Picard agreed. "Indeed?" Jemat replied. "I wonder..." Picard gave him a surprised look, as did Beverly. "Wonder what, Jemat?" "I wonder what Huziah was thinking at the moment of his death," he admitted. "Was it the horrors of war?" Beverly studied him for a long moment - then shook her head. "I don't understand, Jemat; you just said that at the moment of death, the Breen share their life experiences with the rest of your people. How, then, do you not know what Huziah was thinking?" she asked. "Because Huziah did not share himself with us at the moment he died." Beverly gaped at the Breen - then shook her head. "I don't understand," she said. "If sharing one's life is so important, so critical to your survival as a people, why wouldn't he share his life? Wasn't there enough time?" she asked, remembering the horrific - and almost instantly fatal - injury Picard had described. "The transference is almost instantaneous, Doctor - and we are all trained to recognize the change in our bodies, to know that death has arrived. No, Huziah had time. He chose not to share his life, though, not because he thought that it was not important, but rather because he thought there was something more important to be shared." "And that was...?" she pressed. "Huziah chose to share _her_ life with us", Ferata interjected, the emphasis on the pronoun soft - but unmistakable. "Not his own, but Garave's. He believed her life, her existence - her soul - was more important to us as a people than his own was." "You see, Doctor, for three hundred thousand years, we have searched for the ultimate justification of our existence; we have sought our salvation," Jemat explained. "Huziah - and I - believed we had found it." She stared at the Breen for a moment - then comprehension dawned. "You think Andile... Garave... is this salvation?" she asked in stunned disbelief. "But... how? I mean, how can a human be the salvation of _your_ species?" Jemat looked at Picard - and smiled. "Will you tell her?" he asked. The captain drew a long breath, then looked at Beverly. "Garave... Andile... the lieutenant... Whatever her name is, she's not human. Not fully. The lieutenant is a Breen, Beverly," he said slowly. Beverly's jaw dropped as she gaped at the man - then shook her head. "That's not possible!" "It is - and we can prove it," Jemat said. "Long ago, we realized that asexual reproduction is a genetic dead end. Oh, every now and then we see a genetic variation - a mutation here or there - but very few of them - and affecting only a few Breen. The genetic diversity that supports the growth an variation of a species was unavailable to us. Seeing our future thus limited, we chose to try to maintain our genetic heritage by sharing it with other species. We planned, selected those genetic aspects we possessed that we felt would enhance the lives of other species, then found worlds that possessed species that were genetically compatible. We grafted those select genes into those people, moved them to colony worlds - and then we watched and waited." "And Andile's people were one of those races? And Parash was one of those worlds?" Beverly asked, her voice rising as she spoke, her eyes beginning to flash. Jemat nodded, surprised by the unexpected vehemence in the physician's voice. "Yes. A colony of humans, taken from your own world. We altered them genetically, transplanted them to a suitable - but distant world - and observed them. "But you didn't just watch and wait, did you?" Beverly interrupted, cutting him off in mid-sentence. "You visited them, didn't you? Checking up on your experiment, in situ, weren't you?" Jemat gave her a look of blinding obviousness. "Of course. Our work was not static, Doctor; where our initial gene grafts were successful, we would proceed, adding additional genetic material to the culture in order to try to more fully integrate ourselves into each species. Not all our work was successful, of course - some grafts failed - and where some took, the culture itself failed." "I would argue the ethics of altering the genes of another sentient race..." "The definition of sentience is a very subjective one, Doctor," Ferata interrupted, "as is the topic of ethics. What we did..." "Is a topic better suited for another time," Picard interjected. Ferata glared at him, then at Beverly - then glanced sharply at Jemat. For a moment the two stared - then Ferata relented, bowing his head in acceptance of what most likely a telepathic rebuke from the _outo_. "Another time then," he agreed with Picard, bowing his head slightly, then turned back to Beverly. "You were saying..." "I was saying that on those worlds where the grafts did take, didn't it occur to you that your reappearance, your very presence, was altering the people almost as much as the genes you were changing?" she railed angrily. Jemat shook his head. "That was never our intention." "Your intention?" she cried angrily. "Your intention was to manipulate a primitive society - a dozen societies, a hundred societies! - and manipulate their evolution for your own purposes! What did you think would happen? Those societies were primitive, technologically unaware; how do you think they viewed your technology, your science, when they had nothing of their own that could explain it - except the supernatural? To them, you were gods - and around you entire religions developed, explaining, justifying, sanctioning the actions and activities of their people in accordance with what they thought were your wishes, your desires? They worshipped you - and then, when you finally, and far too late, realized what was happening, you stopped visiting them! "You gave them a god - and then you took it away. You took their god away!" she railed furiously. "You don't understand..." Ferata began. "No," she countered, cutting him off. "_I_ do understand. You don't. You took their gods away; you let them believe that they had somehow failed you - and they had to blame someone. "On Garave's world, an entire society took out their fear, their anger and their rage on those who could not defend themselves: the andile," she snapped angrily. "The _hah-n-deela_," Jemat interjected, the word sliding from his lips in soft reverence. Beverly stopped in mid-tirade, staring, confused at the _outo_. "I beg your pardon?" "The _hah-n-deela_," Jemat repeated. "The beloved," Ferata added in translation. Beverly stared at the two Breen, her rant now thoroughly derailed. "Beloved?" Jemat smiled. "The _hah-n-deela_," he said again. "The beloved ones. Those few individuals in whom we saw a glimmer of hope for our people, where the transplanted genes appeared to be taking hold. We did not try to favor them, doctor, but we did focus much of our time and attention on them, checking on them, detailing their histories, their offspring - until we realized what our presence was doing to the people on those worlds." He looked at her soberly. "We did realize what was happening, Doctor; we simply realized it far too late." Ferata bowed his head in plea. "Please understand, Doctor, our evolution proceeded along a different path than yours; with our telepathy, with our evolution as both single and group mind, we never developed the concept of a supreme being acting on - or against - our behalf; for us, God was a complex creature that evolved _from_ simpler creatures; we grow to become God, not develop from God. We did not, could not, comprehend that these societies thought differently." Jemat picked up the thought. "It took us centuries, millennia, to understand - and by then the damage was done from our very presence among these people. We knew we had to step back, to allow them to develop as they would, to observe only from a distance - but in doing so, we lost track of so many of our worlds... including Parash." "You can not know, Doctor, the sorrow that filled us when we realized that, on Parash at least, our _hah-n-deela_ - our beloved - had become andile, the refuse, the hated of a society." Beverly stared at them, seeing the grief and repentance in their eyes - and realizing that sentiment was being echoed in a billion minds across a hundred worlds, felt the harsh edge of her rage and pain begin to fade away. "Who else could they blame, Jemat?" she asked the two quietly. "You prized your beloved ones - then you suddenly disappear? Obviously, they were the ones who had failed; they were the ones who must be punished. They survived only because they served one small, wretched purpose in that society - to carry away the psychic and emotional refuse of the dying. But they were denied society, education, family, emotions - even children..." "And with that, we almost destroyed the one thing we had worked for, for three hundred millennia: the preservation of our genetic materials," Jemat said softly. "Those who displayed those genes were exiled from society," Ferata agreed. "Exiled - or worse," Beverly reminded them. "We'll never know how many died because they were andile, because they carried your genes. "And yet the genes persisted," she continued. "Andile... Garave," she corrected herself, "carries them, as did some, perhaps many of the others, try as her society did to ferret and out the carriers." "But now," Ferata said softly, "only she carries them. You can see why her survival is of paramount interest to my people; she is our only remaining chance of salvation." "And you can see, also, why we had thought the captain would have explained this to you; why, above all else, she must survive," Ferata said, his tone drifting toward accusation. Beverly shook her head, dismissing the charge against the man. "I can understand your feelings, gentlemen, and perhaps, to a degree, I can even understand the reasons for those feelings - but the captain can not betray the trust one of his officers has placed in him simply because it is expedient for your people. Garave has spoken to him of her past - in confidence - and nothing, short of the survival of his ship, his crew, or Garave herself, would allow him to betray that trust. His oath of office was to them - not to you," she said. "Or to you?" Jemat countered. For a moment, righteous indignation flared in her heart - and then she smiled. You are so right, Jemat, she thought silently; we think we know one another - and yet, when it comes down to it, we don't know the slightest thing about one another. Six months ago, gentlemen, and it might have worked, she told them silently. Six months ago, I would not have realized that you were manipulating my emotions, playing with my feelings, trying to provoke the reaction you desire. But six months ago, I had not met Andile... Garave... whatever the hell her name is! - and whatever, or whoever, she may be, she is far better at this game than you are. You can not trick me that easily, she cautioned them. Picard's behavior toward her as an individual may well have been reprehensible - but his behavior as an officer was irreproachable - and after half a life in Starfleet, she knew well the difference between the two - and an amateurish attempt at emotional manipulation by an alien _outo_ was not about to change that. That he was entirely correct was another matter altogether. "The captain has revealed information he knew was critical to Garave's health and survival - as required by that same oath," she countered, finding herself defending him easily. "Beyond that, however, her faith in his integrity was vindicated - as is the faith of every crewman aboard," she added, glancing at Picard. "He did not, could not, and would not reveal personal information that he could not have known was relevant to her health." If he had trusted me more, however... she added silently. No, she thought instantly, stopping the thought before it could drift into another round of recriminations against the man who sat across from her. That isn't fair - and it's not worthy of either of us. Trust was never the issue here; duty was. And you fulfilled your duty to Andile as best you could - indeed, perhaps better than I did. You forced me to keep her alive when I would have let her go. Even now, she added, glancing at the two Breen, I am not sure that was the right decision; not even with the survival of an entire civilization hinging on that choice. The life you've condemned her to live is not the one she would have chosen for herself - but that was not your choice to make. The only choice you had was whether to follow the oath you took - or to betray it. And he had betrayed it, she reminded herself - but never when there wasn't a greater good a risk, when the moral imperative that lay behind the oath took precedence over the words. For you, duty would always be first, over everything - and everyone - else. I'm sorry, she thought to him, both proud and sad at the same time. Sometimes... sometimes I forget that your duties, your obligations of command, transcend even the bonds of friendship - but I do respect and cherish that dedication. As your fellow officer, I thank you, she added wordlessly. But as your friend, as someone who once hoped there would be more... She let the thought fade away; there would be ample time later to think about the limits of friendship, command - and love - and how those limits could never truly mesh. "To betray her, to reveal what he knew about her, would have violated his oath - and her trust," Beverly concluded. "To reveal that the lieutenant was Breen might well have been to doom her as well," Picard interrupted. "She has been under suspicion for a number of crimes - including treason," he explained. "Being found out as Breen would have sealed her fate - even if the charges were ever discounted. We have seen lesser genetic relationships doom Starfleet careers," he added soberly. Jemat looked at the two, the shock and revulsion evident even in his very Breen expression. "To penalize, even to kill, an individual because of their genetic? Because of something they could not control?" he said in horror. "That is... barbaric!" he gaped. "But it is so very human," Picard replied, equally disapproving. And so unchanging, he added silently; even as Starfleet could condemn her for her heritage, so had the lieutenant and her kind been damned a thousand - ten thousand! - years before, by her own people - and, he added in silent anger, because of the effect of the Breen's genetic manipulations. "I am not attempting to rationalize or justify the actions of my people - then or now," Picard continued quietly. "We acted, indeed, we still act - often from ignorance and fear - but we are trying to move beyond that ignorance, to discover the truth about who we are, and why we act as we do - and, when possible, to change those behaviors for the better, for ourselves and for those around us. But so often, indeed, too often, those behaviors are rooted deeply within both the society - and the individual - and try as we might sometimes we can not change the who we are, either as a group - or as an individual," he added quietly. He looked at Beverly, apology and regret in his eyes. "We are, too often, who we are - and we can not change that," he said softly - then straightened, almost imperceptibly, and turned back to Jemat and Ferata. "It is a flaw in the human psyche, but one that, had you better understood the nature of humans, you could have considered. Had you done so, you might have saved her - saved all the andile - from the brutality of their own people," he chastised the two. "But damning the children because of the parents is not unique to humanity," Beverly countered. "The Bajoran castes, the Cardassian Chiemma... even in violent ways, we seem to need separate the population, to create ranks and files, to categorize people by nothing more than birth. The idea of a noble class in almost every Earth culture, the Houses on Betazed... almost every humanoid culture we've met has differentiated - and often persecuted - those who are different, those they don't understand. Perhaps, Jemat," she added quietly, "in all the galaxy, the Breen are the only culture that never needed to do so - because you each understand, and have always understood, from your most fundamental to your most conscious levels, that you were part of a greater whole." Jemat stared at Beverly for a long time - then nodded. "I do not believe we had ever considered that possibility, Doctor. But," he added a moment later, "if you are right, then it is all the more important that Garave survive - to share her genes - our genetic gist - with the generations to follow, so that, in time, we may all someday become god." Beverly smiled tolerantly. "I wouldn't presume to try to dissuade you from your goal, Jemat - but all this," she waved her hand at the two Breen and the captain, "is still conjecture. "Andile's sun went nova millennia ago; that world is gone, those people are gone - you can't even be sure that the her colony was the one you planted! And more to the point, it still leaves me wondering how this revelation affects my patient." Ferata jerked his head in negation - then stopped, and made an awkward shake of his head. "It is not conjecture, Doctor; our belief has been verified - and by no less an authority than your captain," he added, somewhat smugly. "The captain...?" Beverly began, glancing at Picard - and received a confused shake of his head in return. "I?" he echoed. Jemat smiled. "You, captain - through your deposition," he said. Beverly shook her head again, still confused. "But... " she began, then stopped. "According to the medical debriefing that was performed, the deposition reveals the memories of the individual - and according to my own scans, the procedure was initiated - but not completed on the lieutenant. Isn't that correct?" Ferata gave an awkward nod. "It is." "Then how...?" she pressed. "An old memory, Doctor, one we did not note at first," Jemat answered. He looked at Picard - and smiled. "Do you recall?" he asked. Picard considered for a moment, then started to shake his head - then stopped. "Her name," he said - then looked at Beverly. "The lieutenant... The first time I met her... Rather, the second time," he amended, "the time I attended her class, she introduced herself as Professor Handeela," he said - then looked at Jemat. "As in..." "_Hah-ndeela," Jemat agreed, sliding the emphasis from the second syllable to the first - but making the similarity between the two words unmistakable. "I believe the linguistic shift that occurs in most spoken languages may account for the change from the Breen pronunciation to the Parashian one..." "And a second, similar shift to explain the change to the pronunciation we use," Picard continued, nodding. Jemat drew a breath, the hesitation - and regret - obvious in the Breen's manner. "No. I wish that were the case - but I believe that once we have finished reading Garave's memories in full, we will learn that her culture was responsible for the shift in pronunciation from _hah-ndeela_ - 'beloved' to andile - 'filth', in order to reflect the radical change in the meaning. In time, I believe we will discover that 'handeela' still existed in her people's language, and still possessed the same benevolent and loving import that it possesses for us." "Then why did she change the pronunciation?" Beverly asked. "If she could be 'beloved', why allow herself to be called 'filth'?" she asked. Picard turned to her, sorrow covering his face. "Because it was a pretense," he told her. "She was posturing, trying to elevate herself - maybe even to overcome the self-image she had of herself - to be something more. No one in Starfleet knew the difference; no one knew better..." "But she did," Beverly concluded, understanding at once. Andile could become Handeela, she thought; she could pretend she was something more than the wretched filth her people had decried her to be... at least for a while. Until something went wrong. Until someone was hurt. Until her own conscience rebelled against her self-glorification, and slammed her back; until ten thousand years of indoctrination overwhelmed a few years of self-reliance and self-determination. And then Handeela would become Andile again - and Andile would become a spy, a thief, a prostitute, a murderer - whatever she had to be - and know she deserved nothing better than whatever crumbs of solace her people would give her. Beverly shook her head, wishing she had been there when... when what? she wondered. What had driven that emerging sense of self-worth back, crushing it so thoroughly that Andile would prefer the ultimate fate of a suicide mission over the work that she professed she loved. She didn't know - and risking a glance a Picard, she knew he didn't either. I wasn't there then, she thought to herself - but I am here now, she thought defiantly, and looked at Picard once again. I couldn't help her then - but I can now. If that's what she wants, she added - then glanced at Picard. People do change, she thought at him - when they want to change. When it's important to them... She looked at him - and watched as he looked back, his eyes, his face, his composure all perfectly composed once again - and utterly professional, the consummate captain. But only if it's important to them, she realized in slow finality. And when it isn't important... She bit at her lower lip, feeling the sting of tears building in her eyes, then blinked them back. There had been enough tears of late, she told herself; she had cried over him too many times already. Enough, she thought at herself and at him, angry but resolute; you may not want to change - but I do. I have to; I can't go on like this. She drew a long, slow breath - and turned to Jemat. "So she's Breen; how does this affect her as my patient? Do you have medications...?" Jemat shook his head. "Despite my comments, physiologically, she is still, for the most part, human. Our medications would be ineffective - if not dangerous - for her, for any human. Nonetheless, our surgical techniques should allow the reconstruction of the exterior layers of her hands and feet - and perhaps the reattachment of her amputated arm. Since these extremities are also rich in nerve receptors, their restoration may provide the needed additional sensory stimulus to promote the progression in brain function to take her to a conscious level. In addition, there are other therapies we have used in similar cases - but whether they are applicable or not, I can not tell - not before examining her." Beverly turned to Picard. "If there's nothing else we need to know...?" she asked. He met her gaze - and for a moment, his eyes lingered on hers, reluctant to let them go - as if there was something he wanted to say, something he needed to tell her... Then he shook his head. "Nothing. You are dismissed, Doctor. Jemat, I will have a security team escort you and the Doctor to Sickbay." "Thank you," Jemat replied, then pushed the chair back from the table. "Doctor?" he said, reaching out a hand to help her up, then wrapping her hand in his arm, just as he had done earlier, then patting it gently. Just like Jean-Luc does, Beverly thought. No, she thought; like he _did_. But that was over. She bit her lip again - then pushed the pain away. It was over - not that it have ever begun, she added - and it was time to move on. On to her patients. On with her life. She looked at Jemat. "Despite the setbacks, we've have had some positive results," she began as they moved to the door. "There has been a reduction in the size of the adrenal cortices..." Picard watched as the two left, then turned to Ferata. "And where do we begin, Ambassador?" he asked the Breen. "Where all things begin, Captain - at the beginning," the Breen countered smoothly. "But before that perhaps some tea? I have not read your deposition in depth - but I believe there is a prominent memory of something called 'Earl Grey'...?" -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Awards Tech Support http://www.trekiverse.us/ASCAwards/commenting/ No Tribbles were harmed in the running of these Awards ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek .creative or directly to the author. Yahoo! Groups Links To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sun Mar 28 16:56:21 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n19.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.74]) by skylark (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1b7Iem1WX3NZFjw0 for ; Sun, 28 Mar 2004 13:54:10 -0800 (PST) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-13333-1080510849-stephenbratliffasc=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yah o.com Received: from [66.218.66.156] by n19.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 28 Mar 2004 21:54:10 -0000 X-Sender: stephen@trekiverse.org X-Apparently-To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 90843 invoked from network); 28 Mar 2004 21:54:09 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.218) by m16.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 28 Mar 2004 21:54:09 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO cardinal.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.121.226) by mta3.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 28 Mar 2004 21:54:09 -0000 Received: from sdn-ap-040dcwashp0149.dialsprint.net ([207.9.248.149]) by cardinal.mail.pas.earthlink.net with smtp (Exim 3.33 #1) id 1B7iDz-0004KN-00 for ascl@yahoogroups.com; Sun, 28 Mar 2004 13:53:47 -0800 To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Organization: Alt.StarTrek.Creative Virtual Staff Office Message-ID: X-Mailer: Forte Agent 1.92/32.572 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 207.217.121.226 X-eGroups-From: Stephen From: Stephen X-Yahoo-Profile: oldmanasc MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCL@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCL@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 28 Mar 2004 16:53:41 -0500 Subject: [ASC] NEW TNG: "Echoes" P/C, D/f (R) Pt 153/? Reply-To: ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Buy Ink Cartridges or Refill Kits for your HP, Epson, Canon or Lexmark & Cana Printer at MyInks.com. Free s/h on orders $50 or more to the US da. http://www.c1tracking.com/l.asp?cid=5511 http://us.click.yahoo.com/mOAaAA/3exGAA/qnsNAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 28 Mar 2004 06:47:17 -0800 In: alt.startrek.creative From: keeroth@startrek.net (Ke Roth) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 153/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 153 Ideally, Picard thought as they entered the conference room, ideally, this meeting would be taking place in one of the larger conference rooms that lined the exterior edge of the ship, the floor-to-ceiling windows exhibiting the glorious expanse of stars beyond to all who entered the room - and, Picard knew, subtly and simultaneously reminding them of the technological prowess possessed by the Federation in being able to create and build a ship that could allow such a display. Of course, they would also be facing on to the view of the Breen ship, with its graceful web of tendrils enveloping the vessel - a reminder of the technology that the Federation was confronting - and, Picard added, a reminder of the fact that they had yet to understand, let alone to best, that same technology. But it wasn't the subtle one-upsmanship that had determined the location of this meeting; that had been Worf's doing, choosing this smaller - and more secluded - room because of pragmatic concerns rather than psychological ones: here, deep in the bowels of the ship, the Breen would have a far more difficult time trying to beam in a boarding party; here, a hidden bomb carried by one of the Breen delegates could do less damage to the critical systems of the Enterprise - or to Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell; and, Picard knew, here, he could assign guards to patrol both the horizontally and vertically adjacent areas, protecting the Breen themselves from any attacks by outraged crewmembers - just as he had lined every passage between the transporter room and the conference room with Security officers. Perhaps 'lined' was not the correct term, Picard amended his thoughts; while there were an ample number of guards positioned through the halls, they were discreetly positioned - and while they were armed, their weapons were in their holsters, readily accessible - but not out in the open, not held at the ready. Still, the presence of the guards stationed in the hall had an oppressive effect on the four; they separated, moving in single file, silently trooping through the passage, then into the small room, each finding a place at the small table and took their positions. Or rather, Picard realized, they all sat down - except for Jemat. Instead, the Breen stood at one side of the square table, studying the two humans - then gave a soft sigh in preparation of starting the discussion. But before he could speak, however, Picard began, suspecting he knew all too well the direction the _outo_ intended for this discussion - and not willing to go down that path without a fight - or at least without letting his disapproval - and his objections - be known. "Jemat, I do not believe this is the proper venue for these discussions. Your ambassador - and you - were invited aboard with the express purpose of an initial discussion that would, I hope, lead to peaceful negotiations between our races. To depart from that purpose..." "Captain," Jemat interrupted sharply, every trace of the kindheartedness that had marked his arrival gone, "you misunderstand. If Garave dies, there will be no negotiations." Picard and Beverly gaped at the alien. "But..." they each began, only to be cut off once again. "Indeed, if she dies," Jemat continued, "it is very possible that our two civilizations will find themselves at war with one another - and this time, we will not back down. Now, if you feel that your ego, your possible embarrassment at your own actions are more important than the survival of two cultures, then so be it. We will end this conversation here and now - and Garave will die. And then both of our races will follow her. So which is it to be?" he asked finally. He watched as the two humans glanced across the table at one another, Beverly's eyes filling with confusion and concern as she saw Picard's fill with rage and defiance - then watched as the emotions faded and pragmatism - and duty - replaced them. "Proceed," Picard said at last - though the undercurrent of resentment was impossible to miss. "Then..." Jemat started - and stopped, looking at Beverly, seated across the table from Picard. Not next to him, Jemat thought quietly, nor beside him, as she had appeared in so many of the man's memories - and in his thoughts. In his mind, she was his equal, his companion, his compatriot, his confidant - but across from him, as far distant as he could place her, across from him, as though she was his opponent, rather than his dearest intimate. I am sorry, he told her - told them both - silently. Had I known... But I did know, he reminded himself; I knew what humans were, how they acted - and didn't act; I knew them from what we have learned as scientists - and I knew you from what I had learned from your thoughts, he added, looking at Picard. And yet I saw in you so much that was Breen, so much that reminded me of my people that I committed the greatest crime a researcher can commit: I assumed. I assumed that since you had some of our attributes, that you were as we were, after all Breen: that you would think as we do, reason as we do - and act as we do. But you are not Breen: you are human - and even among that race, you are unique. Something we never truly are - and something, perhaps, that we will never truly understand. I erred - and perhaps we will all pay the price. Or perhaps not, he added, hope flaring in his soul. "Then I will digress, for a moment," Jemat continued, "so that we might bring the good doctor here up to the same level of understanding that we three have - of the Breen race - and the Breen culture," he said, looking at Ferata and Picard. "Jemat, that isn't necessary..." Beverly protested. "On the contrary, Doctor, it is. Your patient's survival, and my patient's recovery," he added, looking at Picard for a moment before turning back to her, "are contingent on you understanding what has happened - and what must happen." Whether it was the reminder that Jemat still saw him as a patient - a role he was loathe to play even in her Sickbay - or whether it was the reminder that something - an indiscretion or perhaps private revelation was about to made public - Beverly heard Picard draw in a sharp, disapproving breath, and glancing at him, saw the muscles of his jaw tightening. No, she thought; whatever happened to him, whatever has or has not happened between us, I will not them humiliate him. "No," she said firmly. "If there is something you need to tell me, then we can do so later, in private and in professional confidence, as physician to physician," she said firmly. "Whatever your ethics may be, mine prevent the embarrassment or humiliation of a patient..." "Doctor," Jemat interrupted, "Garave's survival depends on your understanding of what has happened." She hesitated, the needs of her patients - both of them - fighting for pre-eminence in her mind - then shook her head. "No. The captain is as much my patient as Andile is; I can not violate my duty to him - even to save her." "Beverly," Picard interrupted, turning to her, their eyes meeting - and nodded. "It's all right," he assured her. She looked at him uncertainly - but there was an expression of certain reassurance in his expression. Or rather, she thought, a very uncertain reassurance - but with a determination that was unquestionable. Whatever Jemat was about to say, whatever humiliation he was about to reveal, he could take it. Still, Beverly hesitated... "It's all right, Beverly," Picard repeated - and reached across the table, placing his hand gently over hers. "It will be all right." She studied him for a long moment, knowing that the confidence in his words was not mirrored in his heart - but knowing that his own devotion to duty overrode everything in his heart - even personal humiliation. And knowing, she realized with a start, that despite everything that had happened, he trusted her. For a moment, she stared at him in stunned amazement - then upturned her hand, accepting the gentle touch, feeling him squeeze her hand in response - then broke the grasp and turned to Jemat. "Go ahead, _outo_," she said after a moment. Jemat nodded - but before he spoke, he paced for a moment, as though collecting his thoughts - then stopped and turned to face Beverly. "From the moment a Breen is aware, Doctor," he said quietly, "from the moment we are cognizant of our selves as individual, sentient beings, we begin preparing ourselves for death." He must have seen the shock in her expression, for he quickly took a seat at the table beside her. "Oh, do not misunderstand what I am saying; we Breen do not crave death; we do not actively seek a rapid end to our lives, searching out and ending in some blaze of glory or self-sacrifice; we are, in many ways, no different from you. Though we each have our own motivations and goals, in general, we all would like a long, full life, rich in the pleasures of our existence - and full to the extent a long life can grant. "But unlike you humans, indeed, unlike most species, when our lives are over, our lives are over." Beverly shook her head. "That's no different from any other species, Jemat; death is the end of all our existences," she countered. "No," he protested. "In your species, life continues - in the form of children. You share not only your culture and beliefs with your offspring, but the blending of both parents' genetic heritage as well. And that, Doctor, is a gift we can not give our children," he said with a sad finality. "But your society has survived - even thrived - without that," she reminded him. "Yes, we have - because we have learned that while we can not pass on the fullness of a more diverse genetic heritage, we can pass on the learning that each of us, as individuals, have accumulated - and not just for our own budlings," he informed her, informed them both. "You see, as telepaths, we have..." He searched for a word, then continued, "... 'access' to the thoughts of those within our society. However, every society requires a degree of privacy in order to function, to maintain a sense of self - and so, we do not freely share every thought, every idea, every experience, with one another. And yet, accumulated over the span of our lives - which average three hundred of your years - those experiences - and the learning and wisdom borne of those experiences - are a wealth of information; information we can pass on to the next generation. And at the moment of our deaths, we do just that - we impart a full lifespan of education, experience, wisdom - everything that made us the creatures we were - into the fullness of the entire Breen society." "That sounds very much like the Vulcans and their preservation of the katra," Beverly remarked. Jemat smiled. "You'll forgive my saying so, Doctor, but for the Vulcans, the preservation of the katra is a frivolity, an emotional sop for a race that refuses to accept their emotions - and yet can not fully accept the emotional of corporeal death. They die - and what they were dies with them. Unable to accept that finality, unable to yield to the grief that fills them yet that they deny themselves, they put away the essence of their being - their katra... and do what with it? Haul it out in remembrance or on holidays? Ignore it?" he said disparagingly. "It is their repository of knowledge," Picard protested. "Only of some knowledge," Jemat corrected him. "After all, less than one percent of Vulcans participate in the ceremony. Indeed, only a few prepare themselves for the transfer - and even when they do, when death comes, too often they find themselves either alone, or with a being who can not carry the katra back to the Hall of Thoughts, or in places where such a transference can not take place. These days, most Vulcans lease their knowledge and wisdom to the next generations through writing, teaching - and genetics. The Hall of Thought is used less and less as a repository of knowledge - and more as a Hall of remembrance, a place for those who deny themselves grief to hold on to the memories of those they have lost. "I do not say this to denigrate the Vulcans; they once needed the Hall of Thought for their survival. But that time has come - and gone. We, on the other hand, survive only because of our ability to share our final moment of existence with the totality of our people. Thus, we spend much of our lives preparing for that moment. "And sometimes a moment is all we have, for death can be as unexpected among our people as it is with anyone else." He stopped, drew a long breath, then looked at Beverly. "This is how we survive - and grow - as a species, Doctor; each of us is dependent on his fellow Breen to explore life, to learn and enrich themselves, to expand on the fullness of life that every other Breen has experienced - and to move beyond that. We each strive to become more - and then to share that with our brethren so that they may continue the journey from that point forward. "Our death gift is the ultimate moment of our life, for with that gift, we can progress as a race - and that is, after all, the ultimate intent of every culture." He hesitated for a moment, an expression of what could have only been sorrow crossing his planar face. "Jemat?" Beverly said worriedly - and was rewarded with a weary smile. "Forgive me, Doctor," he said softly. "I am tired - as we all are. These last few weeks have been tiring for all of us. But I would rather face fatigue instead of the finality of a war." "As would we all," Picard agreed. "Indeed?" Jemat replied. "I wonder..." Picard gave him a surprised look, as did Beverly. "Wonder what, Jemat?" "I wonder what Huziah was thinking at the moment of his death," he admitted. "Was it the horrors of war?" Beverly studied him for a long moment - then shook her head. "I don't understand, Jemat; you just said that at the moment of death, the Breen share their life experiences with the rest of your people. How, then, do you not know what Huziah was thinking?" she asked. "Because Huziah did not share himself with us at the moment he died." Beverly gaped at the Breen - then shook her head. "I don't understand," she said. "If sharing one's life is so important, so critical to your survival as a people, why wouldn't he share his life? Wasn't there enough time?" she asked, remembering the horrific - and almost instantly fatal - injury Picard had described. "The transference is almost instantaneous, Doctor - and we are all trained to recognize the change in our bodies, to know that death has arrived. No, Huziah had time. He chose not to share his life, though, not because he thought that it was not important, but rather because he thought there was something more important to be shared." "And that was...?" she pressed. "Huziah chose to share _her_ life with us", Ferata interjected, the emphasis on the pronoun soft - but unmistakable. "Not his own, but Garave's. He believed her life, her existence - her soul - was more important to us as a people than his own was." "You see, Doctor, for three hundred thousand years, we have searched for the ultimate justification of our existence; we have sought our salvation," Jemat explained. "Huziah - and I - believed we had found it." She stared at the Breen for a moment - then comprehension dawned. "You think Andile... Garave... is this salvation?" she asked in stunned disbelief. "But... how? I mean, how can a human be the salvation of _your_ species?" Jemat looked at Picard - and smiled. "Will you tell her?" he asked. The captain drew a long breath, then looked at Beverly. "Garave... Andile... the lieutenant... Whatever her name is, she's not human. Not fully. The lieutenant is a Breen, Beverly," he said slowly. Beverly's jaw dropped as she gaped at the man - then shook her head. "That's not possible!" "It is - and we can prove it," Jemat said. "Long ago, we realized that asexual reproduction is a genetic dead end. Oh, every now and then we see a genetic variation - a mutation here or there - but very few of them - and affecting only a few Breen. The genetic diversity that supports the growth an variation of a species was unavailable to us. Seeing our future thus limited, we chose to try to maintain our genetic heritage by sharing it with other species. We planned, selected those genetic aspects we possessed that we felt would enhance the lives of other species, then found worlds that possessed species that were genetically compatible. We grafted those select genes into those people, moved them to colony worlds - and then we watched and waited." "And Andile's people were one of those races? And Parash was one of those worlds?" Beverly asked, her voice rising as she spoke, her eyes beginning to flash. Jemat nodded, surprised by the unexpected vehemence in the physician's voice. "Yes. A colony of humans, taken from your own world. We altered them genetically, transplanted them to a suitable - but distant world - and observed them. "But you didn't just watch and wait, did you?" Beverly interrupted, cutting him off in mid-sentence. "You visited them, didn't you? Checking up on your experiment, in situ, weren't you?" Jemat gave her a look of blinding obviousness. "Of course. Our work was not static, Doctor; where our initial gene grafts were successful, we would proceed, adding additional genetic material to the culture in order to try to more fully integrate ourselves into each species. Not all our work was successful, of course - some grafts failed - and where some took, the culture itself failed." "I would argue the ethics of altering the genes of another sentient race..." "The definition of sentience is a very subjective one, Doctor," Ferata interrupted, "as is the topic of ethics. What we did..." "Is a topic better suited for another time," Picard interjected. Ferata glared at him, then at Beverly - then glanced sharply at Jemat. For a moment the two stared - then Ferata relented, bowing his head in acceptance of what most likely a telepathic rebuke from the _outo_. "Another time then," he agreed with Picard, bowing his head slightly, then turned back to Beverly. "You were saying..." "I was saying that on those worlds where the grafts did take, didn't it occur to you that your reappearance, your very presence, was altering the people almost as much as the genes you were changing?" she railed angrily. Jemat shook his head. "That was never our intention." "Your intention?" she cried angrily. "Your intention was to manipulate a primitive society - a dozen societies, a hundred societies! - and manipulate their evolution for your own purposes! What did you think would happen? Those societies were primitive, technologically unaware; how do you think they viewed your technology, your science, when they had nothing of their own that could explain it - except the supernatural? To them, you were gods - and around you entire religions developed, explaining, justifying, sanctioning the actions and activities of their people in accordance with what they thought were your wishes, your desires? They worshipped you - and then, when you finally, and far too late, realized what was happening, you stopped visiting them! "You gave them a god - and then you took it away. You took their god away!" she railed furiously. "You don't understand..." Ferata began. "No," she countered, cutting him off. "_I_ do understand. You don't. You took their gods away; you let them believe that they had somehow failed you - and they had to blame someone. "On Garave's world, an entire society took out their fear, their anger and their rage on those who could not defend themselves: the andile," she snapped angrily. "The _hah-n-deela_," Jemat interjected, the word sliding from his lips in soft reverence. Beverly stopped in mid-tirade, staring, confused at the _outo_. "I beg your pardon?" "The _hah-n-deela_," Jemat repeated. "The beloved," Ferata added in translation. Beverly stared at the two Breen, her rant now thoroughly derailed. "Beloved?" Jemat smiled. "The _hah-n-deela_," he said again. "The beloved ones. Those few individuals in whom we saw a glimmer of hope for our people, where the transplanted genes appeared to be taking hold. We did not try to favor them, doctor, but we did focus much of our time and attention on them, checking on them, detailing their histories, their offspring - until we realized what our presence was doing to the people on those worlds." He looked at her soberly. "We did realize what was happening, Doctor; we simply realized it far too late." Ferata bowed his head in plea. "Please understand, Doctor, our evolution proceeded along a different path than yours; with our telepathy, with our evolution as both single and group mind, we never developed the concept of a supreme being acting on - or against - our behalf; for us, God was a complex creature that evolved _from_ simpler creatures; we grow to become God, not develop from God. We did not, could not, comprehend that these societies thought differently." Jemat picked up the thought. "It took us centuries, millennia, to understand - and by then the damage was done from our very presence among these people. We knew we had to step back, to allow them to develop as they would, to observe only from a distance - but in doing so, we lost track of so many of our worlds... including Parash." "You can not know, Doctor, the sorrow that filled us when we realized that, on Parash at least, our _hah-n-deela_ - our beloved - had become andile, the refuse, the hated of a society." Beverly stared at them, seeing the grief and repentance in their eyes - and realizing that sentiment was being echoed in a billion minds across a hundred worlds, felt the harsh edge of her rage and pain begin to fade away. "Who else could they blame, Jemat?" she asked the two quietly. "You prized your beloved ones - then you suddenly disappear? Obviously, they were the ones who had failed; they were the ones who must be punished. They survived only because they served one small, wretched purpose in that society - to carry away the psychic and emotional refuse of the dying. But they were denied society, education, family, emotions - even children..." "And with that, we almost destroyed the one thing we had worked for, for three hundred millennia: the preservation of our genetic materials," Jemat said softly. "Those who displayed those genes were exiled from society," Ferata agreed. "Exiled - or worse," Beverly reminded them. "We'll never know how many died because they were andile, because they carried your genes. "And yet the genes persisted," she continued. "Andile... Garave," she corrected herself, "carries them, as did some, perhaps many of the others, try as her society did to ferret and out the carriers." "But now," Ferata said softly, "only she carries them. You can see why her survival is of paramount interest to my people; she is our only remaining chance of salvation." "And you can see, also, why we had thought the captain would have explained this to you; why, above all else, she must survive," Ferata said, his tone drifting toward accusation. Beverly shook her head, dismissing the charge against the man. "I can understand your feelings, gentlemen, and perhaps, to a degree, I can even understand the reasons for those feelings - but the captain can not betray the trust one of his officers has placed in him simply because it is expedient for your people. Garave has spoken to him of her past - in confidence - and nothing, short of the survival of his ship, his crew, or Garave herself, would allow him to betray that trust. His oath of office was to them - not to you," she said. "Or to you?" Jemat countered. For a moment, righteous indignation flared in her heart - and then she smiled. You are so right, Jemat, she thought silently; we think we know one another - and yet, when it comes down to it, we don't know the slightest thing about one another. Six months ago, gentlemen, and it might have worked, she told them silently. Six months ago, I would not have realized that you were manipulating my emotions, playing with my feelings, trying to provoke the reaction you desire. But six months ago, I had not met Andile... Garave... whatever the hell her name is! - and whatever, or whoever, she may be, she is far better at this game than you are. You can not trick me that easily, she cautioned them. Picard's behavior toward her as an individual may well have been reprehensible - but his behavior as an officer was irreproachable - and after half a life in Starfleet, she knew well the difference between the two - and an amateurish attempt at emotional manipulation by an alien _outo_ was not about to change that. That he was entirely correct was another matter altogether. "The captain has revealed information he knew was critical to Garave's health and survival - as required by that same oath," she countered, finding herself defending him easily. "Beyond that, however, her faith in his integrity was vindicated - as is the faith of every crewman aboard," she added, glancing at Picard. "He did not, could not, and would not reveal personal information that he could not have known was relevant to her health." If he had trusted me more, however... she added silently. No, she thought instantly, stopping the thought before it could drift into another round of recriminations against the man who sat across from her. That isn't fair - and it's not worthy of either of us. Trust was never the issue here; duty was. And you fulfilled your duty to Andile as best you could - indeed, perhaps better than I did. You forced me to keep her alive when I would have let her go. Even now, she added, glancing at the two Breen, I am not sure that was the right decision; not even with the survival of an entire civilization hinging on that choice. The life you've condemned her to live is not the one she would have chosen for herself - but that was not your choice to make. The only choice you had was whether to follow the oath you took - or to betray it. And he had betrayed it, she reminded herself - but never when there wasn't a greater good a risk, when the moral imperative that lay behind the oath took precedence over the words. For you, duty would always be first, over everything - and everyone - else. I'm sorry, she thought to him, both proud and sad at the same time. Sometimes... sometimes I forget that your duties, your obligations of command, transcend even the bonds of friendship - but I do respect and cherish that dedication. As your fellow officer, I thank you, she added wordlessly. But as your friend, as someone who once hoped there would be more... She let the thought fade away; there would be ample time later to think about the limits of friendship, command - and love - and how those limits could never truly mesh. "To betray her, to reveal what he knew about her, would have violated his oath - and her trust," Beverly concluded. "To reveal that the lieutenant was Breen might well have been to doom her as well," Picard interrupted. "She has been under suspicion for a number of crimes - including treason," he explained. "Being found out as Breen would have sealed her fate - even if the charges were ever discounted. We have seen lesser genetic relationships doom Starfleet careers," he added soberly. Jemat looked at the two, the shock and revulsion evident even in his very Breen expression. "To penalize, even to kill, an individual because of their genetic? Because of something they could not control?" he said in horror. "That is... barbaric!" he gaped. "But it is so very human," Picard replied, equally disapproving. And so unchanging, he added silently; even as Starfleet could condemn her for her heritage, so had the lieutenant and her kind been damned a thousand - ten thousand! - years before, by her own people - and, he added in silent anger, because of the effect of the Breen's genetic manipulations. "I am not attempting to rationalize or justify the actions of my people - then or now," Picard continued quietly. "We acted, indeed, we still act - often from ignorance and fear - but we are trying to move beyond that ignorance, to discover the truth about who we are, and why we act as we do - and, when possible, to change those behaviors for the better, for ourselves and for those around us. But so often, indeed, too often, those behaviors are rooted deeply within both the society - and the individual - and try as we might sometimes we can not change the who we are, either as a group - or as an individual," he added quietly. He looked at Beverly, apology and regret in his eyes. "We are, too often, who we are - and we can not change that," he said softly - then straightened, almost imperceptibly, and turned back to Jemat and Ferata. "It is a flaw in the human psyche, but one that, had you better understood the nature of humans, you could have considered. Had you done so, you might have saved her - saved all the andile - from the brutality of their own people," he chastised the two. "But damning the children because of the parents is not unique to humanity," Beverly countered. "The Bajoran castes, the Cardassian Chiemma... even in violent ways, we seem to need separate the population, to create ranks and files, to categorize people by nothing more than birth. The idea of a noble class in almost every Earth culture, the Houses on Betazed... almost every humanoid culture we've met has differentiated - and often persecuted - those who are different, those they don't understand. Perhaps, Jemat," she added quietly, "in all the galaxy, the Breen are the only culture that never needed to do so - because you each understand, and have always understood, from your most fundamental to your most conscious levels, that you were part of a greater whole." Jemat stared at Beverly for a long time - then nodded. "I do not believe we had ever considered that possibility, Doctor. But," he added a moment later, "if you are right, then it is all the more important that Garave survive - to share her genes - our genetic gist - with the generations to follow, so that, in time, we may all someday become god." Beverly smiled tolerantly. "I wouldn't presume to try to dissuade you from your goal, Jemat - but all this," she waved her hand at the two Breen and the captain, "is still conjecture. "Andile's sun went nova millennia ago; that world is gone, those people are gone - you can't even be sure that the her colony was the one you planted! And more to the point, it still leaves me wondering how this revelation affects my patient." Ferata jerked his head in negation - then stopped, and made an awkward shake of his head. "It is not conjecture, Doctor; our belief has been verified - and by no less an authority than your captain," he added, somewhat smugly. "The captain...?" Beverly began, glancing at Picard - and received a confused shake of his head in return. "I?" he echoed. Jemat smiled. "You, captain - through your deposition," he said. Beverly shook her head again, still confused. "But... " she began, then stopped. "According to the medical debriefing that was performed, the deposition reveals the memories of the individual - and according to my own scans, the procedure was initiated - but not completed on the lieutenant. Isn't that correct?" Ferata gave an awkward nod. "It is." "Then how...?" she pressed. "An old memory, Doctor, one we did not note at first," Jemat answered. He looked at Picard - and smiled. "Do you recall?" he asked. Picard considered for a moment, then started to shake his head - then stopped. "Her name," he said - then looked at Beverly. "The lieutenant... The first time I met her... Rather, the second time," he amended, "the time I attended her class, she introduced herself as Professor Handeela," he said - then looked at Jemat. "As in..." "_Hah-ndeela," Jemat agreed, sliding the emphasis from the second syllable to the first - but making the similarity between the two words unmistakable. "I believe the linguistic shift that occurs in most spoken languages may account for the change from the Breen pronunciation to the Parashian one..." "And a second, similar shift to explain the change to the pronunciation we use," Picard continued, nodding. Jemat drew a breath, the hesitation - and regret - obvious in the Breen's manner. "No. I wish that were the case - but I believe that once we have finished reading Garave's memories in full, we will learn that her culture was responsible for the shift in pronunciation from _hah-ndeela_ - 'beloved' to andile - 'filth', in order to reflect the radical change in the meaning. In time, I believe we will discover that 'handeela' still existed in her people's language, and still possessed the same benevolent and loving import that it possesses for us." "Then why did she change the pronunciation?" Beverly asked. "If she could be 'beloved', why allow herself to be called 'filth'?" she asked. Picard turned to her, sorrow covering his face. "Because it was a pretense," he told her. "She was posturing, trying to elevate herself - maybe even to overcome the self-image she had of herself - to be something more. No one in Starfleet knew the difference; no one knew better..." "But she did," Beverly concluded, understanding at once. Andile could become Handeela, she thought; she could pretend she was something more than the wretched filth her people had decried her to be... at least for a while. Until something went wrong. Until someone was hurt. Until her own conscience rebelled against her self-glorification, and slammed her back; until ten thousand years of indoctrination overwhelmed a few years of self-reliance and self-determination. And then Handeela would become Andile again - and Andile would become a spy, a thief, a prostitute, a murderer - whatever she had to be - and know she deserved nothing better than whatever crumbs of solace her people would give her. Beverly shook her head, wishing she had been there when... when what? she wondered. What had driven that emerging sense of self-worth back, crushing it so thoroughly that Andile would prefer the ultimate fate of a suicide mission over the work that she professed she loved. She didn't know - and risking a glance a Picard, she knew he didn't either. I wasn't there then, she thought to herself - but I am here now, she thought defiantly, and looked at Picard once again. I couldn't help her then - but I can now. If that's what she wants, she added - then glanced at Picard. People do change, she thought at him - when they want to change. When it's important to them... She looked at him - and watched as he looked back, his eyes, his face, his composure all perfectly composed once again - and utterly professional, the consummate captain. But only if it's important to them, she realized in slow finality. And when it isn't important... She bit at her lower lip, feeling the sting of tears building in her eyes, then blinked them back. There had been enough tears of late, she told herself; she had cried over him too many times already. Enough, she thought at herself and at him, angry but resolute; you may not want to change - but I do. I have to; I can't go on like this. She drew a long, slow breath - and turned to Jemat. "So she's Breen; how does this affect her as my patient? Do you have medications...?" Jemat shook his head. "Despite my comments, physiologically, she is still, for the most part, human. Our medications would be ineffective - if not dangerous - for her, for any human. Nonetheless, our surgical techniques should allow the reconstruction of the exterior layers of her hands and feet - and perhaps the reattachment of her amputated arm. Since these extremities are also rich in nerve receptors, their restoration may provide the needed additional sensory stimulus to promote the progression in brain function to take her to a conscious level. In addition, there are other therapies we have used in similar cases - but whether they are applicable or not, I can not tell - not before examining her." Beverly turned to Picard. "If there's nothing else we need to know...?" she asked. He met her gaze - and for a moment, his eyes lingered on hers, reluctant to let them go - as if there was something he wanted to say, something he needed to tell her... Then he shook his head. "Nothing. You are dismissed, Doctor. Jemat, I will have a security team escort you and the Doctor to Sickbay." "Thank you," Jemat replied, then pushed the chair back from the table. "Doctor?" he said, reaching out a hand to help her up, then wrapping her hand in his arm, just as he had done earlier, then patting it gently. Just like Jean-Luc does, Beverly thought. No, she thought; like he _did_. But that was over. She bit her lip again - then pushed the pain away. It was over - not that it have ever begun, she added - and it was time to move on. On to her patients. On with her life. She looked at Jemat. "Despite the setbacks, we've have had some positive results," she began as they moved to the door. "There has been a reduction in the size of the adrenal cortices..." Picard watched as the two left, then turned to Ferata. "And where do we begin, Ambassador?" he asked the Breen. "Where all things begin, Captain - at the beginning," the Breen countered smoothly. "But before that perhaps some tea? I have not read your deposition in depth - but I believe there is a prominent memory of something called 'Earl Grey'...?" -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Awards Tech Support http://www.trekiverse.us/ASCAwards/commenting/ No Tribbles were harmed in the running of these Awards ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek .creative or directly to the author. Yahoo! Groups Links To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sun Mar 28 16:56:21 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n1.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.64]) by robin (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1b7Ien5Yl3NZFjX1 for ; Sun, 28 Mar 2004 13:54:11 -0800 (PST) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-13334-1080510848-stephenbratliffasc=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yah oo.com Received: from [66.218.66.31] by n49.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 29 Apr 2004 03:17:31 -0000 X-Sender: stephen@trekiverse.org X-Apparently-To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 69040 invoked from network); 29 Apr 2004 03:17:28 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.218) by m25.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 29 Apr 2004 03:17:28 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO snipe.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.62) by mta3.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 29 Apr 2004 03:17:28 -0000 Received: from sdn-ap-008dcwashp0213.dialsprint.net ([63.188.72.213]) by snipe.mail.pas.earthlink.net with smtp (Exim 3.33 #1) id 1BJ22x-0006jw-00 for ascl@yahoogroups.com; Wed, 28 Apr 2004 20:17:12 -0700 To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Organization: Alt.StarTrek.Creative Virtual Staff Office Message-ID: X-Mailer: Forte Agent 1.92/32.572 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 207.217.120.62 X-eGroups-From: Stephen From: Stephen X-Yahoo-Profile: oldmanasc MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCL@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCL@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Wed, 28 Apr 2004 23:17:02 -0400 Subject: [ASC] NEW: TNG "Echoes" P/C, D/f (R) Pt 154/? Reply-To: ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Buy Ink Cartridges or Refill Kits for your HP, Epson, Canon or Lexmark & Cana Printer at MyInks.com. Free s/h on orders $50 or more to the US da. http://www.c1tracking.com/l.asp?cid=5511 http://us.click.yahoo.com/mOAaAA/3exGAA/qnsNAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 28 Apr 2004 03:59:33 -0700 In: alt.startrek.creative From: keroth1701@sbcglobal.net (Ke Roth) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 154/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 154 "There appears to be some stiffening of the ligaments..." Jemat muttered, more to himself than to the physician standing beside him, gently manipulating the hand of the unconscious woman, flexing the fingers back and forth, then gently rotating the wrist. "Minimal regeneration of pseudo-epidermis as well," he added, prodding carefully at the raw flesh that stretched over the bones. "I didn't want the flesh to heal over, Jemat," Beverly protested, somewhat defensively. "Andile had massive rejection issues with her previous transplants; once she stabilizes, I was hoping to draw skin fibers down from the existing tissue on her arms and allow them to regraft - but that has required a higher degree of immobilization of the joints than is standard. Still, I have been using intermittent range-of-motion therapy and adjunct chemotherapies to maintain a degree of muscle tone..." Jemat, still hunched over Andile's bed, her hand still resting in his, looked back at Beverly - and smiled. "I was not criticizing, Doctor," he replied respectfully. "Indeed, I am not sure I would have been able to maintain this level of flexibility in the joint in one of my own patients in a similar condition. And, as you have surmised, the failure of the underlying tissue to lay down a pseudo-epidermis will minimize the trauma of any attempts to create a true epithelial layer; had a secondary layer begun to attach itself, we might have been faced with having to excise the flesh once more, and repeat the surgery that was performed on our ship. Considering the amount of time that ahs passed, and the fact that we were unable to complete her surgeries before she returned to your ship, I am quite pleased. When you feel she is stable enough to tolerate the procedure, we can perform the surgery to restore the outermost layer of flesh to her hands." Beverly stared at the Breen for a moment - then nodded, letting out a sigh of frustration and tension. "My apologies, Jemat. As much as I appreciate your opinion - and your expertise..." "It's difficult to not feel as though your work was being judged," he concluded for her. "I understand; I don't think there are many, human or Breen, who appreciate having someone second guess their decisions. "And that is not why I am here," he continued as he watched the last vestiges of tension fade from her face. "I offer the expertise and knowledge I have acquired - but to be used as you see fit. She is, after all, your patient, Doctor," he said. "She was yours, as well," Beverly countered sympathetically, knowing how difficult it was to relinquish the care of a patient to another physician. Jemat nodded, appreciating her understanding and turned back to his examination of Andile. "As was the captain," she added, somewhat more softly this time. Jemat glanced back at her - then returned to his examination. "He was," he agreed after a moment. "There is a slight increase in the amount of adipose tissue in the forearms," he murmured. "Actually, I'm rather happy about that, Jemat. Normally, a healthy human body carries a percentage of body weight as fat - but Andile had metabolized most of her body fat in recovering from her last... injury," Beverly murmured. Jemat nodded absently, turning over Andile's arm, studying the underside, then lay it back down again. "I am aware of the nature of her last...injury, Doctor - and of the physical and emotional sequelae. Perhaps more so than you are," he added, then fell silent for a time. "All that she is, Doctor, all that she was, is a part of us now," he informed her quietly, then let his hand drift down over Andile's arm, stopping as just before he reached the exposed muscles that surrounded her wrist. "There were scars here," he said quietly. "Yes," she answered softly. "I removed them," he said. Beverly nodded. For a moment the two were silent. "Are you aware of cause of the scars?" he asked at last. "I know they were self-inflicted," she answered obliquely. "Self-mutilation - but they were not suicide attempts." "No," Jemat agreed. "Andile are forbidden suicide. But they are not forbidden punishment. And she had to be punished - for living when the child did not; for killing the budling whose life she had sworn to protect. "She tried to cut off her own hands," Jemat said, almost angrily - though whether his anger was directed at Andile, or at Starfleet for their having sent her on the mission - or at himself for his people having placed Andile - albeit it indirectly - in the position she found herself, Beverly did not know. "She tried to cut them off, not once - but hundreds of times, always knowing she could never succeed, knowing she would fail - and try again, punishing herself over and over for her crime." "Her crime?" Beverly repeated, appalled. "Her crime," Jemat echoed, "her sin. She returned, whole and intact, when the child did not." Beverly shook her head. "She came back, Jemat, but she was neither whole nor intact," she countered softly. "There was no crime - but even if there had been, she's been punished enough for a hundred lifetimes." "We know that," he agreed. "But she does not. Repairing her body is one thing, Doctor; the harder task will be repairing her spirit." "If there is a spirit that can be repaired, Jemat," Beverly cautioned. "She was oxygen deprived long enough that there was significant brain damage. Even if her brain can physically heal, those areas will have lost their function. She'll have to re-learn tasks - from simple to complex - but, given time, that can be accomplished. What can't be re-learned, Jemat, are the memories that were lost. When those areas of the brain were lost, so were the memories." She sighed thoughtfully. "And perhaps that will be for the best: if she can't remember the painful episodes..." "An hour ago, you questioned my people's ethics, Doctor," he reminded her. "Would those some ethics you touted so readily permit you to pick and choose what aspects of a person's life you would return to them, given the choice?" he asked pointedly. "To spare her pain..." Beverly began. "Sometimes, Doctor, our work requires us to hurt our patients, to cause them pain, that we might, in the end, achieve a greater good. Would you opt not to perform a surgery, knowing that if you did the procedure, the recovery would be painful - but knowing that, in the end, the patient's life would be spared?" "It is not the same thing, Jemat," she argued. "Andile... Garave... the lieutenant," she finally decided, "would be alive either way..." "Would she?" he interrupted. "Her body would survive, yes - but the woman, the spiritual being might not. We are the totality of our life's experiences, Doctor; what we said and did and felt - what we cherished - and what we regretted - all these things make us who we are. All Garave's experiences made her who she is - both for good and ill; would you take that away from her, would you risk changing the person she was, even to spare her pain?" he asked. "Would you want someone to do that to you?" he added softly. "_For_ you?" Beverly studied the alien for a long moment - then shook her head. "No," she conceded. "But as a physician, as a human, as a compassionate being, how can I permit her to return to this... this self-induced hell?" she asked, her eyes locked on the woman's wrist. "You must," he said softly. "For now, at least. She must find her path - as you must find yours," he added. "As we all must find our own way." Beverly looked at him, hearing the silent message in his words, finding herself tempted to pursue them - then stopped herself, stopped the flicker of hope that sparked in her soul. No, she told herself. Not this time. Not again. Never again. "If she can find her way," Beverly countered ominously, "To be blunt, Jemat, I'm not sure that's possible. Her condition is stable..." He nodded, giving a very human sigh. "... but that is all, yes?" Beverly drew a deep breath - then let it out in exasperation. "Yes. She progressed wonderfully the first few days after we placed the lines into the cerebral cortex - then she plateaued out. There's been progress since then - but it's been minimal at best," she admitted. "Given her genetic make-up, I had expected to see the same healing patterns now as we had seen earlier - rapid wound closure, quick tissue regeneration - and yet it's not happening. She's making no progress - and I'm at a loss to explain it, let alone to reverse it," she admitted. Jemat pursed his lips, the human facial expression oddly out of place of the Breen's near lip-less face - but the intent unmistakable to Beverly. He too was perplexed. "Rapid healing is to be expected from one of the genes that was transplanted to all of our subject groups," he agreed. "There are only two biological limitations to that effect..." "I know," Beverly interrupted. "Malnutrition and neurotransmitter insufficiency. I've tried to monitor her nutritional status since she came back, especially in light of having had to resect her bowel. I've kept a very close eye on her nutrient balance in order to ensure that she's receiving - and absorbing - the necessary proteins required for the healing process to occur. The balance and absorption are as good as I could hope - but the healing is not," she said. "Liver damage?" Jemat tried. "That could affect the protein levels..." She shook her head. "Liver function is still slightly depressed from her previous injuries - but it's higher than it was when she just before the accident - and her healing rate was remarkable then," she countered. "As it was - briefly - after we began the infusions of the neurotransmitters. Damn it, she's getting a continuous influx of everything she needs - and it's having no effect!" she muttered in frustration. "Perhaps the balance of the transmitters...?" Jemat began. Beverly shook her head again. "No. I've maintained the same proportions that were in the samples of cerebral-spinal fluid we extracted prior to the... incident; the infusions worked prior to the accident and during the surgery - but since then, they've been almost completely ineffective." Jemat considered for a long time, then looked at her. "Some Breen neurotransmitters have different ion suffixes than the human forms of those same transmitters," he said. "Perhaps the infusions worked at first because they filled an immediate need - but as her body accustoms itself to the presence of the transmitter, it requires a more specific chemical match to her receptor site. If so, we may be able to replicate the appropriate transmitters from our pharmacoligcal replicator files," he suggested. "May I see her transmitter profile - and the molecular configurations of the transmitters she is receiving?" he asked. Beverly nodded, then turned to the terminal in Andile's room. A moment later, the two pieces of data were displayed on the screen. "Hmm..." the Breen mused. "A carbonate ion here, where there would be a sulfate ion in the same chemical in a Breen brain... but that should not account for the difference in the two transmitters. Not if it worked before..." He considered for a few more minutes - then looked at Beverly. "The dialysis, perhaps? A change in her kidney function..." Beverly shook her head, negating the idea. "I considered that idea - and dismissed it. Jemat, I've found almost nothing that's changed since we began the therapy - except the results," she protested. Jemat considered. "Perhaps the therapy itself is responsible for the change," he said at last. "The increase in mental processing may be affecting the balance in the available neurotransmitters. If you were to analyze the fluid in the ventricle..." "Not possible," she said flatly. "The tritanium in her skull blocks the medical scanners - and when the scanners are remodulated to allow for the presence of the tritanium, the readouts are, at best, imprecise." "Then an analysis of the fluid itself," he countered. She drew in a long breath. "That's a surgical procedure, Jemat - and a dangerous one, given Andile's... Garave's... condition. It could kill her." "And it could save her," he countered - then looked at Beverly. "Doctor, I know we can regenerate the tissue of her left hand, restore much of the function to the limb. I also believe that we can induce the regrowth of the vascular tissue that would allow you to reattach her right arm. But without the certain knowledge that she can heal from those injuries, there is no point in attempting to do so. I will not cause a patient pain - not without there being at least some chance of recovery - not even for the sake of the survival of my people," he said bluntly. Beverly studied the alien for a long time - then touched her commbadge. "Alyssa, prepare the OR - and let's prep Biji for surgery. We're going back in." The chimes to his room rang out, once, twice, then a third time before the fact that they were ringing found its way into his unconscious mind. It took a fourth repetition of the chime, however, before he could wake himself enough to rise from the bed, calling out, "One moment," as he reached for the familiar blue and white-striped robe that lay draped over a nearby chair - and a fifth repetition before he could wake sufficiently to successfully pull the robe over his sleeping clothes. "One moment! Computer - lights!" he called out again as he fumbled with the belt - but the caller, whoever it was, apparently was in no mood for patience. The door chimed a sixth time - and most likely would have chimed a seventh if Picard had not finally called out in frustration and mounting anger, "Enter!" The door had barely opened when he began to add, "What the hell is so damned important..." when Beverly pushed her way into the room. "Beverly?" he asked, confused by her unexpected appearance, his wrath fading instantly. "It's two in the morning," he began to add, only to be interrupted by the physician. "We have a problem," she said bluntly - and he realized a moment later, quite angrily. He stared at her for a moment, fatigue and confusion lingering for a moment - then turned walked to the replicator. "Tea, Earl Grey - hot," he said quietly. He waited a moment for brew to appear, then took a long sip, feeling the heat of the tea travel down his throat and settle in his stomach before turning to face her once again. "What kind of a problem?" he said at last. She shoved the padd in her hands at him. "Someone's trying to kill Biji. I think," she added a moment later, a little less certainly this time. "Or maybe not kill her, but keep her from recovering. Or maybe they're trying to kill us all... Or... " She shook her head, then raised a hand to her temple rubbing at it. "Or maybe it's just another computer problem," she admitted wearily. "I don't know. I... I'm sorry," she finally said. "I shouldn't have come here. I just didn't know who else I could talk to, who else I could trust," she said softly, shaking her head. For a moment, Picard studied the woman - then reached out for her arm, guiding her toward the couch, gently pushing her into its depths before returning to the replicator. "Here," he said a few seconds later, pushing a second cup and saucer filled with steaming tea into her hands, then settled himself into the opposite end of the sofa, watching as she took a sip of the strong brew - then gave a long sigh. "Better?" he asked softly. She nodded - then opened her eyes and looked at him, a hint of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. Which needed color, he thought to himself; she looked awful, her complexion grey, her eyes dark with exhaustion... She looks, he decided, like I feel. No surprise there, he added; her day had been as long as his... longer, he amended, realizing he had gone to bed almost an hour ago - while she was obviously still working. At what, however, he had no idea. "You think someone is trying to kill the lieutenant?" he repeated. Beverly hesitated - then shook her head. "No. Maybe. Damn it, Jean-Luc, I don't know," she admitted. "All right," he said calmly, "then let's start with what you _do_ know. And that is...?" he prompted. "At Jemat's suggestion, we extracted several milliliters of fluid from Andile's ventricle this afternoon. She has not been recuperating as we hoped..." Picard nodded sympathetically. "I know; I've read your reports..." "And we agreed that the only possibility left to investigate was to examine the fluid from her brain to see if there was some indication as to why she's not recuperating. An imbalance in the neurotransmitters, perhaps an infection, receptor site blockage... There were dozens of possibilities that could have explained it," she said. "The one I never anticipated however, was the one I found." "And that was...?" "I spent the last eight hours studying the fluid from Andile's brain, Jean-Luc. The balance is correct, the chemical composition is correct..." "But...?" he prompted. "The conformations are wrong," she said quietly. He raised a brow at the revelations - then gave a vague nod. "Indeed," he murmured. "The conformations." It took her a moment to realize the significance of the information was not as self evident to him as it was to her. "All drugs," she explained quietly, "rely on two components to function in the body: chemical composition - and conformation. Structure. Not only must the drug contain the correct atoms in the correct quantities and correct organizational arrangement - but they must be shaped correctly as well. Shaped correctly, the drug works. Reverse the shape - make a mirror image of the drug .." She shook her head. "...and the drug doesn't work. Worse, the results can be devastating - or fatal. "Chemically, the neurotransmitters that we've given Andile are perfect - but the organizational structure within the molecules themselves are mirror images of what they are supposed to be - and as such, they simply don't work." "But... I saw the effect during surgery! They were working..." he protested gently. "Yes, they were," she said, emphasizing the last word slightly. "But something has happened to change that," he murmured understanding registering. She nodded. He sipped his tea, thinking, then looked at her. "You said that her brain deconstructs the neurotransmitters, then reforms them," he reminded her. "All human brains do that," she confirmed. "Then couldn't this simply be a matter of her brain breaking down the transmitters you gave her and reforming them?" he asked. "It could - but we would have seen the left-handed conformations in her CSF the first time we extracted a sample," she countered. "But you said she'd experienced brain damage," he countered. "Couldn't that have caused her brain to..." He stopped in mid-sentence as Beverly shook her head. "The process of catabolism and reconstruction is genetic in nature, Jean-Luc; to see this sort of change from within her body, she would have had to have had her entire genetic structure altered at the cellular level. I don't know that it could be done on this level - not without killing her - and certainly not since she's been returned to the ship. No, I think we have to face one of two possibilities - neither of which is good. "One: there is still a problem with the replicator system..." Picard shook his head. "Geordi and Data have checked the system thoroughly," he reminded her. "They checked it after the discovery of the sabotage," she corrected. "Not since - and since we know the neurotransmitters we gave Biji were functioning correctly in those first few days, we know the replicators were also functioning correctly... then. But now?" Picard gave her a hard look. "Sabotage? You think we may have had another event in the interim?" he asked worriedly. "That's one possibility," Beverly said. "Meaning we may still have a saboteur aboard," he concluded grimly. "Possibly - but what are the chances that a saboteur would allow the same type of replicator error to announce his - or her presence - twice?" she asked him. "Unlikely," he concurred after a moment's thought. "Sandra James may have made that mistake the first time - but if there is a second saboteur aboard, he or she would have known better than to repeat the error. Of course, if it was only affecting the pharmacological replicator in Sickbay, the saboteur might not have known..." Beverly frowned. "Jean-Luc, the Sickbay replicators are the most accurate, most carefully protected replicators on the ship; there are more safeties, more internal double and triple checks on that piece of equipment than on any other on the ship - and for good reason: one error, one misaligned component in a medical device, one atom missing - or one too many..." "One incorrect conformation," he said, understanding at last. "... and my patients could die - or worse." He studied her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing with concern. "Then you think the neurotransmitter wasn't malformed by accident," he said. "The odds are almost inconceivable. No; it was done deliberately, not to sabotage the ship or the crew - but specifically to hurt - or maybe even kill, Biji," she replied. "Someone intentionally programmed the replicator to reverse the conformation on some - but not all of Andile's neurotransmitters. Enough to harm her - but not enough to be self-evident. The problem is that I don't know who - or why," she conceded. "The why can be inferred," he countered. "There are more than a few people who would prefer that the lieutenant - and what she knows, what she's experienced - never see the light of day. Permanent incapacitation might be preferable to her dying, since it could be explained away by her injuries - whereas her death would require an autopsy - but either might suffice, as long as, in the end, what she knows remains locked in her mind. As for the who, however..." His voice trailed off. Beverly nodded grimly. "I know. She's been in Sickbay for weeks - and there have been dozens - maybe even a hundred or more - people in and out of there. Any one of them could have made the alteration to the program..." "But wouldn't they have needed the specialized knowledge of what to do, what changes to make in the neurotransmitters?" Picard countered. "You mean, wouldn't it have had to be one of my medical team?" she asked. He hesitated, reluctant to confirm her worst fear - then nodded. "Yes." "I hate to think it was one of them, Jean-Luc," she replied miserably. "I hate to think that there's one of them who I can't trust - but, yes, it's possible. Probable, even - but it's not absolute. With the computer's security systems damaged, almost anyone could have had access to Andile's medical records; it wouldn't take a genius to figure out what we've been trying to do for her - and how to affect that regimen. Someone - an engineer, for example, could have made the changes in the replicator program - God knows there were enough engineers coming in and out of Sickbay when Geordi was constructing her room to have made the change without us noticing it - and my medical staff would be administering the affected transmitter to Andile without ever knowing we were doing it. "Unfortunately, the replicator records are tied in to the same areas of the computer that records other information; I have no record of who made the change in the program - or when," she conceded. "All I know is that they had to have done it at the Sickbay terminal - but as I said, that could be almost anyone who has passed through in the last few weeks." "So it could be anyone," Picard agreed quietly. She nodded. "Anyone," she echoed - then bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes. "One of my team, one of my friends... Jean-Luc, I don't know who I can trust any more," she said. Picard studied her for a moment - the reached for the tea cup, taking it away, setting it on the low coffee table - then taking her hands in his. He ran his thumb over the soft flesh of her hand for a moment, savoring the familiar touch - then stopped and met her eyes. "Thank you, then, for trusting me, Beverly," he said softly. She looked back - then turned her eyes down to where their hands were joined - and gently withdrew from his touch before looking up once again. "You're the ship's captain," she reminded him - not coldly, but distantly. "If we can't trust in you, then we're all dead," she said. He froze at her words - then forced himself to nod in agreement. "Yes. Of course," he replied - then rose from the couch. "As her physician, how do you suggest we address the lieutenant's medical needs from this point forward? Can she recover from what has been done to her?" "I don't know," she admitted. "I don't know that she can recover at all, let alone what the effects of the infusions of altered transmitters will be. If they've simply blocked the function of the other transmitters, then, in theory, her condition should reverse, and she should - in time - begin to recover once again. If they've damaged her brain further however..." Her voice trailed off. "What I do know," she continued a moment later, "is that it won't continue. I've already deleted the incorrect neurotransmitters and blocked their re-introduction to the system; if anyone attempts to alter any of the other neurotransmitters, I'll know about it," she replied, her voice growing firm as her emotions faded. "It won't stop someone from trying the same thing with other drugs, however - which means that only I can be responsible for ordering the drugs Andile is to receive - and even then, I'm going to have to test them for purity and potency." "I understand," he agreed. "However, you can't be responsible for watching over her around the clock, Doctor," he reminded her. "I know," she agreed, having already considered that possibility - and dismissed it as impractical - and dangerous, both to Andile's safety and to her own health. "Then we're going to have to trust in someone else," he continued - then sighed. "And while Data would be the optimum candidate, I can not afford to have him away from his duties indefinitely," he informed her. "I know," she agreed. "and I wouldn't want him - or anyone - there constantly. Working with someone who is so ill, so unresponsive to all our efforts as Andile is, is emotionally debilitating. It takes its toll on those of us who are prepared for it . For Data, for anyone whose emotions are still so new, so undeveloped, such prolonged contact could be unhealthy, perhaps even dangerous. "No, I was going to suggest limiting Data - and myself - to one shift per day, each." "And the third shift, Doctor?" Picard pressed, "I was going to suggest... Worf," she said quietly. Picard raised a brow in surprise. "Worf?" he echoed - then considered the suggestion. "I'll agree he can be trusted, but.." he mused. "Trust has nothing to do with it, Jean-Luc." "No?" he replied, surprised again. "Then what?" "Honor," Beverly replied. "Worf dishonored Andile. He insulted her, disparaged her, publicly damaged her credibility - and he was wrong," she added, her voice so cool, so bitter, that, for a moment, Picard was unsure if she was talking about the Klingon - or about someone else who had dishonored - unjustly - a loyal crewman. For a moment, there was a heavy silence between the two - then Beverly spoke again. "Now his honor demands that he do something to correct his offense - and putting him on guard duty over her would go a long way toward doing so," she explained. "He would die before allowing her to come to harm - and it would keep her safe," she added, almost as an afterthought. Picard studied her for a long moment - then nodded. "Make it so, Doctor," he agreed, then rose to his feet, tightening the belt to his robe, and moving toward the door. "You will, of course, keep me informed of the lieutenant's status?" Taking the less than subtle hint, Beverly rose as well, following him. "Of course, Captain. You'll speak with Worf?" "In the morning," he agreed. "Fine, I'll stay with Andile for the time being - until we can get a schedule arranged," she added. "Good," he said - then touched the actuator pad on the door frame. The door slid open, and Beverly looked out at the hall - then turned back to Picard, her eyes seeking his - and finding them. For a moment, they both hesitated, searching for something in the other's expression, seeking out... What? Beverly asked herself. Hope, she answered herself - then turned away, knowing hope was a thing of her past. Still, she hesitated before she stepped through the door, looking back at him one more time. "Thank you... Captain," she said softly. "You're welcome... Doctor," he replied, then watched the door slide shut as she entered the hallway. He watched the door for a few minutes, just he had done once before, when she had walked out of his life that night a few years before - then he too, turned away. -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Awards Tech Support http://www.trekiverse.us/ASCAwards/commenting/ No Tribbles were harmed in the running of these Awards ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek .creative or directly to the author. Yahoo! Groups Links To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Thu Apr 29 22:02:59 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n34.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.102]) by penguin (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bjnkKkx3NZFl42 for ; Thu, 29 Apr 2004 19:00:58 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-13512-1083290457-stephenbratliffasc=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yah Received: from [66.218.66.30] by n10.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 05 May 2004 03:25:34 -0000 X-Sender: stephen@trekiverse.org X-Apparently-To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 41045 invoked from network); 5 May 2004 03:25:33 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.216) by m24.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 5 May 2004 03:25:33 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO albatross.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.120) by mta1.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 5 May 2004 03:25:33 -0000 Received: from sdn-ap-021dcwashp0504.dialsprint.net ([63.191.145.250]) by albatross.mail.pas.earthlink.net with smtp (Exim 3.33 #1) id 1BLD2B-0005fv-00 for ascl@yahoogroups.com; Tue, 04 May 2004 20:25:23 -0700 To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Organization: Alt.StarTrek.Creative Virtual Staff Office Message-ID: X-Mailer: Forte Agent 1.92/32.572 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 207.217.120.120 X-eGroups-From: Stephen From: Stephen X-Yahoo-Profile: oldmanasc MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCL@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCL@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Tue, 04 May 2004 23:24:59 -0400 Subject: [ASC] NEW: TNG "Echoes" P/C, D/f (R) Pt 155/? Reply-To: ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Buy Ink Cartridges or Refill Kits for your HP, Epson, Canon or Lexmark Printer at MyInks.com. Free s/h on orders $50 or more to the US & Canada. http://www.c1tracking.com/l.asp?cid=5511 http://us.click.yahoo.com/mOAaAA/3exGAA/qnsNAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 3 May 2004 19:30:41 -0700 In: alt.startrek.creative From: keroth1701@sbcglobal.net (Ke Roth) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 155/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 155 "Oh, yes; _that's_ going to fly," Will muttered sarcastically as he looked up into the eyes of the woman straddling his hips, noting the look of satisfaction on her face, knowing that he had been responsible for part of that expression - but only part of it. The remainder of that gleam of self-satisfied triumph had been caused by her own determined proclamation. A proclamation about which he was not nearly as confident. "I'm sure they're both going to agree to stand up for us at the wedding," he agreed, then added, "right up until they learn the other one is going to be there. Deanna," he went on as gently as he could, "we can't even get them on the same deck, let alone in the same room - it's been how many months since Beverly's come to a staff meeting? - and you're expecting them to stand next together at the ceremony - then share a table at the reception?" he asked his fiancée incredulously. "It's only been two weeks since the last time she was at the meeting," she objected, deigning not to mention that she had attended only because Alyssa had been ill on that one morning, forcing Beverly's presence at the assemblage. "And yes, I do expect them to agree to be there - and to stand together throughout the ceremony on Earth - and then I expect them to stand at the second ceremony on Betazed," Deanna replied. "And they're going to do it," she added firmly. He gave her a dubious look. "Yes. Of course they are," he murmured doubtfully. "No," she countered, "they'll do it - and not because they know I'd badger them into it if they even thought about declining - but for all the right reasons." She stopped, then looked down at him, smiling, then reached down, caressing the face that looked up at her from their bed, and feeling her love for the man surge once again. How can I not love him? she wondered as she ran her long fingers against the angle of his jaw. After all, what other man would surprise her to a picnic lunch in the middle of the work day - a picnic lunch filled with all her favorite treats - then set about sating all her other appetites as well? Well, perhaps not sating them completely, she admitted, feeling a new wave of hunger beginning to fill her as she ran her hands over his chest - but it was a damned good effort, she added to herself. Certainly enough to tide her over until their shift was over, she thought, and they could make love again - and again, she added, happily looking forward to her future with the man. A future that was going to start in the presence of her friends - and in the presence of their joy, she added. "Will," she continued softly, "whatever problems they have between them, whatever they feel - or don't feel - for one another, the captain and Beverly both love us both - and no matter what's happening in their hearts and minds, they can - and they will - put aside their problems for a few hours - or a few days - so they can share the beginning of our new life together with us," she told him. "Unless, of course, you'd rather run off to Risa and elope as soon as we get back," she added, grinning mischievously. "Mmmm, Risa," he murmured, letting his imagination play for a moment, remembering the days and nights of pleasure he had found on that idyllic world - then, looking up at Deanna, imagining how much more incredible those same pleasures would be with her, with his wife at his side. Or on top of him, he added. Or beneath me. Or all of the above, he decided - then decided that there was no need to wait for Risa. He let his hands trail down her body, caressing her from shoulder to breast to hip, exploring each curve as if it were the first time his fingers had touched that exquisite flesh, then letting his hands drift to her back, his fingers spreading to encompass the round globes of her buttocks, squeezing them gently, then gently pulling her hips close to his once again. "Eloping on Risa would be fun," he admitted, "but then again," he continued with a hungry, raspy growl, "we could just skip the wedding and go straight to the honeymoon." Deanna gave a soft groan of her own as she responded to his touch, slowly moving her hips against his. "Keep this up, Will, and you're not going to survive until the honeymoon," she told him. "Making up for lost time, beloved, for all those years when I was willing to settle for friendship - when we could have had so much more." Despite the waves of pleasure washing over her, she forced herself to remain cogent as their bodies began to move in unison. "No," she replied. "You weren't ready then - and I was too ready. We had to have time to discover who we were as individuals before we could become the people we are - as a couple. I don't regret the time it took... but I don't regret you wanting to make up for lost time either," she added with a smile - then drew in a sharp breath as a new wave of pleasure crested over her. "My imzadi," he murmured. "My insatiable imzadi," he added, reaching up, his hands caressing her breasts, smiling as she gave a soft gasp of delight at the touch. "I'm... not ... insatiable..." she managed. "You are. Twice... this morning. And twice... at ... lunch? Ohh!" she cried out, throwing her head back in a spasm of exquisite torment. Not insatiable," he countered. "Inspired. Only you, imzadi, can do this to me." he told her, feeling his excitation growing with every her motion and her every cry. "And only... you... can do this... to me," she gasped back. "Oh, god, Will..." she cried out, feeling her desire mounting, merging with his, building, becoming unbearable, overwhelming, undeniable. He felt it as well, and grabbing her shoulders, pulled her to him, rolling her underneath him without breaking the rhythm their bodies had found. "Imzadi," he whispered - then called it out again and again, even as she did, their voices, their bodies, their needs merging until they became one - and until they could bear no more, and need and pleasure overwhelmed them both. "Inspired," she repeated sometime later, he head resting on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles in the hair she found there. "I like that," she said softly. "I think that when you _finally_ get back to the bridge that's what you should tell Data. 'I'm sorry I was late coming back from my break, Commander, but I was inspired at lunch'," she teased. He grimaced. "Knowing Data, he'll want detailed information on what inspired me. No, I think I'll just tell him the truth." Deanna raised her head, looking at her lover in horror. "Will, you wouldn't..." "I can't lie to a fellow officer, Deanna," he countered. So when he asks, I'll just tell him..." "Will..." she started warningly. "That my lunch was so delicious that I decided to have seconds." Deanna stared at her lover for a moment - then shook his head. "Incorrigible. Insatiable and incorrigible." "But honest," he protested, lifting his head to plant a kiss on the top of her head - then lowering it to meet her lips as she moved toward him. "You are delicious," he added, letting his hands caress every delicious curve and indentation on her body - then gave a soft, disappointed groan and pulled away. "But I do have to be getting to the bridge," he reminded her, gently easing his way off her body, hearing - and loving - her soft cry of discomfort and disappointment as their bodies separated. "And you'll ask the captain?" she said, extending her hand to him, letting him help her up to a sit beside her on the bed. "If he'll be the best man?" Will said. "I'll ask him. But he still might say 'no', you know," he added. "It's one thing to agree to stand next to Beverly on Earth; it's something else to ask him to stand next to her on Betazed - when they'll both be stark staring naked," he reminded her. "We'll all be naked, Will," she countered. "That's the point - that when you come to a Betazed wedding ceremony, you bring nothing expect yourself - your heart, your soul, the very essence of who you are - but none of the pretense, the illusions, the masks we hide behind. I don't want the captain there, will; I want our friend, Jean-Luc Picard - the man himself." "I understand, imzadi," he agreed softly. "But what we want - who we want - may be beyond his capacity to grant us. You. more than almost anyone else, know what a private man he is - and more to the point, you know how much that uniform is a part of who he is. To go without it - even for us, for our wedding..." He shook his head. "I don't know, Deanna," he admitted - then smiled. "Of course, we could just have the one ceremony - on Earth. That would eliminate the whole nudity issue..." "And create another, far larger - and far more dangerous one," she countered. "Mother would never forgive either one of us if she couldn't throw a 'proper' wedding celebration for daughter, her new son-in-law - and several hundred of her closest friends," she reminded him. "Hmmm..." Will mused. "Starting a marriage with your mother as an enemy doesn't strike me as the smartest tactical maneuver in the book," he agreed. "It isn't - but it is why I want to get married on Earth first - so we can have a real wedding, one where we can celebrate with our friends and our family - and without the requisite ceremony and posturing that mother will insist upon," Deanna agreed. "You just said that going naked to the wedding was intended to prevent such posturing," he objected. "Will, my mother will be wearing airs and carrying on pretenses even after she's dead; she'd never let a little thing like being naked stop her from being a Daughter of the Fifth House, holder of the Sacred Chalice of Riix, heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed - and all the other titles she has," she reminded her lover. "And I wouldn't have it any other way," he replied, smiling. "Lwaxanna is a force of nature - and one with who I prefer not to contend. Not, at least, when your happiness is at stake," he added. She gaped at him, taken aback by the words. "Will..." "I love you, imzadi," he whispered, reaching for her, pulling her close. "If making your mother happy makes you happy, then so be it." "And being married in the traditional Betazoid way _will_ make her happy," she reminded him "Then we'll get married there - and on Earth - and," he conceded, "I'll do what I can to talk the captain into participating," he continued , turning away from her, reaching for his uniform. But there was a hesitation in his voice, a reluctance in his words that bothered her. "Will?" she said softly. "What is it? What's troubling you? You do want to get married - don't you?" she added worriedly. "Well," he conceded slowly, " I was thinking..." He hesitated, then turned to her, his expression serious. "It's just, well... if you can get the milk for free, why buy the..." She gaped at him, appalled - then watched as his face split into a grin. "Will Riker! You.... You...." she started - then suddenly slapped him on the chest. He grinned, kissed the top of her head - then placed a hand under her chin, tilting her head back so he could look at her - but his expression held little of the joy that he had possessed a moment before. "I love you, Deanna, and I do want to marry you, and I do want to tell everyone, Deanna - but I just think that this isn't the right time," he admitted. "Biji's accident..." His voice trailed off. "It's been nine weeks since the accident, Will," she replied, her voice quieter, her expression now equally serious. "I love Andile - but life goes on. Or it should - and I think she'd agree that we all need to go ahead with our lives. There's been enough sorrow, enough grief to last us all a lifetime - and yet everyone on board is still walking on eggshells, worrying about her - fixating on her. It's not healthy. I think it's time we remember there's more to life than that sorrow. And a wedding - or at least an engagement - might be the way to resume that joy," she said. He drew a long breath - then nodded. "You might be right," he agreed. "God knows we've all been moving around like the living dead for the last two months, waiting, wondering... But I would like to discuss it with the captain first, Deanna, get his approval on it - before we make a formal announcement." "All right," she agreed. "But I'm still going to ask Beverly," she reminded him. "Just ask her not to go public with it until the captain has a chance to make a decision," he requested. "Not to worry, Will," she replied. "I'll be the soul of discretion," she said, reaching down to retrieve her own uniform from the floor. "Great," he countered sarcastically. "Now it'll be all over the ship before I even get back to the bridge." He ducked - but not before the uniform caught him square in the middle of his chest. Will drew a deep breath, worry niggling at the back of his mind. Despite his second dalliance with Deanna - a fact that both surprised and delighted him - he was only a few minutes late returning from his meal break - an event, he insisted, that should, by all rights, pass unnoticed - or at least unnoted. After all, how many times in his entire career had his breaks exceeded the typical sixty minutes? he insisted to himself. Almost none, he replied wordlessly. For that matter, he added defensively, how many meal breaks had he missed entirely in his tenure as first officer on the ship? More than a few, he argued. Even when the ship had been docked at Utopia Planitia for months, he had been on the bridge throughout his duty shift, with rarely more than a token break at any time in his shift! And even if he was running a little behind his time, it wasn't as though he had been less than circumspect in remaining available should he be needed; his communicator was still active, still attached to his uniform; the computer could have found him and notified him of there had been any need for him to return to the bridge. And it was highly unlikely that he would need to hurry back, he added. Despite having a Breen ship less than a hundred kilometers from the Enterprise - and despite the fact that two of the more violent enemies of the Federation had representatives aboard the ship - the last few weeks had been remarkably uneventful. No, there was no reason he couldn't justify being a few minutes late returning to the bridge. His defense prepared, he rolled his shoulders to ease some of the tension that had been building in them during the brief trip from his quarters to the bridge, then, feeling the lift slow slightly, grabbed the lower edge of his tunic, adjusting it in his variation of the classic "Picard maneuver", drew a deep breath, and strode onto the bridge just as the doors opened, ready to argue his case. No one noticed. Or rather, everyone noticed - the bridge crew always noticed when a command officer entered or left the bridge - but no one seemed to note the fact that his absence was fractionally longer than usual. Chagrined at his own self-absorption, he made a mental note not to pre-judge his fellow crewmembers in the future - and, he added, not to make a habit of abusing the privileges of office - even, he added, for Deanna. Well, maybe on occasion for her, he amended, smiling. "Anything happening, Data?" he asked as he made his way to the center seat, the android automatically rising to relinquish the post to Riker. "Cmdr. LaForge reports that he has supervised the final steps in the re-installation and reintegration of the original warp engines," Data replied. "He has initiated a full diagnostic on the system, and if the results meet performance requirements, he would like to begin start-up protocols. We should, at the conclusion of our discussion with the Breen, be able to return to Earth with full warp capability." "How long for the diagnostic?" Will asked. "Geordi estimates eighty-four hours, thirteen minutes, twenty-eight seconds for a level four diagnostic," Data replied. Will grinned. "Geordi does?" he asked, knowing the announcement of exact time expectations was more characteristic of the android than the Chief Engineer. Data gave a short nod. "He does," he countered, then managed a false smile. "I believe Geordi's utilization of the exact time expectation, while accurate, was intended as an act of levity, Commander. He was... 'yanking my chain'," he added. Will smiled, understanding Geordi's attempt to lighten his friends worries - and appreciating Data's attempts to accept that help - even though nothing, short of Andile's recovery, would every fully remove that concern from the android's mind. There were drawbacks to never being able to forget anything, he thought; no matter how busy the ship could be, there would always be sufficient room in the android's mind to be aware - so terribly aware - of his injured friend. "How is she today?" he asked gently. "I believe she is better than yesterday, but not as well as she will be tomorrow," Data answered by rote, then added, "it has been twenty-eight hours since her last seizure," he informed the first officer. "That's a good sign - isn't it?" Will replied. Data hesitated. "Possibly. It may signal that the connections within the corpus collosum have completed their reintegration." "Meaning her brain is regaining function," Will said, his hope unmistakable. "Indeed," Data agreed. "It could also mean that those same connections have completed their dissolution, Commander; that her brain is in the final stages of failure and that her death is imminent," he added dispassionately.. Horrified, Will began, "Look, Data, if you'd rather go be with her..." But the android simply shook his head. "No, sir. I would prefer not to... obsess about the possible negative outcomes. Instead, I will continue focus on the more positive potentialities: to perform my duties - as Andile would require, and to attend to her needs during the third shift." Will nodded. Perhaps Deanna was right; perhaps it was time for them to move on with their lives. Not to abandon Andile of course, he added hastily - but if Data could finally separate himself, even in part, from her side, perhaps it was a sign that the rest of them could move ahead as well. Smiling, he teased his friend, "And the second shift? What do you do then?" he asked, hoping his light-heartedness might help the android. It didn't, he knew instantly, seeing the serious expression in the android's eyes. Serious, yes - but with a hint of something else, something... hopeful. "I have... faith," he said softly, "that Andile will recover - but for her, mere survival is not enough. For her, the fact of mere physical recovery will be insufficient to compensate for the losses she has experienced. She will not be able to do what she once did - and for her, that is tantamount to a living death," he said grimly. "Data," Will interjected gently, "people do learn to live with their disabilities..." "Andile is not 'people'," Data interrupted roughly. "She is... Andile. Her life, her existence is part and parcel of her work; if she can not do the work she loves, then she will die - not physically, but spiritually. I can not permit that. I will not permit that." "You're trying to give her a reason to live?" Will asked. "No, sir; I am trying to give her back her life, as it was," the android said firmly. Will sighed, then shook his head slowly. "That may not be possible, Data." "Yes, sir, it is," Data objected. "That I have not yet found the way to do so does not mean that I will not, only that it may take time. Fortunately, I have time; every day she survives gives me one more day to find a solution." Will studied the man for a long time. And I thought I loved Deanna, he finally realized. And I do - but it's nothing compared to what Data feels for Biji. "You know, Data, I have no doubts you're going to do just that," he said at last, then glanced at the center seat. And speaking of accomplishing missions, he reminded himself... "Data, I need to attend to a personal errand; would you mind taking the con for a few more minutes?" he asked. "Of course." "Thanks," Will replied. Now, to find the captain, he thought to himself, knowing the man's schedule well enough to know that he would be on a meal break of his own between either negotiations with the Breen or negotiations with the Cardassians and the Romulans - but where he would be spending that break, he had no idea. Probably buried in the ship's library, ferreting out some obscure article of law or detail of political protocol or cultural standard that would better allow him to argue his position - and win a concession at the negotiations table. No wonder he had no time to resolve his issues with Beverly, Will decided - or do much of anything else, he added, trying to remember the last time the captain had occupied the center seat. Weeks, he thought - and realized that once again, he had become the acting captain of the ship - a position, he realized, that he was enjoying. I want this, he thought, surprised at the realization; I really want this. This ship, yes - but more importantly, this position - and most importantly, in Starfleet. He drew a breath, a sensation of relief and satisfaction washing over him. This is what I want - and the next time and offer came along - if, he reminded himself firmly, an offer came along, I'm taking it. "Commander?" Data's voice interrupted the man's flash of self-realization. Startled, Will looked at the android, wondering if he looked as at peace with the world as he felt - or if he was merely grinning inanely. "Yes, Data?" he replied. "Your errand, sir?" he reminded the first officer. "Ah, yes," Will countered. "I needed to speak with the captain. You wouldn't know where he is, would you?" "Yes, sir," Data replied easily. "He is in his ready room. Negotiations with the Tar Zumell and Ambassador Tiron terminated early today, and he returned to the bridge just after you left," he informed Will. For a moment, the first officer stared at the android, every ounce of elation and self-satisfaction suddenly gone - then gave a rueful grin and shook his head. "Oh, well," Will muttered to himself. "Some days, you eat the bear; some days, the bear eats you." Data stared at the human, confused. "You wish to eat a bear?" he asked. Will grinned. "Just a phrase, Data. It means that some times you win, sometimes you lose." "And you have lost something?" "Only a little over-confidence. This should only take a few minutes," he added, glancing at the ready room door. "Of course, sir," Data said, then turned back to the seat at the center of the bridge. Will watched him for a moment - then strode to the ready room door, tugged down on the front of his tunic in unconscious mimicry of the captain, and touched the annunciator panel. "Come!" The double doors slid apart, revealing the office within - and the captain, seated at his desk, clearly absorbed by the work spread across his desk. For a moment, Will was tempted to beg off, to make his apologies and offer to return later - but while the captain might be slightly put out by the interruption, Deanna would be merciless. Not angry, not vengeful, not even upset - but she would tease him mercilessly, reminding him, whenever she had the opportunity or the needs, of what he had done - or rather, what he had not. The former he could survive; the latter... Well, he could survive her teasing; he just wouldn't want to, he knew. Will drew a deep breath - then stepped into the room. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Captain," he began. To his surprise, Picard looked up from his work - and smiled. "No need to apologize, Number One. I'm gratefully for a break." He raised his brows the let out a long soft sigh, looking over the padds spread across his desk. "Addressing the negotiations with Tiron and Tar Zumell is challenging enough; add to that trying to initiate a functioning relationship with the Breen..." He gave another sigh. "I understand," Will replied. Picard nodded, studying the desk again - then looked up, as if realizing for the first time that his first officer was standing before him. "I'm sorry, Will; just a little distracted. What was it you wanted?" he added. "Nothing important..." Will demurred - then hesitated. "Sir, are you certain you're all right?" he asked. "You're looking a little... tired." "I am," Picard agreed. "To be honest, I haven't been feeling well the last few days," he admitted. "Then it's a good thing that the negotiations ended early," Will countered cheerfully. Picard frowned. "Truth be told, Will, I'm the one who called an end to today's talks." Startled - and worried - Will looked at Picard, concern narrowing his eyes. "If you're not feeling well, Captain, maybe you should go to Sickbay, sir..." he began - only to be stopped by Picard's upraised hand. "It's just a headache," he insisted - just as he had insisted to himself for the last three days. A headache - and a touch of nausea, he conceded to himself. Perhaps more than a touch, he added, feeling his stomach knot - and a strange tightness growing in his chest. Too many meetings, he insisted; too many padds, too much work. If I'm going to proclaim an early break from today's meeting, I should do just that - take a break. He drew a deep breath, felt the nausea and headache recede slightly - then smiled up at his frowning first officer. "You know, sir, the bones in your back and your neck have never been properly set since all this started..." Will began. "Dr. Ogawa is certain that the reparative surgery can wait until we return to Earth, Will," Picard said firmly. "Yes, sir," Will replied. Fr a moment, an awkward silence fell between the two men - then Picard reminded his first officer, "Was there something you wanted, Number One?" "Oh!" Will replied, startled. "Yes. Ummm... Actually, sir, I wanted to ask a favor," he said. Picard's brow rose in surprise. "A favor?" he said, smiling. "After... what? Fifteen years? I think I can accommodate one favor, Will," he said. "You might want to hear it before you agree, sir," Will demurred. "Indeed?" "Yes, sir," Will replied. Picard waited for a moment - but when Will failed to press the issue, he did - though the growing nausea was starting to tinge his good mood with a hint of frustration. "In that case, what is the favor?" he said, a little testily. "Ummm..." He hesitated again. "Will, just ask," Picard ordered. "Yes, sir. Umm... I was hoping... That is, _we_ were hoping... Deanna and I, that is... " he clarified uncomfortably - then coughed and cleared his throat. "Ummm... " he started again - then blew out a long sigh, knowing he could delay no longer. "Sir, Deanna and I would like you to be the best man at our wedding," he said at long last. Picard stared at the man for a long time, his face a mask of non-responsiveness, of carefully practiced neutrality - then spoke. "Your wedding." "Yes, sir." "Yours and Deanna's," he repeated. "Yes, sir." For another long moment, the captain did nothing other than to stare at the tall man - then grinned widely. "It's about damned time," he said - then rose to his feet, came around his desk, his hand outstretched to the first officer. "Congratulations, Will!" he said in delighted happiness, shaking the man's hand firmly, happily, proudly - then reached out his other hand, thumping him soundly on the shoulder. "I was beginning to wonder when you were going to get around to asking her..." "Actually, she asked me," Will countered. "Betazoid tradition - the women propose." He gave a shaky laugh, the reality of the engagement suddenly becoming real - and, for the first time, terrifying. My God, he thought; I'm getting married! "I assume that means you'll be 'Mr. Troi'?" Picard grinned back. Will froze - then met Picard's eyes. "I hadn't thought about it - but that _is_ the Betazoid tradition," he replied. "Fortunately, Deanna isn't tradition bound," Picard reminded him. "I'm sure she won't object if you keep your... maiden name," he teased the man gently. "Deanna won't object - but her mother might," Will said. Picard's eyes widened at the sudden realization of just who Will's new mother-in-law was going to be - and let out a long exhalation. "Lwaxanna," he murmured - then gave the first officer an appraising look. "Remember, Will, you don't just marry your bride; you marry her family as well. Are you still sure you want to do this?" he asked. For moment, Will hesitated - then replied, "I love her. I have for a long time. And I can't imagine spending the rest of my life with her - even if that means spending it with Lwaxanna as well. After all, the vows do say, 'for better, for worse'," he reminded Picard. "So they do, Will; so they do. And I'd be honored to be there, hearing you say them," he added. The acceptance caught Will unaware - and it took a moment for the words and their meaning to register. "Thank you, Captain - but before you accept, you need to know something... two things actually. One, there will be two ceremonies - the first on Earth, then a second on Betazed," he began. Picard's eyes raised slightly. "On Betazed," he echoed. "Yes, sir," Will said. "Indeed," Picard murmured to himself - then looked at Will. "A 'traditional' Betazed wedding?" he pressed. "With no clothes?" Will nodded. "Yes, sir. No clothes. The wedding party and all the guests will be stark naked," he added, wanting to make sure there was absolutely no confusion on the point. That it would also force Picard to decline was another matter - but he would not have his captain- his friend! - accept the honor without knowing full well what he was agreeing to do. For a moment, the senior officer was silent, obviously formulating a way to excuse himself from the commitment he had just made - but to his surprise, Will saw the man give a single nod of his head. "I accept," he said quietly. "I'd be honored to stand up for you and Deanna," he said solemnly. Will grimaced. "Ummm... about that, Captain..." Surprised by the returning reluctance, Picard looked at Will - then nodded. "Deanna is asking Beverly to stand up for her - yes?" "Yes," Will replied quietly - and was startled by the soft smile on the captain's lips. "A fine choice, Will. Beverly has been a good friend to Deanna - to all of us," he said softly - then met Will's worried gaze. "Don't worry, Will. We're adults; we can behave ourselves, for a day - or two days - or however long it takes for all the ceremonies, rehearsals, parties..." He hesitated, thinking - then grinned. "I believe, Will, that traditionally, the best man is supposed to host the bachelor party..." he began. "Traditionally, yes - but I thought that perhaps you would prefer to defer that responsibility to Worf..." Will started - only to see a mischievous grin on Picard's face. "Oh, no, Number One," he insisted. "I've waited fourteen years to repay you for that little episode on Risa - and once you get married, I'm not going to have the opportunity. No, no; I'll handle the arrangements for the bachelor party," he added with a wicked grin. Will swallowed hard. "Yes, sir." "And speaking of parties - have you two set a date yet?" Will shook his head. "Not yet; once this mission's over and we're back on Earth, we'll start making plans - but in the meantime, we would like to announce our engagement to the crew," he added. Picard nodded - then noted the hesitation in the man's demeanor. "Is there a problem?" he asked. "No, sir - but I wanted to make sure that you didn't consider the announcement ... well, ill-timed," he said. "Ill-timed? How so?" "In light of Andile's injuries..." Will began to explain. "The lieutenant would be the first to celebrate your happiness, Will," Picard interrupted. "I think she.... I think...." He stopped, looked down for a second in surprise and confusion, then looked up again, his face suddenly grey. "I think," he gasped - then cried out in pain, clutching at his chest - and collapsed to the ground. -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Awards Tech Support http://www.trekiverse.us/ASCAwards/commenting/ No Tribbles were harmed in the running of these Awards ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek.creative or directly to the author. Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Tue May 04 23:25:56 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n14.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.69]) by bunting (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bld2o47o3NZFmR3 for ; Tue, 4 May 2004 20:25:36 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-13535-1083727536-stephenbratliffasc=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com Received: from [66.218.66.30] by n20.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 10 May 2004 03:52:44 -0000 X-Sender: stephen@trekiverse.org X-Apparently-To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 26422 invoked from network); 10 May 2004 03:52:43 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.172) by m24.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 10 May 2004 03:52:43 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO grebe.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.46) by mta4.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 10 May 2004 03:52:43 -0000 Received: from sdn-ap-022dcwashp0084.dialsprint.net ([63.191.160.84]) by grebe.mail.pas.earthlink.net with smtp (Exim 3.33 #1) id 1BN1qI-0005bZ-00 for ascl@yahoogroups.com; Sun, 09 May 2004 20:52:39 -0700 To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Organization: Alt.StarTrek.Creative Virtual Staff Office Message-ID: <63vt90daige8lh2s225ivi6phi4rkptlk8@4ax.com> X-Mailer: Forte Agent 1.92/32.572 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 207.217.120.46 X-eGroups-From: Stephen From: Stephen X-Yahoo-Profile: oldmanasc MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCL@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCL@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 09 May 2004 23:52:09 -0400 Subject: [ASC] NEW: TNG "Echoes" P/C, D/f (R) Pt 156/? Reply-To: ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Yahoo! Domains - Claim yours for only $14.70 http://us.click.yahoo.com/Z1wmxD/DREIAA/yQLSAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 9 May 2004 19:36:15 -0700 In: alt.startrek.creative From: keroth1701@sbcglobal.net (Ke Roth) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 156/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 156 "And how's my favorite doctor today?" Beverly grinned up at the counselor perching on the entrance to her office - and shook her head. "Assuming you mean me - and I assume you do - I'm fine," she replied. "Busy?" "Not at the moment," Beverly replied. "So I'm not interrupting you?" the counselor added. Beverly shook her head. "No, you're not interrupting me," she agreed - then sat back and waited. Deanna wanted something, she knew, having been subjected to the empath's tangential approach on more than one occasion in the past - and often enough to know that the more digressive the approach, the more unusual the request. And judging from the woman's behavior at her door, this was going to be a very unusual request indeed. Which didn't mean, however, that she was going to spare Deanna one moment of discomfort; whatever it was that Deanna wanted, she was going to have to earn it. Beverly drew a deep breath, relaxed into her chair - and waited. "Good," Deanna said - then hesitated. "Can I come in?" she added, a little tentatively. The CMO nodded - but said nothing, enjoying the situation. Deanna nervously eased her way in, looked around the room - as though she had never been in the space before, rather than the dozens, evens hundreds, of times she and Beverly had spent in the area - then faced Beverly again. "How's Beej doing? Any more convulsions?" she asked. "Technically, they were seizures - and she hasn't had one for a day and a half," Beverly said. "That's good, isn't it?" Beverly drew a long breath. "It could be," she said at last, though there was an obvious reluctance in her tone. "Terrifying as the seizures were to witness, they were a sign that her brain has making connections through her corpus collosum and she's continuing her recovery. The fact that they've stopped so quickly..." She shook her head. "I don't know, Deanna. It may indicate that area of healing is completed - but it could also indicate that it failed. I just don't know." "Aren't there tests you can perform?" Deanna prompted, her genuine concern temporarily masking her own concerns - and the reason for appearance at Beverly's door. "We'll run a neurological profile as soon as I'm sure the anti-seizure medication have been purged from her system. Right now, the drug would mask her true condition - but I wasn't about to risk her having another seizure and damage the new vasculature in her arm and shoulder," she added. "Jemat did a brilliant job of surgery, not just in regenerating the epithelium of her hands and feet, but in recreating the destroyed blood vessels so we could reattach her arm. It'll be several weeks, however, before the healing is complete. One severe seizure now, and she could tear everything loose; she'd lose the arm for sure - and possibly hemorrhage to death before we could stop it. "And to be blunt, if the profile reveals bad news... there's nothing I can do about it," she admitted softly. "And if it's good news - well, there's nothing I can do about that either," she conceded - then looked at her friend frankly. "You know, Deanna, I studied medicine for years - but the hardest lesson to learn is that sometimes there's nothing that education, practice and experience can do. Sometimes you just have to wait. Still, I've stopped the medication, and put her on partial immobilization so she won't tear any of the new tissues - and so we can run the scan in a day or two." "Not to mention putting a full regeneration unit on her arm and chest," Deanna reminded her, having already seen the massive piece of equipment perched over the tiny woman. "You noticed," Beverly replied with a small smile. "Noticed? The machine is as big as she is!" The physician smiled. "Not quite - but it will help speed the development of the blood vessels in the chest and arm. The surgery to rebuild the tissue and reattach the arm was extensive - and the regen will speed her recovery. But... You're right - it's a big piece of equipment - and damned intimidating. For once, I'm glad she's unconscious. How would you like to wake up after nine weeks - and find that on your chest?" she asked the other woman. Deanna looked back through the doorway, as though she could see into the apartment-like dwelling that was Andile's new home - then turned back. "I wouldn't like it - but I'm not Biji, Bev," she reminded the physician. "No one is," Beverly agreed. A shout reverberated from the adjacent room. "Doctor!" Beverly drew a long breath. "I'll be right there," she called back - then raised a brow as she looked back at Deanna. "Worf," she said quietly. "I recognized the bellow," Deanna replied with a smile. "The drawback to tapering off the meds is that Biji's suffering from tremors to the extremities - and Worf, being her ever-vigilant protector," she said with a grin, "reports each and every one to me. Today, however, has been doubly trying; Tiron's in there with him - and between the two of them, they're convinced that every flicker of motion is definitive evidence that she's regaining consciousness." "And is she?" Deanna asked. "No," Beverly replied softly, shaking her head. "One day... maybe," she added quietly, then added, "or so I hope - if for no other reason than to get the two of them to give me an hour of peace." The levity, however, was tempered with reality - and the possibility that it would never come to be. They both turned, staring at the wall that bordered Andile's apartment, each lost in their own thoughts - then, as one, turned to look at each other. "So... how was the picnic lunch?" Beverly said at last. "Delicious," Deanna grinned, a lascivious glint in her eye. Beverly raised a brow. "Hmmm," she murmured, deciding that that was why the Betazoid had come to her office - to share the details of her erotic meal. "I'll assume then that something, aside from the blanket, got spread." "Beverly!" Deanna gasped in feigned shock. "I'm surprised at you! A Starfleet officer doesn't kiss and tell!" 'I don't care about the kissing; I want the good stuff! Give, Deanna - and all the lurid details, if you please," Beverly demanded. "I may not have a sex life of my own, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy yours, even if it is only vicariously!" "I'd like to, but..." Deanna demurred. "Deanna!" Beverly protested, outraged that her would hold out on her. "But I have a counseling session in ten minutes," the Betazoid finished. "How about we meet for hot fudge sundaes in Ten Forward after your shift ends? Will's going to visit with Biji for a while, so my evening is my own... even if my nights aren't," she added with a wicked grin. "Make it tea," Beverly counter-proposed. "I haven't been to the gym in weeks - and it's becoming obvious," she said, glancing down - and sighing. "I might as well just surgically graft the fudge directly on to my hips..." "Don't be silly! You look gorgeous, Bev. No, it's hot fudge sundaes, definitely," Deanna insisted - then added, "besides, we'll need them as sensory aids." Beverly's eyes widened. "Fudge?" she murmured, impressed. Deanna nodded. "And whipped cream. And when you hear about where he put the cherries - and how he got them out again..." "Stop," Beverly said, raising a hand. "I don't want to hear any more - at least, not until I can enjoy every salacious detail," she added. "I'll meet you in Ten Forward at... eighteen thirty?" Deanna nodded. "That's settled. Now, Ms. Counselor, why did you want to see me, if not to share the details of your sex life?" she said. "Actually, I came down to ask a favor," she said - then stopped suddenly as the smile - and all the color - faded from her face. Ashen, she raised a hand to her head, reaching out with the other to steady herself against Beverly's desk. "Make that two favors," she amended weakly. "Deanna? What's wrong?" Beverly said, hurriedly rising from her chair, sliding around her desk to grab her friend's arm and guide her into the chair. "A headache," the telepath muttered - then gasped, clutching at her head. "Oh!" Beverly watched her for a moment, then spun around, grabbing the ubiquitous scanner from her desk and began to wave it past Deanna's forehead. "When did this start?" she asked worriedly. "Just now," Deanna gasped. "It just came on... Oh, god!" she cried out, her face suddenly blanching, growing colorless as the pain surged through her again. "Beverly... I... I can't breathe!" she said, her voice beginning to rasp as she wheezed, struggling to draw air into her lungs, then clutched at her chest, crying out, "It hurts! It hurts!" - then began to topple forward. Beverly caught the woman as she fell, easing her to the ground even as she shouted, "John! Aaron! Get in here!" she called to the two technicians on duty - then turned back to her friend, watching as panic began to fill the Betazoid's normally calm, dark eyes. "Can't... breathe!" she gasped, terrified. Beverly looked at the two techs. "Let's get her to a bed," she said, grabbing "Doctor!" Worf bellowed again, his voice deeper and louder this time - and with a hint of his own panic tainting the timbre. "John," Beverly said, "Go check on Biji; tell Worf I'll be there in a minute..." "Beverly!" Deanna cried out. "Aaron, start a scan on Counselor Troi..." "Riker to Crusher!" her commbadge suddenly chirped. "Medical emergency, captain's ready room..." The physician slapped at her badge. "Will, I've got an emergency down here..." "Beverly, it's the captain," he interrupted, his voice tight, ominous. "He's collapsed." She froze - but only for a nano-second, as her heart fought with her mind, her soul - and lost. Her place was here, she knew. Whatever her heart said, she knew her place was here. She slapped her badge again, "Crusher to Ogawa. Alyssa, medical emergency on the bridge. It's the captain," she added quietly. There was a moment's hesitation as the physician digested the news - and the order - then replied, "On my way." "Doctor..." the technician stationed beside Deanna called to her. Pulled back to the present, Beverly turned to the technician. "What is it, Aaron?" she asked, her attention once again fully focused on her other patient. "It's... nothing," he replied, staring at the monitor in confusion. "I'm serious. There's nothing wrong with her! Oh-two sats are fine, heart rate is slightly elevated - but enzyme levels show no sign cardiac damage... I thought it might be anaphylactic shock..." he continued. A wash of horror swept over Beverly as she imagined the possibility - and the ramifications of the possibility came to her. Deanna wasn't allergic to anything, she knew - or rather, to anything she knew of - but there were hundred of agents that could have triggered such a reaction - and a saboteur, at least one who was capable of manipulating her pharmaceutical replicator, could have introduced such a contaminant into the main food replicators, despite all the precautions they had instituted. Deanna, she thought, had been poisoned - and for all she knew, they all might have been! Damn it! And damn me for not having thought of this possibility earlier, she railed at herself. But if it was poison, she realized a moment later, her mind still racing, why only Deanna? Or rather, why only Deanna and Jean-Luc, she added. After all, most of the crew would have completed their meals breaks within the last two hours; if it was a contaminant, something intended to poison the entire crew, why did only two respond? And why not Will? she wondered; after all, he had invariably eaten everything that Deanna had at their picnic; if it was a contaminant, why wasn't he calling her - along with a hundred others? And is it was a contaminant intended to only affect a few, why those two? she thought - then decided that no contaminant could have been introduced so selectively. As if in confirmation, she touched a control, instantly searching out the woman's histamine levels - and found them normal as well. Damn it! she thought, staring in confusion and frustration at the woman gasping desperately as she stared at her friend, panic and terror in her eyes as she fought the pain, fought for breath, fought to control the tremors that were beginning to wrack her left arm, her legs... She gaped at the shaking limbs - then spun to face the technician. "Get me one milliliter isophenhexadyne." The technician nodded, hurrying off, and Beverly tapped her commbadge. "Alyssa, I want you to administer one milligram of isophenhexadyne, IV, to the captain," she ordered. "Beverly, I'm not even on the bridge yet - let alone completed the exam," Alyssa began to protest. "I know - but if it's what I suspect, the exam will be inconclusive," she told the physician. "But isophenhexadyne is an..." Alyssa countered - then stopped, understanding at once. "Yes, Doctor," she replied, the cut the signal. Relieved, Beverly nodded to herself, knowing the other physician understood - then leaned close to her friend. "You're going to be all right, Deanna," she reassured the empath - then took the hypospray from Aaron as the tech hurried back to her side. Pressing it against the woman's carotid artery, she thumbed the control, felt the slight kickback of the cartridge as the drug forced its way under the skin - then watched as Deanna's symptoms faded away almost instantly. The Betazoid gave a great gasping draw of breath - then stared at Beverly, confused. "Bev?" "You're going to be fine, Deanna - but I want you to stay here until I get back. Understood?" she added. Bewildered - but relieved - Deanna nodded - then watched as Beverly hurried away, chasing after the sound of Worf's third bellowing cry - and cry that was instantly echoed by Tiron's equally deep call - and a third, slightly higher, but equally frantic cry from John, her technician. She shouldered past the three men, studied the form of the woman on the bed - then looked at Worf. "I apologize, Worf. It appears you were right," she said quietly. "The lieutenant is waking up, is she not?" he said with a hint of triumph. "That she is," Beverly agreed, then moved to the equipment, her hands quickly racing over the controls. She was waking, she repeated wordlessly - but it wasn't supposed to be like this, she added. It was supposed to be... How? Beverly asked herself, letting her mind play over the dozens of scenarios of this same event as she began to adjust the machinery. The times and circumstances had always varied - in the middle of the night, on other physician's shift - even back at Starfleet Medical - but always, always, there had been someone with her - Deanna, Jemat - even Jean-Luc - someone who knew her mind, someone who could reach Andile's fractured mind and ease her way back into the present, back consciousness gently and easily. What a day for the Breen to opt to stay on his own ship, she thought; he's here every day for weeks, either performing surgery, assisting in Andile's therapies - or simply sharing medical adventures with Beverly and her staff - only to decide to take this day to attend to his own crews needs. Then again, she thought, it may well have been for the best; after all, Andile had manifested her symptoms on Jean-Luc and Deanna - the only two people on the ship who could readily accept her telepathic transmission. If Jemat had been here, he might well be lying on the bed next to Deanna - but without Beverly knowing how to treat his ailment. At least with Jean-Luc and Deanna, she could administer the mild neural suppressant drugs that would block Andile's telepathy from reaching their minds, and prevent them from suffer through her symptoms - but, fortunately, not before letting Beverly know what those symptoms were. "She's coming to," she told the three, "but she's in a lot of pain. I either need to get her conscious enough to use a neural suppressor and let her use some of her own control to address the pain - or I'm going to need to sedate her until the healing has progressed further." Tiron looked at the physician with a troubled expression. "I thought you said that sedating her would be dangerous," he said accusingly. "It is," Beverly agreed. "But if I can't find a way to control her pain - and her fear," she added, realizing that the panic in Deanna's eyes had been reflections of Andile's own terror and confusion, "I won't have any option." "Then we must make her understand where she is," Tiron said firmly, "and that she is safe. "And that she is loved," he added quietly, stepping close to Andile's left side, clasping her newly rebuilt hand in his own, far more massive one. "_Baj_" he called to her softly, stroking her hand. "_Baj_, it is your _patchni_. Can you hear me, little one? Yes, I know that you can. Listen to my voice, little one; listen to me. Your _patchni_ knows you are scared; I know that you are in pain - but you must know now that you are safe, that we are here, waiting to welcome you home, to your _patchni_..." "To your friends," Worf boomed in accompaniment. Tiron looked up at the Klingon - then glanced at Beverly. "May he hold her other hand?" he asked. Beverly hesitated - the nodded, deciding that the Klingon's touch could do her no harm - and, she added, seeing the stress hormones in the woman's blood begin to level off, it might well do her some good. "Go ahead," she said softly. She braced herself for the return of the booming Klingon voice - but to her surprise, his voice was low and soft - so low that she had to strain to hear it. As Andile must, she realized; whatever consciousness the woman possessed, it would be focused on bringing that low, soft voice and its message into clarity - and not on the pain and the terror that had filled her a moment before. But Worf and Tiron couldn't stay with her forever, she reminded herself - though both would offer to do just that if the necessity demanded it, she reminded herself. No, she needed to get Andile conscious and stable - or at least as stable as was possible for someone in her condition. And, she added, to keep her from inflicting her pain on those around her. That, at least, was easy enough. With a touch, she decreased the flow of neurotransmitters into Andile's spinal fluid, reducing the infusion rate from a flood to a trickle, enough to keep her mind supplied with those essential molecules that would give her control over her own body - but not so much that she had near unlimited telepathic power. Exactly where that level was, she didn't know, but with two humans in close proximity who could detect those emanations - willingly or not - she would be able to make a close approximation. But protecting Deanna and Jean-Luc from Andile's pain would do nothing for Andile herself, she thought as John approached, a small silver device in hand. "C two," she told him. "She'll be numb from the neck down," he reminded her. "As I want it. As long as those lines are running directly into her brain, I don't want to take any chance that she'll dislodge them," she informed him. "I don't want to take any chances on exacerbating the brain damage she's already suffered." He nodded - but there was no mistaking the doubt in his eyes - a doubt she was feeling with equal intensity. Yes, the device would eliminate the pain - or at blunt it to a tolerable level - but the resulting paralysis might well be terrifying to someone just coming out form a nine-week's long coma - especially when the paralysis might well be accompanied by the loss of God-knew-how-many other senses and body functions. And no amount of generic reassurances from the two men beside her - as sincere as they were - would assuage that terror. She made a final adjustment on the controls, beginning a slow feed of long-lasting - or rather, as long-lasting as it could be in view of ability of Andile's liver to breakdown any drug - analgesic to the woman's body, then looked at the technician. "Neural suppressor in place, Doctor," John said. "Second cervical vertebrae," he assured the physician. Beverly nodded, touched the equipment to activate the device, then eased past the men, taking a place near the head of Andile's bed. Crouching next to her, she brushed a strand of the luxurious hair away from the pale face of the woman, and whispered, "Hello, Andile. It's Dr. Crusher... Beverly. You're on the Enterprise, in Sickbay - and most importantly, you're safe," she added. For a moment, there was no motion from the figure on the bed - then she saw a slight flicker of motion beneath the closed lids. "Andile?" she said, hope surging. "_Baj_," Tiron echoed. "Come back to us, little one. Come back to your _patchni_. I have missed you," he said, the ache in his voice unmistakable. "And I... have much to say to you," Worf added, his low baritone reverberating through the bed. There was another tiny flicker of motion beneath the eyelids. "Yes, Biji," Beverly whispered encouragingly. "That's it! Open you eyes. Come back to us..." For a moment, there was nothing - no hint of motion, no hint of further activity beneath those pale lids, then... Her eyes flew open, panic and unreasoning fear filling them as she gasped desperately, trying to draw air into the damaged remnant of her one lung, her body bucking fractionally as terrified for air need fought the effect of the neural suppressor. But even that fractional movement was enough to dislodge the lines that ran into her brain - and threatening to exacerbate whatever damage had already been done there. Feeling a surge of her own panic, Beverly grabbed for the trembling arm, pressing it down to the bed, nodding for Worf to do the same on his side. "Tiron, hold her down! Don't let her move!" she told the Romulan, then grasped Andile's head in her hands, locking it in place - and forcing the terrified, gasping woman to meet her eyes. They met - but there was no comprehension in them, no understanding of who she was, where she was - or who she was facing. "Andile, look at me!" Beverly said, staring hard into the woman's eyes. "It's me, Beverly Crusher! Look at me!" The order must have registered in the terrified mind, because, for an instant, Andile's eyes steadied - and recognition dawned. Only to be replaced a moment later with sheer terror. "Can't.... breathe!" she gasped in a weak, hoarse rasp. "Yes, you can," Beverly replied as calmly as she could. "There's a respiratory assist device trying to help you breathe - but not if you fight it. Just relax; let the device work." "The doctor is right, little one," Tiron said. "You must not fight. Let the machine help you." Startled by the voice, Andile turned her eyes to the giant Romulan. "My _baj_," he said softly, tenderly. "_Patchni_," she managed in a ragged whisper. "I knew you would return to us," he said. "As did I," Worf agreed. Terror flickered in Andile's eyes, and she looked at Beverly beseechingly. "I... didn't.... not..." she gasped, trying to defend herself. "No, no," Beverly said instantly, reassuringly. "Worf knows you are not the saboteur, Biji." "I... was wrong," Worf told her. "I... misjudged you," he added. She tried to shake her head, but Beverly's grip wouldn't permit even that tiny movement. "You can't move, Beej," Beverly said firmly. "It's very important you don't move. I've got a neural suppressor on you, which is preventing movement from the neck down - but I'd rather not immobilize you completely. Can you stay still?" she asked. Andile met the woman's eyes - and then, for the first time, seemed to fully grasp the fact that she was in Sickbay. As a patient. Her eyes moved from Beverly to the regeneration unit that was perched over her arm and chest - then back to her eyes. "How... bad?" she managed after a moment. Beverly hesitated, then answered, "Bad." Andile considered. "How... long?" "We can talk about that later, Andile," Beverly started - only to stop as she felt the tiny movement of Andile's head, still trapped in the gently restrictive embrace of the physician's hands. "No... need...to... know. How... long?" Beverly hesitated - then nodded. "Nine weeks," she said at last. "Sixty-five days since the accident." A tight sob filled Andile's throat - then, as Beverly watched, the frail, injured woman pushed past her own shock and grief, and managed a weak, "Captain?" "He's fine," Beverly said. "On the bridge," she added, when a flash of doubt crossed Andile's eyes. "Breen... captain?" she pressed. "Beej, this isn't the time," Beverly insisted. "You need to rest..." "Breen captain!" Andile cried, the words tearing from a throat raw from lack of use. Beverly drew a deep breath - then shook her head. "Dead." Grief, overwhelming and unbearable, welled up in eyes that were unused to showing any feeling, and a shaken cry ripped from her mouth. "Please... no," she gasped. "Biji..." Beverly began softly. Pleadingly - but Andile's grief refused to be tamed. "Died... for... me?" she pressed. Beverly hesitated again - but Andile deserved the truth. That she deserved a few hours - or days or even years - of peace before facing the truth was another matter entirely - but it was time - and peace - that Andile was not going allow herself - or allow anyone else to grant her. "Yes," Beverly said at last. "Captain Huziah died trying to save you." "No," Andile sobbed, her cries weak and gasping. "No..." she managed, then looked down again at the mass of machinery that encompassed her - and Beverly saw the tears welling up in Andile's eyes, filling them until the sockets could hold no more, and they began spilling onto the pillow beneath her head. A soft sob escaped the tiny woman's lips - a sob, and a single word. Uncertain she had heard the woman, Beverly bowed her head closer to Andile's. "I can't hear you, honey," she told her quietly. "Say that again." "Why..." Beverly shook her head. "Why what, Biji?" "Why.." she gasped again. "Why... didn't... you... let... me... die?" -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Awards Tech Support http://www.trekiverse.us/ASCAwards/commenting/ No Tribbles were harmed in the running of these Awards ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek.creative or directly to the author. Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Tue May 11 23:08:54 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n3.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.86]) by condor (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bnK6H19S3NZFjK0 for ; Tue, 11 May 2004 20:08:31 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-13566-1084331311-stephenbratliffasc=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com Received: from [66.218.66.27] by n38.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 31 May 2004 02:02:19 -0000 X-Sender: stephen@trekiverse.org X-Apparently-To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 49655 invoked from network); 31 May 2004 02:02:17 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.172) by m21.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 31 May 2004 02:02:17 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO goose.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.18) by mta4.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 31 May 2004 02:02:17 -0000 Received: from sdn-ap-018dcwashp0119.dialsprint.net ([63.188.176.119]) by goose.mail.pas.earthlink.net with smtp (Exim 3.33 #1) id 1BUc7u-0003Rm-00 for ascl@yahoogroups.com; Sun, 30 May 2004 19:02:10 -0700 To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Organization: Alt.StarTrek.Creative Virtual Staff Office Message-ID: <2f4lb01capr7feducqhoukcbaf8af79nf0@4ax.com> X-Mailer: Forte Agent 1.92/32.572 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 207.217.120.18 X-eGroups-From: Stephen From: Stephen X-Yahoo-Profile: oldmanasc MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCL@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCL@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 30 May 2004 22:01:11 -0400 Subject: [ASC] NEW TNG: "Echoes" P/C, D/f (R) Pt 157/? Reply-To: ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-ELNK-AV: 0 Make a clean sweep of pop-up ads. Yahoo! Companion Toolbar. Now with Pop-Up Blocker. Get it for free! http://us.click.yahoo.com/L5YrjA/eSIIAA/yQLSAA/5x3olB/TM --------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 30 May 2004 17:15:11 -0700 In: alt.startrek.creative From: keroth1701@sbcglobal.net (Ke Roth) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 157/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 157 Snorkeling, Beverly decided at long last, having finally determined what word most closely described the sound that Jemat was making - and had been making - throughout the last two weeks that he had spent encamped in her Sickbay. Perhaps 'encamped' was not the right word, she amended quickly; while he had come to the ship each of the sixteen days since Andile's reawakening, he had also left every evening, returning to his ship, refusing to further impose on her time beyond her duty shift - or more likely, added to herself, unwilling to impose on Worf's limited tolerance for the Breen's presence in Andile's makeshift quarters when he was watching over her. Nor had he imposed himself upon her by making any attempts to treat Andile, Beverly added; oh, certainly he had volunteered opinions and ideas - sometimes tactfully, sometimes with a firmness of resolve that vied with Beverly's own determination - but in the end, when the final decisions had to be made, he had always deferred to her judgment, supporting her decision, even when, Beverly thought, he didn't agree with those choices. Still, he had been there long enough, reviewing Andile's charts, reviewing the upcoming surgeries, treatments, and therapies that Beverly was growing familiar with the Breen's mannerisms - including the strange sound that he was currently making. Part gurgle, part snort, part exhalation, it sounded not unlike the wet burbling noise that a she had grown all too familiar with during a shore leave on Pacifica as she tried to master - quite unsuccessfully - the art of breathing through an external air tube, she remembered with a smile. It was a wet, rough sound - and whether it came from a human swimmer or a Breen _outo_, she knew it meant trouble. Fortunately, in a Breen, that trouble was usually a matter of aggravation, not asphyxiation - and having had the occasion to hear the sound often enough in the last two weeks, Beverly had a good idea what the problem was. "Jemat, if I had a functioning recorder, I would not spend hours writing patient notes - and since you do - have a recorder that works, that is," she added, "I don't understand why you insist on writing them by hand - and in Federation Standard at that," she sighed. "I have to - but you? Isn't it inconvenient?" "For me - or for you?" he teased gently in reply. "After all, I seem to end up asking you for half of them," he pointed out. Beverly smiled. "I would say 'half' is a bit of an exaggeration," she countered. "You don't ask for more than a third these days," she teased him back. He gave her one of his toothy grins; odd, Beverly mused, how terrifying that smile had been at first, and how familiar, how comfortable it had become in the intervening weeks. "I must be learning, then," he answered, then looked down at the small notebook that lay open before him. "I do find that the act of writing is an excellent way of learning your language, Beverly," he continued, "of learning any language. Your Federation Standard draws so heavily on the root languages of your home world that it helps me to understand more about how you evolved - and as your language merged into a cohesive whole, it symbolizes the cohesion of your people, from disparate groups into a unified whole." "Except we do still have our distinct home languages; Alyssa was raised speaking Japanese, John speaks Urdu, the captain speaks French..." Beverly's voice trailed off at the mention of Picard, looking away, finding herself taken aback - perhaps even a little shocked - by how easily the details of the man's life and persona still flowed into her conversations - as though he still had a place in her life. But he didn't, she reminded herself, looking up at Jemat quickly, pasting a smile on her face. "But you're quite right, even though our respective native languages draw upon our commonality that unifies as specific sub-cultures, speaking one language does facilitate communications among ourselves as a whole. And it certainly makes it simpler when we're communicating with other species," she agreed. "After all, we can't all be telepathic, now can we?" she added with a forced lightness. Jemat studied her for a long moment - then reached up, taking her hand in his, squeezing it gently. "But it would be a great convenience, would it not? So many misunderstandings would be prevented..." "Perhaps," she agreed softly. "But so many truths that should be left unsaid would be known, shared. Some hurts might be cured, Jemat - but so many more would be caused, I fear. We've learned to guard our tongues, Jemat - but I'm not sure, we as a people, want to learn to guard our thoughts as tightly. It's just not the way humans are," she added. "What happened to Andile - Garave - should have demonstrated that amply. Her people were so repulsed - and probably so terrified - by the notion of telepaths in their society that they did everything they could to eliminate that fear - almost to the point of genocide." Jemat studied the woman for a long moment. "You do not approve of us, do you?" "It's not my place to approve - or disapprove - of you or your people, Jemat," she objected. "And in any case, it's not you as a people of whom I disapprove; I disapprove of what your ancestors did. And it was a long time ago..." she added. "But you think we were wrong," he interjected. Beverly hesitated - then nodded. "Yes. I think they tampered with things they had no right to change - and they did so without understanding the people - the sentient creatures! - or their cultures well enough to realize the possible outcomes. They treated those peoples like laboratory animals!" she said indignantly. "Not just humans - but all the races you - they - manipulated. They had no right! "But you are not your ancestors," she added hastily. "But we are, Doctor," Jemat argued. "In our minds, we hold the same knowledge, the same thoughts, that our antecedents did; we have not changed from the beings they were..." "But you wouldn't do what they did," she insisted. "Knowing what you've learned, seeing the results of your actions..." "The result of our actions is the potential evolution of our race, Doctor," he reminded her. "We had not intended it this way - for our fate to rest in the hands - and body - of a single being, but it is what happened. And in Garave, there are the genes of my people - our hope for the future. Knowing what we do now, that we could, through her, evolve toward becoming god, would we not do the same again?" he asked her, his ears tilting forward in curiosity, as if waiting for her. "Would you? Knowing what this has cost Andile," Beverly echoed, "knowing the pain, the hurt you have caused her to suffer, you would do this again?" curiosity covering her own face - curiosity - and disappointment, suspecting the answer was the one she did not want to hear. To her surprise, however, the _outo_ hesitated. "How can I answer that, Beverly? What we did, whether right or wrong in your eyes or mine, has become the only chance for my people, their only grasp on true immortality? Could I deny them that? And yet, being her, with her..." The pronoun rolled almost reverentially from the Breen's lips. "Being with her, having touched her mind, knowing her heart, her soul, feeling her pain and her grief in my thoughts, my memories - my soul aches, knowing that we have been responsible for this misery, this eternal pain. Could I do this again - even for so great an outcome?" He let out a long sigh, then shook his head. "I do not know, Beverly. I simply do not know. "You see," he added a moment later, forcing a weary smile onto his own face, "being a telepath is not always advantageous. All that she was - and is - is part of me now. For ill, for good - but inevitably, forever." He drew another long breath, then released her hand. "The telepathy does, however, facilitate my work," Jemat said at long last. "It opens the door to your people - but writing, learning your language this way," He nodded at his book, "teaches the culture to me in a deeper manner. It is not easy, however; I know the words I want in Breen - but in your language..." He sighed, starting to jerk his head to the side in frustration, then amended the movement, turning it into a shrug instead. "What word is it that you want, _outo_?" Beverly said. "That, my dear Beverly, is the problem: I don't know your word for..." He hesitated. "Not cooperating. Refusal to participate. Being... difficult," he said. Beverly studied him for a moment, looked at the notebook, then said, "Are we talking about Andile... I mean, Garave?" she asked. He nodded. "The medical term you're looking for is 'non-compliant'," she said, watching the Breen pick up the stylus and begin to write. "N-O-N - hyphen - C-O-M-P-L-I-A-N-T," she spelled, watching as he copied the word into the text. "That's the word. It's not the right word, but that's the one you're thinking of." Jemat looked up. "If it is not the right word, then..." "It's the right word for what you are describing - but it's not the right word for Beej. Biji. Andile. Garave," she corrected herself, growing frustrated. Why the hell couldn't she have just one name? Beverly grumbled to herself. But you live a hundred lifetimes, live on a hundred different worlds, you're going to end up with a hundred different names. I should be happy I'm only dealing with four of them. "Medically speaking, Garave _is_ compliant. She's not refusing therapy, she's not refusing her medications, she's not refusing treatment..." "But she is not refusing - but neither is she cooperating," Jemat argued. "No, she isn't," she agreed. "But not involving herself is not 'non-compliant' - at least in our medical terms. If she were truly non-compliant, she would be fighting us, making it difficult for us to treat her..." "But is she not doing just that, Doctor?" Jemat countered. Beverly looked down at the Breen, taken aback by his question - and by the gentleness in his tone. "I don't understand, Jemat," she replied. "No?" he said - then reached for her hand once again, drawing her down into her own chair, gently stroking the back of her hand with his thumb - or at least with the digit that most closely resembled a human thumb. Whatever it was, the touch was gentle, soothing - and welcome, Beverly admitted with a sigh as she felt the tight muscles in her hand and arm beginning to relax under his gentle ministrations. "I think I can translate '_outo_' now," Beverly sighed after a few minutes. "It has to mean 'masseuse', she said, feeling the tension beginning to ooze from her over-tired, over tensed body. Thank god my shift is over in an hour, she thought, making out the chronometer on her desk, the weeks of fatigue and weariness sailing away, replaced with a delicious sense of lassitude He smiled. "Just a technique, doctor, refined over many years through constant practice on my mate," he explained. "Hmmm....." she murmured. "I didn't know you were married." "For many years," he answered. "It must be hard for her... Him?" she tried again, looking at her benefactor in curiosity. "Human pronouns don't lend themselves to genderless societies - but if you consider me as a male - as you appear to do so - then for the sake of your mental convenience, you may consider my mate as 'her'," he informed the physician. "It must be hard for her when you are gone for so long. It was one of the things I liked least about Jack's being in Starfleet. He was gone for so long each time... I suppose it was all for the best - I had medical school to complete, and then I was pregnant with Wesley..." "Jack? Wesley?" Beverly looked at the Breen, surprised that he didn't know who she meant - but despite his familiarity with her Sickbay, they had not shared many personal confidences - and despite his being a telepath, he knew nothing of her thoughts. "Jack was my husband - my mate," she explained quietly, surprised by how little the words hurt her now. Time, I guess, she thought. It's been so long. Almost twenty years, she realized with a start. "What happened to him?' Jemat prompted. "He died - many years ago," she added, then fell silent. "I am sorry," he said gently. "And this Wesley you spoke of?" Jemat prompted after a few minutes. "My son," she explained. "I didn't know you had a budling," Jemat said. "I do... did..." She shook her head. Jemat's voice softened - and his touch on her hand gentled. "And your Wesley... He, too, is dead?" he asked. "What?" Beverly said, startled from her reverie - then shook her head. "Oh, no. That is... I think he's alive. He was in Starfleet - but he found his path lay in another direction. He... began to travel. He's been traveling for years now - all through the Dominion War, through all the chaos of the last few years. I want to believe he's safe, somewhere, waiting it out until things quiet down again. I have to believe he's safe; I'd like to think I'd know if he weren't, that if he were dead, if something had happened to him, that I would know. "But I didn't know when Jack died," she added, her eyes raised to Jemat, staring - but unseeing, seeing instead the memory of a face long gone. "Funny, isn't it?" she asked, though the question was directed not at the _outo_, but rather at herself. "He was my husband, the love of my life, the father of my child! I thought we had a deep, spiritual connection between us - but he was dead for several days before I found out - and all during that time, I felt nothing different, nothing unusual. I went through my daily routine, studying, preparing to enter Starfleet - and I never knew until Jean-Luc called us... " She hesitated, the memory as fresh, as real, as painful as it had been that day, so long ago. As painful as the thought that someday she might receive another, similar call regarding Wesley. Or Jean-Luc himself, a soft voice, deep inside her head, deep inside her soul, reminded her. No, she told herself firmly. He wasn't a part of her life anymore. But Wes... He would always be a part of her life, a part of her... "I thought I would always know if something happened to Jack - but I didn't. And Wes... I thought the same thing, but for all I know, he could be... be..." She stopped, unable to speak as the tears welled in her eyes, and the words stuck in her throat. "Dead," Jemat concluded for her, watching as she shook her head, accepting the possibility, even as she refused to accept the words. "For all I know, he could have been dead for years - and I wouldn't know any more than I knew about Jack," she said. Jemat stopped the tender ministrations he was performing to her hand, settling back to consider for a long time. "It is possible, Beverly; he may, indeed, be dead. But the bond between and parent and a child transcends that between mates. Your mate is your mate by choice, by timing, by hormones, even by fate; but a child is your by genes and spirit. Part of you is in that child, Beverly; if something were to happen to him, I believe you would know. I must believe that your son is still alive - or you would know." "Are you saying that as a telepath or as a physician?" she asked, sniffing back a tear. He smiled. "I say that as a parent, Beverly. You must have faith." "That's more easily said than done," she replied. "Perhaps. But then we Breen spent hundreds of thousands of years searching for god - only to find her against all odds, against all reason, on an alien ship in the middle of nowhere; we're rather experienced when it comes to matters of faith," he added lightly. Beverly felt a smile cross her face - and with it an upwelling of real, genuine relief, the first she had felt since... Since I don't know when, she admitted. Since before LaBarre, since before the Briar Patch, since before Wesley had left with the traveler. My God, she thought, how long has it been since I wasn't worried? she asked herself. Too long, she answered - then looked at Jemat. "I still don't know what the hell an _outo_ is, Jemat, but whatever it is, you do it very well," she replied. He shook his head. "I wasn't being an _outo_, Beverly." "Then...?" "I was simply trying to be... your friend," he told her. She studied him for a long time - then nodded. "Thank you. I didn't realize how badly I've needed to have one of those." "That is one of the drawbacks of serving on a starship. You form friendships, yes - but in your position, in mine, you can not permit those friendships to blossom as widely as they might in other circumstances; you must hold a part of your heart, your tongue and your mind to yourself. There becomes no one with whom you can be completely at ease. The wall is always there... it must be there. You never know when your friend might become your patient - or when you might have to order that same friend into a deadly situation. We know the reality - every officer on one of these ships knows the reality, Beverly, and we defend ourselves against that possibility by making those relationships rarer - and sometimes a little shallower. We all do it; we have to," he added, "but we pay the price in doing so; the walls that shelter us from the hurt, imprison us from the help as well." Jemat fell silent, watching as his words circled round in her mind for a moment. "But I do not serve with you," he continued at last. "I do not answer to your orders - and you do not answer to mine. I could never treat your injuries well or for long - nor could you be my physician. We have no obligation to one another, Beverly; no possibility to hurt one another, or to cause each other harm. For the first time in a very long time, you can... release your hair?" he said. It took her a moment to catch the phrase and correct it. "Let your hair down," she countered. "And you are right. And if you ever decide NOT to run back to your ship right after my duty shift, then I would be honored to offer you dinner in Ten Forward," she added. "And I will accept - when I know that every other thought will not be preoccupied by our mutual patient." That might be some time, Beverly conceded - then wondered if Jemat remembered they shared not one, but two patients. Neither of whom, she added, was noted for being compliant. "You said Beej... Garave... was being non-compliant, that she was making it difficult for us to treat her - and yet she isn't stopping us." "I agree," he said. "Although if I understand your Starfleet regulations correctly, even if she did protest your course of treatment, it would be to no avail. I believe that her emotional state and the quantity and level of brain damage incurred was sufficient for you to claim a lack of mental competence in her situation, and force treatment upon her, over her objections, if you chose to do so." "Until such time as a medical board could be convened, and a proper evaluation of Andile's mental condition, and her fitness to determine her own treatment, made, Starfleet regs - and medical ethics - would not permit me to discontinue her treatment. If, after a proper examination, she was determined to be of sound mind, and then chose to discontinue her treatment, I would be equally bound to honor that request," she explained. "But as such a hearing requires the presence of certain medical officers - who are not on board at this time - this hearing would have to wait until you have returned to Earth - by which point Garave's life would no longer be at risk. And as Garave's culture denied andile the right to commit suicide, she could not, at that time, deliberately harm herself," he reminded her. "Your point being...?" "My point being that whether she cooperates or not, you will treat her," Jemat countered. "She knows she can not protest it with words or actions. And so, knowing her protests would be in vain, she does nothing to stop you - but nothing to help you either. She forces you to treat her body - but she decline to allow you to treat her. "This... distancing," He looked at Beverly, confirming his choice of words, and received a nod in reply, "This distancing of Garave from you, from your people, from your actions, it takes its toll on you. Every day, your doubt grows, your uncertainty of whether your actions are right increases - as does that of your people. Every day, you face her - and ask: Am I doing the right thing? Every day she removes herself further from your care, from your lives - and every day you begin to wonder if, perhaps, she is right. "And one day, perhaps you will believe she is," he concluded. "That won't happen," Beverly insisted firmly. "No?" No, she began to insist - then stopped herself. It would, she knew; it was happening already. "She's healing, Jemat - but she's not getting better," Beverly said softly. "And she's not going to, is she?" She knew the answer - and her team knew it as well, she thought. Even now, their enthusiasm for assisting Andile in her daily therapies was declining; they still cared for her, still attended to her physical needs - but she could see their enthusiasm flagging, see their dedication slipping away. As long as they were on the ship, they would care for her, as duty required - but as soon as they returned to Earth, they would allow Starfleet Medical to take over her care - and they would slide from her life, as would all her caregivers, until, once day, someone made a mistake, someone made an error in her meds or her dosage... and the death she could not grant herself would be granted by another. He shook his head in silent agreement. "If you mean will she recover, then no, I do not believe so. Not as things stand. She is utilizing every calorie of energy, every atom of oxygen you provide simply to remain alive - more, in fact. She is already losing weight, is she not? And even the least effort taxes the oxygenation levels of her blood. She will never be able to leave her bed, Doctor, not as things stand," he added softly. "Her life - that part of her life which held meaning for her - is over. It is simply a matter of time..." "... until her body des as well," Beverly concluded slowly. For a moment the two looked at each, silently grieving, when a third voice interrupted their silent suffering. "That," Data said, a stricken expression plastered on his face as he stood in the open doorway of her office, "is not acceptable." Horrified, embarrassed - and angry - at having her private conversation overheard - especially by someone so close to her patient - Beverly rose to her feet, turning to the android. "Data," she began to explain. "I can not permit that to happen," the android continued. "Data," she began - then stopped, knowing there was a time for comforting the friends and family of a patient - and a time for the truth. And that time, she knew, had come. "Data, there's nothing I can do about what is happening to Andile. The damage to her body - and her unusual physical make-up - transcend my medical knowledge. I can't replace what she's lost - and as a result, I can't give her anything close to the life she once had. The ECMO is functioning at maximum capacity now - but it isn't as efficient as her lungs were. It simply isn't capable of oxygenating her blood at the levels she's used to. She's not going to be able to resume a life like she had before, Data," she admitted softly. "Even if she regains the use of her legs, she's never going to be able to walk, or learn to reuse her right arm; I don't think she's even going to be able to sit up," she added, remembering the disastrous results of the morning's attempt to do that very thing. The had raised her head and torso only a few degrees, trying to coach her through the breathing exercises that should have increased her respiration and heart rates enough to compensate - but she had done nothing to help them, only crying out as dizziness and nauseas overcame her, then collapsed against the pillows that supported her, her head falling forward, her muscles too weak to stop it, the weight of her skull compressing her windpipe, choking her, cutting off the trace amount of air that her lungs provided... It was only a small amount, Beverly knew - but is was essential to her survival - and without it... Without it, her artificial heart had begun to race, straining itself beyond its design parameters to feed the failing body with blood and air - and finding itself less and less able - until it simply stopped. Even artificial hearts could fail, Beverly had reminded herself as they fought to straighten the crushed windpipe, to force oxygen into the starving body, forced the heart to start again; even artificial hearts could fail - and while they could restart it - this time - there was no guarantee they could do it again. And they would not try, she knew; they would not risk another disaster. And so they would begin to step away from Andile's treatments, and the slow decline would begin, she thought. "That is not a life she would wish," Data agreed softly. "Which is why we're here," a fourth voice opined. Geordi stepped into view, having been shielded from Beverly and Jemat's sight by the android and the intervening wall. In his hands he carried what appeared to be a rather bulky shirt of shimmering silver fabric. He handed it to Beverly, a sober expression on his face - but hope lighting his eyes. "We... that is, Data, thinks he has the answer. To Beej's problems - and maybe a lot of other people's problems as well," he explained. "It's... very interesting, Geordi, Data," Beverly said, looking over the oversized shirt. "What is it?" "It's a lung," the Chief Engineer replied. Beverly stared at the silvery jacket, then raised her eyes to Jemat, who stared at the item before meeting her gaze. "A lung," he said quietly. Geordi nodded, brushing past Data to enter the room. "Yes, sir - or rather, it will be, just as soon as we can complete a few final steps." "A lung," Beverly repeated, still taken aback by the presence of the device in her hands - and by the implication of what it meant - what it could mean - for Andile. And for thousands of others. "How does it work?" she asked. Data spoke. "The exterior material is a hyper-permeable membrane, allowing rapid transport of gases through the surface into the interior, which is a network of interconnected, one-way vessels, made of a similar material. The interior channels will carry blood part the hyper-permeable membrane, allowing for the transfer of oxygen into the blood stream, and carbon dioxide out." Which was, Beverly admitted, what a lung did. However, as medical science had learned over the centuries, the human body did it far more efficiently than any machine could - and even the most efficient machine required far more space to create the surface area necessary to do what the human lung did. Even now, four hundred years since the first artificial lung had been created, it took a machine the size of a small table to breathe for a human. It was that fact that doomed Andile to spend the rest of her life on that bed, she added unhappily; despite his best effort, the device Data had created, a device that was the size and shape of a jacket for the diminutive woman, would never be able to replace the massive device that barely supplied her with air now - let alone allowed her the range of freedom she needed and wanted. It was a tremendous, effort, she thought - and it was going to crush the android when she told him that it wouldn't work. "Data..." "I know what you're going to say, Doc," Geordi interrupted with a grin. "That there isn't enough surface area to allow the proper exchange of air. You're right, there isn't. Try as we might, we couldn't find anything that's as efficient as the human alveoli - and their intricate arrangement in the lungs - for that purpose. Which is why we're not going to try and replace them." Jemat studied the two, then managed a human shake of his head. "I don't understand." "It is our intention to have you harvest three functional alveoli from what's left of Biji's lung, fill the device with bio-mimetic gel, seed the gel with one of the clusters, and within forty-eight hours, the lung will be filled with alveoli." "Bio-mimetic gel?" Jemat asked, curious. "A biologic product that ahs the ability to mimic biological forms and functions," Beverly explained. "Unfortunately, it has a short functional life, so it's not useable for something long term - like replicating cells or organs." "I see," Jemat replied. "And the remaining two clusters?" "As Dr. Crusher indicated, the functional life of the artificial lung would be limited. We calculate a useable lifespan of approximately thirty-two hours," Data said. "After that the cells will begin to die, and the efficiency will diminish rapidly from that point forward. Hence, there is a need to always have two lungs at different levels of preparation; one for the next day, one for the day subsequent to that. " "We should be able to harvest a few cells from each lung to seed the next - but every now and then, we're going to need to capture a new one directly from Beej herself," Geordi added, "at least until we can accurately clone them for her. Developing that technology may take some time," he went on, grinning, "but I think we've bought her that time now. Hell, knowing Biji, she'll probably be the one to figure out how to overcome the problem of replicative failure!" "There are, however," Data interjected, "two medical issues that you will need to address. First, a permanent - or at least semi-permanent - indwelling catheter will have to be placed to allow the influx of de-oxygenated blood into the lung and the subsequent flow of oxygenated blood back to the heart. These will need to be in the same positions as the former pulmonary arteries in order to most closely replicate the function of the lungs. In addition, the catheters will have to be of sufficient size to withstand the pressure of the blood flow - but secure enough to allow Andile to resume her normal activities - or the functionality of the device will be negated," he pointed out. "That's not an issue, Data," Beverly said. "We can place a line easily enough. But you said there were two medical issues; what's the other one?" "The bio-mimetic gel itself. Where the interior lining of the lung touches Andile's skin, the gel will, over time, attempt to replicate the skin tissues it touches. In essence, it will draw her skin into the lung. This will not affect its functionality over the brief lifespan of the lung, but it will necessitate the excision of a layer of skin upon removal of the jacket." "In other words, you're going to be peeling off a layer of Beej's skin every time you take off the jacket," Geordi summed up. "It's going to hurt like hell." "Unfortunately, we have yet to find another material for the interior of the jacket that does not, over that same time frame, damage the gel - and hence the function of the lungs," Data said. "We will, of course, continue to seek out other materials that might be usable..." "But we've got time," Geordi repeated, the glee in his voice and in his eyes unmistakable. Beverly stared at the jacket for several more minutes, then rose to her feet, turning to face the two. "Gentlemen, I am impressed," she said at long last. "In a matter of weeks, you appear to have solved a problem that's been vexing medical science for centuries." "More than 'appears', Doc," Geordi offered. "We've run hundred of computer simulations on the lung - and if it's half as good on Biji as it is on paper, she's going to get her life back." "Computer simulations are one thing, Geordi; real life is something else - and whether this works or not, there is a very real issue that we have to face." "Availability of bio-mimetic gel," Data opined. Beverly nodded. "It's impossible to replicate, and extremely expensive to purchase. I've got enough on board to fill this... lung," she said, for lack of a better word, "for a few days - but enough for the duration of our mission?" she said, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I simply don't have enough - and even if I did, I couldn't, in all conscience, use it solely for Andile. It's simply too critical of a material. Maybe when we get back, Starfleet can allocate enough to supply Andile... for a time. But not indefinitely," she added soberly. And to give Andile the freedom this lung would grant her - only to have to take it back? She shook her head, unable to imagine the emotion devastation that Andile would feel at the loss, once again, for the third time, of her physical freedom. No, she thought unhappily; as much as she wished that this was the solution for Andile, for thousands of others in similar straits, she couldn't, in all good conscience, allow it to be implemented. Not when she knew it would have to be taken away again in just a few days. She sighed, setting the jacket back down on her desk, lowering herself into the chair, "It's a brilliant idea, gentlemen - but until we can resolve the issue of the bio-mimetic gel, I can't permit you to use it, on Biji, or anyone. I'm sorry; truly sorry," she added. "But it's the only way," Geordi began to protest. Data added, "Andile's recovery is contingent on the restoration of her mental health - and that mental health and emotional stability are dependent on the knowledge that she will be able to resume her usual habits..." "And in time, with some breakthrough in technology, she may be able to!" Beverly protested. "Data, Geordi, in a few weeks, you have solved on of the greatest problems facing medical science! Now all we have to do is find a way to produce large quantities of gel at a reasonable cost! And we will - in time," she said.. "And we'll find a way to keep Biji with us until then," she added insistently. If I have to sedate her, put her in stasis - whatever it takes, I'll find a way, she told herself defiantly. She turned, looking back at the strangely silent Jemat, and saw him fingering the slippery silver fabric - then looked up at the three. "Tell me more about this bio-mimetic gel, Beverly," he said. "It's a medical miracle, Jemat," Beverly answered, reaching for the computer terminal, her hands racing over the keyboard. After a moment, she stopped, stared at the screen to confirm the picture before her, then turned the screen to face Jemat. "It's a molecular material that has the ability to duplicate the cellular structure of any material that touches it. Unfortunately, it's a biologic by-product, very difficult to create, impossible to replicate - and highly reactive. In order to prevent it from duplicating any and every organic molecule it touches, it has to be kept within a stasis chamber until it's needed - meaning it takes energy to maintain the matrix in a useable condition. Add to that the fact that once the matrix is mobilized, it can't be stopped. It will recreate the structure with which it makes contact and keep recreating it until all the gel has been utilized. Then it loses all functionality," she added. Jemat nodded, studying the diagram. "If I am reading this correctly, it appears not unlike your own cytoplasm," he pointed out. "It is very similar," Data agreed. "There are, however, several side chains with significant variations - and these variations are what give the gel its bio-mimetic properties, while preventing replication by mechanical sources." "But it could be replicated by organic means?' Jemat pressed. Geordi nodded. "Actually, that's how it's produced. There are a few labs in the Federation that possess the geneered cells that exude the gel - but the process is time-consuming and expensive - and the cells themselves are resistant to replication." "But if a sufficient quantity of the cells were available, then you could produce the gel in quantity," Jemat surmised. "Yes," Data agreed. "Then all you really need is a substantial quantity of the right cell," the _outo_ concluded "That's _all_," Beverly countered drolly. Jemat gave a very human nod. "Yes. That would be all you require - then given a proper nutrient solution and collection methodology, you could produce as much bio-mimetic gel as you require - for Garave..." "Garave?" Geordi interrupted, confused. "Andile," Beverly explained. "...and all your patients as you desire," Jemat concluded. Beverly gave a tolerant smile. "Unfortunately, Jemat, as simple as you make it sound, we can not obtain those cells; they are held as proprietary by their discoverer. Bio-mimetic gel - and the cells that produce it - is a precious commodity, Jemat, one that the owner is holding secret so he can keep the price at a premium. I don't like it, but it's not illegal; the courts have supported his right to control his discovery." Jemat frowned. "But ethically..." "The discoverer is not a physician or a member of Starfleet; what ethics he follows - if any," she added bitterly, "are his own." The Breen's frown deepened. "He discovered the cells," he murmured. "He did not invent them? They are not his creation?" Geordi shook his head. "No. He stumbled onto the cellular organism - he won't say where - and discovered the property of the gel sometime later.." "Then... if someone were to create cells of their own, they could produce the gel without fear of legal complications?" he asked. Data gave a single shake of his head. "The courts have ruled in other cases that such action would be legally acceptable - providing that the cells were indeed created independently of the original genetic material." "Meaning you couldn't steal the cells, then try to reverse geneer them to create more of your own," Geordi said. "But if you created them from scratch..." "You'd be wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice," Beverly said. "Except that's what the Federation's been trying for almost two decades - without luck. We simply don't have the genetic engineering knowledge needed to determine how - genetically speaking - the gel is produced." Jemat looked at the three. "We do," he said simply. There was a moment of silence, then, confused, Beverly echoed, "You do... what?" "Have the knowledge needed to reverse engineer this organism. With this structural knowledge of the bio-mimetic gel molecule, my people can create a microbe that will secrete this substance," he said simply. Beverly and Geordi gaped at the man, while Data maintained a more neutral, but equally disbelieving expression. "_Outo_," Geordi and the android began at last, while Beverly protested gently, "Jemat..." As one, the three stopped, looked at one another, then Geordi and Data nodded to Beverly, allowing her to act as the spokesman for their simultaneous thought. "Jemat," she started again, "I appreciate your thought - but Federation scientists have been trying to do just that for more than twenty years. I can't go to Biji - Garave - and tell her about this idea, only to add that it might be another twenty years before it's practical." "I understand, Doctor - but it will not take my people twenty years to determine the nature of the organism - or replicate it's function. We have, after all, been responsible for genetic manipulation for thousands of races across the galaxy for the last three hundred thousand years. Recreating a micro-organism should not be nearly as taxing." Hope flared in the physician's heart - but as she had done so often of late, she damped it down, refusing to allow herself hope where there was none. "Thank you, Jemat, but..." "Indeed, it might take the better part of the day to derive the structural configuration," Jemat continued. "Realistically, I do not think we would be able to produce a complete organism in less than twenty-four hours - and it will take a minimum of a week for the cells to reproduce to a level where they could create sufficient gel to fill that device. After that point however, we would be able to produce more than enough gel for Garave's needs." Beverly stared at the Breen, frozen into place. "A week," she said softly. "I believe so," he said. "Perhaps a day more or less," he added. She continued to stare at him. "Jemat, I appreciate your offer - but we could not afford to pay you for such a quantity of gel, and I doubt we have anything of value to trade for it..." "We would not ask for payment, Beverly. Indeed, perhaps providing the Federation with as many of the organisms as they desire would serve as an... acceptable offering to initiate peaceful negotiations - indeed, perhaps even opening talks for a future alliance," he added. "As a symbol of our good intentions? Yes?" Beverly gaped at him, unable to fully comprehend what a virtually unlimited - and virtually free! - supply of bio-mimetic gel would mean: not just to Andile, but to thousands of sick and injured people across the Federation. "Yes, Jemat," she said softly, the hope swelling in her heart once again, refusing to allow itself to be pushed away or damped down this time. "Oh, yes!" -- Forwarded to ASCL by: Stephen Ratliff ASC Stories Only Forwarding In the Pattern Buffer at: http//trekiverse.crosswinds.net/feed/ ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek.creative or directly to the author. Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Mon May 31 21:09:24 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n31.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.99]) by cockatoo (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1buW6isM3NZFkl3 for ; Mon, 31 May 2004 16:21:50 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-13645-1086045708-stephenbratliffasc=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com Received: from [66.218.66.98] by n21.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 19 Jun 2004 20:39:33 -0000 X-Sender: asc-l@ix.netcom.com X-Apparently-To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 48577 invoked from network); 19 Jun 2004 20:39:30 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.167) by m15.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 19 Jun 2004 20:39:30 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO mynah.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.228) by mta6.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 19 Jun 2004 20:39:30 -0000 Received: from h-66-167-56-52.phlapafg.dynamic.covad.net ([66.167.56.52] helo=KatieDell) by mynah.mail.pas.earthlink.net with asmtp (Exim 3.36 #4) id 1BbmcZ-0000Oc-00 for ascl@yahoogroups.com; Sat, 19 Jun 2004 13:39:27 -0700 To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Organization: Trekiverse Message-ID: X-Mailer: Forte Agent 1.93/32.576 English (American) X-ELNK-Trace: 910b5d5da611f6d86f36dc87813833b237ee5069c768b30c63a941c58603d6e6ba013562f65eacad350badd9bab72f9c350badd9bab72f9c350badd9bab72f9c X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 207.217.120.228 From: ASC* Archive Team MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCL@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCL@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sat, 19 Jun 2004 16:46:18 -0400 Subject: [ASC] NEW: TNG "Echoes", P/C, D/f (R) Pt 158/? Reply-To: ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-ELNK-AV: 0 Yahoo! Domains - Claim yours for only $14.70 http://us.click.yahoo.com/Z1wmxD/DREIAA/yQLSAA/5x3olB/TM --------------------------------------------------------------------~-> On 17 Jun 2004 19:56:50 -0700, in alt.startrek.creative keroth1701@sbcglobal.net (Ke Roth) wrote: Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 158/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 158 "One more step, little one; just one more step," Tiron said, his voice quiet but firm, unready and unwilling to accept anything except complete compliance from the woman walking beside him - or rather, trying to walk, his massive arms supporting her almost completely as she forced her uncooperative appendage forward, carefully placing it a few inches ahead of the one that was already on the ground, gasping at the effort. He tightened his grasp, ignoring the increasing dampness that was seeping through her loose-fitting shirt, holding her securely as she shifted her weight to her right leg, then began to pull the left one forward again, the toe of her shoe scraping the carpeted hallway as the muscles of her leg refused to let her pick the leg up completely. "Tighten your thigh muscles," Tiron coached her. "Tighter... tighter..." he insisted, his tone sliding from pleading to insistent. "Tighten the muscles, _baj_," he ordered. "Make them lift your foot up!" "I'm... trying!" Andile gasped, half panting, half growling as she tried to make the uncooperative muscles respond to her mental command - but the muscles, fatigued and taxed beyond their limit, refused to cooperate, and with a short cry of surprise and frustration, she felt the exhausted muscles give way beneath her. Her balance gone, she fell against the giant Romulan. He caught her easily, lifting her into his arms, hugging her tiny frame to his massive one. "I have you, my _baj_," he assured her softly, placing a gentle kiss on the top of her head. "Three more steps today!" he said proudly.. "And you needed my help only at the end. A few more days, and you'll be walking all over the ship. A week - and you'll be running! A month - and your old _patchni_ won't be able to keep up with you!" he told her. She gave a laugh, bitter and weak as the sound, little as it was, overdrew the limited amount of air in her lungs. "I wouldn't... worry, grandfather," she assured him. "I don't... think... I'll be trying... out... for the Academy... marathon... for some time," she wheezed. "But one day," he promised her. "One day soon." "No," she said, shaking her head. "I never was... much of... a runner," she admitted between gasps of air - then lay her head against the Romulan's chest once again, half from exhaustion - and half from need. Need, she thought to herself; a year ago, I never would have admitted I needed anyone. Now... Now I crave those moments that _patchni_ - Tiron - and Tar Zumell spend with me; undemanding moments, spent visiting, talking, discussing any and every thing they knew - always treating her like an equal - or at least as much of an equal as they would have treated any of their grandchildren, she conceded - but always, always without pity, without a trace of condescension. Perhaps it was their cultures, Andile had thought one evening after Zumell had left her, perhaps it was a function of age - theirs and hers - or what they perceived to be her age - but they had seen her through the worst of my injuries and healing - now it was time to recover; it was time for her to work. There was gentleness and friendship - and love - but there was no inappropriate sympathy or pity - and always, always, there was the insistence that she work. She had come to cherish their daily visits to Sickbay; Tar Zumell and her board games that challenged her finer motor skills, Tiron and his great strength, forcing her up from her bed, onto the exercise bars, encouraging her - haranguing her, she amended - to exercise the newly regenerated neural connections of her legs, her back, her restored right arm. And now, she thought, to walk. At first it had only been around Sickbay - but as her control developed, and as she learned to allow her artificial lung to work for her, they had begun to explore the corridors surrounding the Sickbay. She knew each corridor - or rather, she knew she knew it - and yet each journey had been one of discovery, each passage viewed as if for the first time - until the shapes and colors and smells triggered the regeneration of an old neural pathway - and the memory of each corridor, each passage, each bolt, each rivet, flashed through her mind. And now, a full month after Beverly had first presented her with silvery jacket that allowed her to live away from that damned machine that had breathed for her for so long, six weeks after she had awakened, almost four months since the accident, she was going to leave the deck that had become her de facto prison. But she would never truly be free again, she thought, pulling the damp, clinging fabric away from the silvered jacket where it now clung. Tiron watched as she picked at the clinging fabric. "That is not good, my _baj_," he said worriedly. "You should not perspire so much. It facilitates the movement of the gel into your skin, and will make it more difficult to remove the device later," he reminded her. "Tell me.. something... I don't... know," she wheezed back, still able to feel the tingling of her flesh beneath the jacket. Even with her recuperative abilities, the constant tearing away of the upper layers of her skin was taking its toll. Her arms and legs were red and raw, oozing, constantly sending electric stings of fire up across her upper body as the tortured nerves tried to heal themselves over and over, draining her energy, draining her ability to control her own pain, until she thought she could bear no more... Andile! the voice hissed in her mind. Filth! Garbage! Pain is what you deserve! You are filth! You are vile! You are... andile. She gasped, sucking in a sharp inhalation of air, drawing Tiron's attention to her once again. "Little one? he asked worriedly. She shook her head. "It's... nothing." Despite her protest, Tiron frowned. "Perhaps this was not a good idea, little one. Perhaps it is too much, too soon..." "No... _patchni_," she objected. "Want to... get out." "At least let us return to Sickbay," he countered. "Let Dr. Crusher give you something for the pain...." "No!" she objected sharply - then looked up at him apologetically. "I am... sorry, grandfather," she apologized. "But... I'll be... fine. Just.... let.... me... catch.... my breath," she added. Tiron studied her for a moment, disapproval still visible in his expression. "You are not adhering to your therapy, little one," he reminded her. "We have practiced this before. Let the device breath for your body; you need your lungs only to provide air to speak. Now try again," he ordered. Andile gave a groan of frustration, exaggerating it slightly for Tiron's benefit, then closed her eyes, concentrating. She knew - intellectually at least - that he was correct; all the oxygen her body needed would be provided through the silvery jacket she wore, that without any conscious assistance on her part, her racing pump her body's blood through the gas-permeable material, that the carbon dioxide would be diffused into the air around her, that fresh oxygen would be transferred in, that her tissues would be perfused, that her cells would be refreshed - that her body would go on, without her help. And yet, despite her intellectual knowledge, she reflexively tried to assist the system, gasping for air that her body didn't truly need, unable to overcome in four weeks what had been a habit of ten thousand years. But Tiron would have no part of that protest, she knew; he would tolerate no excuses for her failures. As far as he was concerned she was, in all but fact, his child his grandchild - and he would accept nothing less than her best efforts, as he would have expected nothing less from them. And she was not about to disappoint the man - or to denigrate the honor he had placed upon her. She looked down, then reached for the hem of her loose-fitting, though presently tightly clinging, blouse. Pulling it away from her body, she fanned it, drying the fabric slightly even as the bellowing fabric pulled fresh air over the artificial lung's surface, then let the fabric fall still once again. Feeling a slight rush of renewed energy, she drew in a long breath, then focused her attention on the muscles of her diaphragm, knowing she needed them only to control the air she needed to speak. "I'm sorry, _patchni_," Andile managed, the words coming out smoothly, evenly, perfectly controlled - then, her abilities taxed to their limit, she let the last of her breath out in a rush. Tiron beamed proudly at her then kissed the top of her head. "No need to apologize, my little _baj_; this has been very hard for you - and you are doing so well. You should be proud of what you have achieved - as I am," he added quietly. "And," he added," his voice dropping slightly, "I believe I may have a solution." "Solution?" she echoed. "What is it?" He smiled mysteriously at her, then shook his head. "Patience, little one," he said, then readjusted her position in his massive arms before heading down the corridor. A moment later, the double doors of Ten Forward separated at the Romulan's approach, revealing the large, yet warm and intimate room. Surprised, she felt the rush of memory return to her mind - yet the thoughts were vague, undefined. "I've been... here... before," she said. "I believe so," Tiron agreed. "The captain has told me that Ten Forward is a common meeting place for most of the crew. I must assume you have been here - though I have no details about those times," he admitted. "That's... all right... grandfather," she said softly, her breathing discipline forgotten as memories touched at the edges of her mind. "I'll... remember. In... time." "In time," he agreed. She stared at the room for a moment, her eyes darting about the space, as if searching for something,,,, someone... Him, she realized. They had been here, together, in a happier time... But andile do not deserve happiness, she reminded herself harshly; andile deserve nothing. Data had realized it, she knew; realized the truth - that she was filth, that she was nothing more than the repulsive sewage of human existence - and had freed himself of her presence in his life. He had deserved better, she knew. And she deserved nothing. Tiron watched her for a moment, seeing the flash of hope, of joy - of love - in her eyes, and felt the same emotions swell in his own soul. But that joy faded as quickly as it rose, fading into a empty hollow gaze, touched by nothing - not even self-pity - nothing but the flat stare of someone who was present, even aware - yet not truly part of the world around her. "_Baj_," he began softly, but she cut him off, speaking before he could utter a word of sympathy. "It's empty," she said, looking around the room, seeing only a few scattered people in the area, each seeming to focus on the food before them, then looked up at Tiron. "I don't... remember... it being... so quiet," she wheezed. "Remember your technique, little one," he chided her instantly - then relented. "But you are right; it is empty," he agreed. "It is between the standard meal break times; most of the crew are either at their duty stations or off duty entirely. I thought," he added gently, understandingly, "that it might be more comfortable for you if we did not encounter too many people this first time." Andile took a breath, then carefully spoke. "Thank you, _patchni_," she said. "And I had reasons of my own for wishing to speak with you privately," he added mysteriously. She gave him a puzzled look. "We could have talked..." she started, then drew another long inhalation before finishing the sentence, "in Sickbay." "Not about this," he said, then fell silent, carrying the tiny woman across the room to one of the tables. Settling her in to one of the chairs, he took a few moments to make sure she was balanced in the chair, centered on it, then helped her position her arms on the table, providing her with a touch more stability. It was over-protective, he knew - but had he been as carefully with his own children's lives... No, he cautioned himself; one can not live in a world of retrospection and regret; one learns, one moves forward. And that future, he thought as he took his own seat, lay before him. He hoped. Tiron folded his hands, studying the tiny woman for a few minutes - then reached out, carefully picking up a fold of the fabric from Andile's arm. Soaked with sweat from her efforts, it clung to her skin, pulling away slowly, reluctantly. "This is not good," he reminded her. "It is damaging you," he reminded her. Andile shook her head. "Dr. Crusher... and Geordi... are trying..." she began. Tiron raised a warning finger. "Technique, _baj_," he reminded her. Andile glared at him, then gave a nod, drew a breath, and tried again. "Dr. Crusher and Geordi.... are trying to create a lining... an undergarment... that will either wick... the perspiration away... or prevent the gel from reaching... my skin," she said, ending her longest sentence of the day with a relieved exhalation. "I know they are trying," he agreed, opting for the moment not to mention Data's part in that project, knowing even the mention of that being's name would have pained her terribly; to have her know he was responsible for bringing her to this point in her recovery was something she would not be able to accept yet. Not until she had recovered; not until she had somehow learned to overcome whatever secret burden it was that weighed so heavily on her soul. _Baj_, he thought to himself, my little _baj_, how can you, so young, so innocent, carry so heavy a burden? What could you possibly have done - or think you have done - in your short life that weighs so heavily upon you that you will deny yourself every chance at happiness - when you deserve it so much? he asked her silently. But if you can not - will not! - allow yourself the chance to live, to thrive, to enjoy the many years that lay before you, perhaps I can so that for you. "Yes, they are trying," Tiron agreed, "but it may be some time - weeks, perhaps even months or years - before they do so. You can not wait that long." "I can go... back on the... ECMO, if I have to..." she replied. Tiron frowned at her, knowing she would never be able to tolerate the enforced immobility that returning to that machine would require. "There are other options, little one," he countered. "If you were in an environment with lower humidity, while you would perspire more, it would evaporate faster as well. I have discussed this with Dr. Crusher, and she agrees that this is an option we should consider." Andile gave a shake of her head. "You can't reduce... ambient humidity of the... ship. It's set at... the optimum... level for... ship's functions... crew comfort..." she wheezed, her fatigue taking its toll on her attempts to measure her speech. "I am aware of that - and I was not about to suggest that the ship be altered just for your comfort." Tiron reached for her hand, taking the tiny appendage between his huge ones. "I love you, my little one - but even for you, I would not ask the crew to endure such a change." Once again, Andile shook her head. "Not my quarters..." she gasped. "No," Tiron agreed. "That would isolate you almost as much as keeping you on that damned machine. No, my _baj_, I had a different thought. I thought..." He hesitated. "I thought that, when these negotiations are completed, that you should return to Romulus with me," he said quietly. Andile looked up at the massive alien, her eyes wide in astonishment. "_Patchni_?" she whispered. "I have a large estate in the central western continent. It is situated in a very dry region - quite idyllic, by our standards - with very low ambient humidity. I have already discussed it with Dr. Crusher, and she believes that the humidity - and the temperature - would facilitate your recovery. I would, of course, hire physical therapists to continue your daily regimens - human therapists, of course, ones who are familiar with the intricacies of your physiology," he added hastily. Andile gaped - then shook her head. "But human, Grandfather," she repeated. "On Romulus. They... would not... be safe..." "As temporary employees, I would be able to secure guarantees of safety from the Senate for their stay. Such things are routinely done when specialized help is necessary; theirs would be no different. They would be safe during their stay, while they are attending you," he assured her. She studied the man, then shook her head again. "But where... would I go... when my guarantee... expires?" she asked him. "Your guarantee?" Tiron began - then smiled, shaking his head. "No, my little one; you would not need such a thing. Citizens of the Empire do not require guarantees." "I... am not... a Romulan," she reminded him. "You would be - as my granddaughter," he said slowly. Andile stared at him, then looked down at the massive hands that held hers - then back at him, her confusion evident on her face. "I would adopt you, my little one," he explained. "You would be my granddaughter - Andile Tironbyaj: Andile, granddaughter of the house Tiron - and a full Romulan by law, with all the rights and obligations therein. You would be safe with me, loved and honored as the exceptional young woman you are - and on my world, you would heal and grow well." She gaped at him, still astounded. "Your... granddaughter," she managed. "Romulan law permits such things," he assured her quickly. "Indeed, it happens rather often, to protect a child against the political indiscretions of the parents. It would require the consent of your parents, of course - but that would be a formality..." "My parents... are dead..." she began. Tiron stopped, drawing in a sharp breath. "I am sorry, my _baj_," he said, gently rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand. "Died... when I was... eight..." she said. "Long ago... so long ago..." she added softly, her eyes looking down at the table. He watched her, watched as she looked down, her hurt, her pain, still so terribly fresh, even after so many years. Heart-broken, he freed her hand, reaching across the table, taking her head in both of his hands, and kissing it gently. "I am sorry, my _baj_," he said softly, thinking he understood, at least in part, some of the woman's grief, of the pain she so obviously - and so silently - carried with her. "I, too, lost my parents at an early age - but I must tell, you, it does not grow easier with time. I am sorry - but I will try to be a good grandfather to you, my little one," he added. "Tiron..." she began to protest. "Do you have any relatives who could give permission?" he pressed. She gaped at him - then shook her head, too astounded by his single-mindedness to be able think clearly. "No..." "Then I will speak with the captain. As your senior officer, he would stand in the position of a parent to the remainder of the crew; he could give permission..." "Tiron," Andile interrupted, stopping the Romulan in mid-rumination. "Yes, my little one?" "Tiron... thank you," she managed. "But..." She stopped suddenly. But... what? she asked herself - then looked around the room. It was a beautiful place, she thought; lovely, functional, comfortable, nurturing, welcoming - it was everything that a tired crewmember would need after a stressful day - or that a energetic or bored crewman might need to re-energize themselves. This room was everything she ahd intended it to be - and judging from the expressions of the few who occupied it at this hour of the day, it was fulfilling its function. As was the rest of the ship, she reminded herself. This was a beautiful ship, inside and out, performing exactly as she wanted it to do, helping Starfleet and the Federation fulfill the goals it sought to achieve by providing her crew - and those it bore on its missions - with everything they needed. This ship, she thought to herself, was everything she had wanted it to be. Then leave it here, she told herself. Leave it - and go on. "_Patchni_..." she began. He raised a hand, stilling her in mid-sentence. "I know, little one. There is so much for you to consider before you accept my offer. But do consider what I am offering; know that with me, you would be safe - and in time, you would be healthy once more. I would see to it. Healthy - and more," he added quietly. "I am not a poor man, little one. My estate is not a small one - nor is it he only one I posses. My holdings are vast - and I have secured quite a fortune over the years. With no children left to survive me, it would fall, in time, to the state - a waste, I think, for they would squander it in their petty arguments, and divide my land among so many courtiers that, in the end, there would be nothing left but a few handsful of dust. "No," he said firmly, "in a few years - not too few, I hope - when my time is over, I would like to know that the lands and my wealth would remain with my... family," he said, reaching out to her once again. "Patchni..." she tried again. "No, little one," he said firmly. "No decisions made in haste. Think - and we shall talk again in the next few days. Now," he said, releasing her hands, "for truly important matters. You have been subsiding on Sickbay food for too long. It is time for you to eating something that is not only nutritious, but tastes good as well!" he teased her lightly. "Have you thought what you're going to order? Zumell says that Ten Forward makes something called a 'hot fudge sundae' that is quite delicious." Andile smiled. "No, Patchni. I'm... not hungry," she said. "Not hungry? After all your work?" he asked skeptically. She shook her head. "Just... thirsty," she insisted. He looked at her, doubt in his eyes. "Little one, you must eat," he said plaintively. "Your body is still healing..." "Not hungry," she repeated. If it wasn't the complete truth, it was, at least, close enough. After months of being fed intravenously, her stomach had shrunk so extensively that it took only a few mouthfuls for her to become painfully uncomfortable - and while making a habit of eating - even a few mouthfuls at each meal - would have cured that problem, Andile had come to find the thought of food to repellant. It was grief, Deanna had told her in their first - and only - counseling session. Andile had nodded blandly at the woman's words, thanked her for her presence - then firmly excused the woman from her room. Deanna had had no choice but to leave; the Sickbay apartment was, in essence, Andile's quarters - and, uninvited, Deanna had violated both professional protocols and Starfleet regs when she had entered the small space uninvited. Andile had been well within her rights to request that the Betazoid leave the space - just as she had been within her right s few minutes later when she had barred Deanna from returning. Just as she had barred everyone except Geordi, Tiron and Zumell. Had she been able, she would have barred the medical staff as well - but there were some things, Andile knew, that went beyond the realms of possibility and into that of fantasy. She wouldn't have to bar any of them from Romulus, she reminded herself. There, they would be aliens - and the government would bar them for her. As though they would want to see her, she added sharply. As though she had any right to think they would want to visit her. _Andile!_ the voice in her mind whispered. No! she cried silently, Please, no! - then felt Tiron's hand on her shoulder. "Little one?" he asked worriedly, seeing the expression of misery on her face. "Are you all right?" "Just thirsty," she insisted. "Of course, my little one," he said. "All this work - and all this talk - makes you thirsty, yes?" Tiron said. Andile nodded. "But not hungry?" She shook her head. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Something little, perhaps? The arboretum has several trees with ripening Earth peaches..." _Andile do not deserve peaches_, the voice told her harshly. _Peaches are for humans! You are not human! You are filth! Andile! ANDILE!_ Stricken by the grief in her soul, she looked down, shaking her head. "Just... thirsty," she repeated. "Then a drink," he agreed. "A _bash-tri_, perhaps?" She shook her head. "Green tea... cold... with passion... fruit... juice. Sweet," she added. "Cold." "Hmm.. Perhaps then I, too, will try this green tea cold," he said, musing over the idea with seeming enthusiasm - and enthusiasm she knew was forced; after the last month, she knew his opinion of human teas, green or black, hot or cold. She looked up at him. "I know... how you... could make yours... taste better," she said. "Have them... flavor yours... with rum..." she told him. "Rum," he said nodding - then stopped, looking down at her with a skeptical expression. "That is an alcoholic beverage, isn't it, baj?" he asked her. She smiled. "I see," he grumbled at her. "You know I have another negotiating session with your captain this evening - and you want your old _patchni_ to be incompetent, so your Federation will win this round of talks," he accused her lightly. "Have to... do my part... for... the Federation," she answered. "You have done enough, my little one," he told her gently. "Now it is my turn to do - for you," he said softly, rising from the table, towering over her. "I shall return in a few minutes. Will you be all right?" he asked, the worry on his face unmistakable. "You're only... going... a few feet away," she reminded him. "That was not the question, child; will you be all right?" he repeated. She smiled at his concern, then nodded. "I'll... be fine," she said. "And I will be right back," he told her - yet before he left he scanned her position once more, took a pillow from a nearby chair, braced it against her hip to secure her position, gave her a final inspection - then hurried away, as though he dared leave her for only a few seconds. You don't have to worry, _patchni_, she told him silently. I'm alone every night - and even if I weren't, Dr. Crusher has me wired with every imaginable monitor and sensor she can dream up. One wrong step - one cough too many, one gasp too deep - one sneeze! - and every alarm in Sickbay is going to go off and a dozen med techs will be all over me. By the gods, if I did fall, they'd probably call a red alert. But agreeing to wear the monitors had been the cost of leaving with Tiron, she knew; Dr. Crusher was taking no chances with her condition. But, she added, staring at the familiar yet unfamiliar room, it was well worth it. The windows were beautiful reaching from floor to ceiling, separated by what she knew, at least at some levels of her mind, was enough tritanium and duranium to ensure structural stability, while giving the inhabitants of the room a stunning view of the stars outside. They were lovely, she thought, a pang of something running through her mind - and through her heart. For a moment, she looked away, startled by the unexpected and unfamiliar sensation, unable to recognize it - then looked up again, staring at the stars once more. Homesickness, she realized slowly; they remind me of home. Home had been a horrible place, she knew, full of pain and loneliness and misery - and yet... It had been home. And it had been beautiful. Far closer to the galactic center than her subsequent worlds had been, the night skies had shone with a radiance that she had never seen since. Stars of every shade and size, of every temperature and luminosity were hers for the viewing in the night skies of Parahs, an exquisite display that could be denied to no one - not even the wretched, the andile. The stars had been hers - hers to dream upon, hers to wish upon, hers to pray to as they had been the gods themselves - and perhaps, in their way they had been, for they had, in the end, saved her. After all, she mused, the memories returning to her unbidden, if the stars had not shone so brilliantly, the priests would have never forced the science ministries to develop space travel - and she would never have found her way off the accursed world. That she had moved from the misery of her world to the loneliness of a hundred more didn't matter; she had always known there was refuge in the stars - refuge, freedom... peace. She stared at the stars a moment longer, studying their beauty - but as marvelous as they were, they weren't her stars; here, on the border of the Breen and Federation territories, was a no-man's-land, a tacitly agreed upon zone where neither would tread - because neither wanted it. The few stars were, indeed, lovely - but they were few and far between, and the planets, what few there were in this deserted region, weren't worth the effort from either side to claim and colonize. And they most certainly weren't worth fighting over, she added. Here was the peace of neutrality, but also the peace of the desert - and for the second time she felt a wave of nostalgia wash over her. Strange, she mused; I haven't missed home in centuries - and now, twice in two minutes? She shook her head - slowly, carefully, as they had made her practice, reminding her that the tissue of her neck and spinal cord were still fragile and her muscles still terribly weak - and need came over her again. _Andile!_ the voice screamed at her. Filth! Sewage! You dare need?! You dare _want_? You are andile! No, no.... she began to protest. _Protests? Justifications? You are andile! you have no right to protest - and no right to excuse yourself! You are filth!_ No! _I know what you did! I know what you tried to do - you tried to kill yourself, to have that human shoot you, kill you, so you could be free..._ I was trying to save the captain! she cried back. _Justifications! Excuses! Lies!_ the voice hissed. _You tried to kill yourself! You tried to deny yourself, your duty, your responsibility! But you can never escape! You are andile!_ _And you know what you must do!_ Horrified, she tried to pull away from the voice - but it was part of her; it had always been apart of her - would always be a part of her - and it would always be right. I know, she whispered back; I know. She tried to lift her hand - but the muscles were too fatigued, too weak to cooperate. _Andile! the voice dried. Andile! Do it!_ I can't! she cried back, I can't. _DO IT!_ the voice screamed. No! she gasped - but there could be no avoiding this fate, she knew; sooner or later Tiron would have to know... as they all would have to know. But not now, she protested, bracing her hands against the table, pushing herself up, desperate to leave the table, to leave Tiron, to hide herself away, to tear herself away from even these few comforts - comforts she didn't deserve, comforts that andile were forbidden. Andile! she screamed again, pushing herself to her feet... A hand on her shoulder pushed her back. "No need to stand, Lieutenant," Will Riker said. "After all, you're on leave, and I'm off duty - for another five minutes," he added with a grin. "You mind?" he added, gesturing at the chair across the table from her. Stunned, shocked at the unexpected intrusion, she started, "Tiron..." "Oh, I won't interrupt your lunch," he countered instantly, settling in across from her. "I can't stay long. I was just finishing up a late lunch," he held up the napkin he had been using as evidence, "and I do have to get back to the bridge before the captain leaves for the evening's negotiations. But when I saw you, I decided the bridge could wait." He stared at her studying her intently for a minute. "So," he said at last, "how are you doing?" Andile hesitated for a moment, then gave a slow nod of her head. "I'm... fine," she managed. "Really?" Will countered dubiously. "'Cause you look like hell." She stared at him for a moment - then grinned and gave a weak laugh. "Thank... you," she wheezed. Will smiled at her, reached out and clapped his hand over hers, patting it reassuringly. "Everyone's been telling you that you look great, haven't they," he said. She nodded. "They're lying," he continued. "Oh, they mean well enough," he went on, "but..." He shook his head. "I've been there, Beej. Sick, injured a couple of times," he admitted. "I'd get over the worst of it - physically, but I still felt like... garbage. But everyone insisted I was 'looking good', 'looking better' - whatever. It didn't make me feel better; hell, it made me feel worse, because I found myself trying to meet that expectation of 'looking better'. And trying to meet that expectation was exhausting - as exhausting as the recovery itself. I would have given a lot for a 'private room' in Sickbay," he added, grinning at her. "It's yours... for.. the asking," she answered. Will affixed her with an astounded look. "Beverly's discharging you from Sickbay?" he gaped, unable to believe the idea. Andile shook her head. "Not yet. But... when we get back... to Earth... I'll be... remanded... to Starfleet Medical... until... my discharge," she said. "Then you've decided to leave Starfleet?" he countered, clearly disappointed. "No... choice. Can't stay. Not... like this," she added. "What... would I do?" "You could still teach," he pointed out. "You're a hell of a teacher, Beej. And engine design doesn't require the ability to run a four minute mile. You know, we never did finish the installation on those engines," he reminded her. "I'll... finish... the notes... for Geordi," Andile said. "Notes aren't enough, Biji; we need you." She bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes - but shook her head. "Can't. Please... Commander... don't make this... harder... It's hard enough... now..." "Just think about it, Biji. If nothing else, remember... you owe me that list of jokes," he said, his voice perfectly serious, utterly sober. "What?" "The jokes," her repeated, a grin splitting across his face. "Remember? Way back when - in Engineering? You said that when you had some 'down time' you were going to write out that list of all the jokes you knew. Well, Beej, you've got down time - in spades. If you're serious about leaving Starfleet - and personally, I think it's a damned stupid idea," he added, his voice tinged with anger, "but if you're hell bent on leaving, then I want the damned jokes. Or I'll make damned sure that Beverly loses whatever notes she's been making on your condition. Your discharge could take, oh... months? A year? to finish processing," he told her, his voice growing tight. "You... wouldn't..." He smiled - but there was no humor in his expression. "I can - and I will. You can quit on yourself, you can quit on Starfleet, on the people who care for you and love you, Andile - but you are going to honor your obligations to me. Am I understood?" he said grimly. She gaped at him - then allowed the gape to turn to a glare. "I don't... need... this... shit... from you... Commander! You can... take... your... fucking... jokes... and your... gods' cursed.... fucking... motivational... speeches... and your... fucking.... sympathy... and go... fuck... yourself!" she gasped, then planted her hands on the table, pushed her self up, and started for the door. "Baj!" Tiron hastily set down the two glasses he was carrying and hurried after her. "Baj, you mustn't..." he began pleadingly. "Go... away... Tiron.." she wheezed, gasping desperately after only a few steps. "I... don't... need... you... Don't... need... anyone... " She managed two more steps before her legs refused to cooperate, then stumbled and fell to the floor. Instantly, Tiron knelt beside her, reaching for her, trying to pick her up - only to have his hands pushed away. "Leave... me... alone!" she insisted. "Baj, please, let me help you..." "NO!" she insisted, then slowly pushed herself to her hands and knees. "Little one, you can not crawl back to Sickbay..." "Yes... I... can... Don't... need... you... Don't... want... you! I'm... andile... I'm... andile!" she screamed. "Leave... me... alone!" Constable Katie, ASC* Archive team ASC* archive: http://www.trekiverse.org or http://trekiverse.crosswinds.net Submissions/corrections: trekiverse@ trekiverse.org For archive updates: ASC-Archive-annc-subscribe@ yahoogroups.com ASC Stories-Only list: ascl-subscribe@ yahoogroups.com ASCEM Stories-Only list: ascem-s-subscribe@ yahoogroups.com ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek.creative or directly to the author. Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sat Jun 19 23:01:56 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n33.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.101]) by quail (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bBMFV1YC3NZFkZ0 for ; Sat, 19 Jun 2004 13:42:55 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-13732-1087677772-stephenbratliffasc=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com eceived: from [66.218.66.159] by n33.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 19 Jun 2004 20:42:52 -0000 X-Sender: asc-l@ix.netcom.com X-Apparently-To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 89492 invoked from network); 19 Jun 2004 20:42:51 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.166) by m19.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 19 Jun 2004 20:42:51 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO mynah.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.228) by mta5.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 19 Jun 2004 20:42:51 -0000 Received: from h-66-167-56-52.phlapafg.dynamic.covad.net ([66.167.56.52] helo=KatieDell) by mynah.mail.pas.earthlink.net with asmtp (Exim 3.36 #4) id 1Bbmfp-0001Yz-00 for ascl@yahoogroups.com; Sat, 19 Jun 2004 13:42:49 -0700 To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Organization: Trekiverse Message-ID: X-Mailer: Forte Agent 1.93/32.576 English (American) X-ELNK-Trace: 910b5d5da611f6d86f36dc87813833b237ee5069c768b30cf19b067dd8aa8781ca2cc4b18205a9f5350badd9bab72f9c350badd9bab72f9c350badd9bab72f9c X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 207.217.120.228 From: ASC* Archive Team MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCL@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCL@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sat, 19 Jun 2004 16:49:39 -0400 Subject: [ASC] NEW TNG: "Echoes" P/C, D/f (R). Pt 159/? Reply-To: ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 X-ELNK-AV: 0 Make a clean sweep of pop-up ads. Yahoo! Companion Toolbar. Now with Pop-Up Blocker. Get it for free! http://us.click.yahoo.com/L5YrjA/eSIIAA/yQLSAA/5x3olB/TM --------------------------------------------------------------------~-> On 18 Jun 2004 04:49:39 -0700, in alt.startrek.creative keroth1701@sbcglobal.net (Ke Roth) wrote: Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 159/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 159 "What the devil were you thinking, Will?" Deanna seethed several hours later, the two of them, along with Beverly and Picard, sitting in the captain's ready room. "I wasn't thinking..." Will began. "I'll say you weren't!" she snapped. Will drew a deep breath, then gave a long exhalation, shaking his head slowly. "That wasn't what I was going to say. I was going to say," he continued, giving her a look of carefully calculated patience - patience that could easily wear thin, "that I wasn't thinking of getting into a fight with her! I was finishing lunch, saw Biji and Tiron appear - and thought I'd go visit for a moment. See how she was feeling, give her a little grief - you know, the Will Riker approach to rehabilitation: no pity, no sympathy - but let her know that I'm there for her - if she wants me to be. "That's what I intended," he continued, "and it was going fine - I was teasing her about the list of jokes she had promised to write down for me - and then, all of a sudden, I couldn't control myself! I was just... furious! She was just giving up! On herself, on us, on Starfleet - throwing away everything she had worked for - everything we had all worked for! All I could see was red rage, all I felt was pure disgust!" He shook his head again, appalled - but this time by his behavior, not hers. "God, how could I have done that?" he muttered to himself. "She's so... sick - and there I was shouting at her... " He buried his head in his hand, ashamed, then felt a hand - Beverly's - on his shoulder, guiding him to the couch. "Don't be too hard on yourself. Will. Andile's always been able to affect those around her - it's just that usually it's for the better, not for the worse. I should have anticipated this might happen," she added. "The strain of going out, in 'public' for the first time in months... I should have eased her into it..." "I don't think you could have made it any easier than it was, Beverly," Deanna countered sympathetically. "Ten Forward was virtually deserted, she was with one of the few people with whom she feels utterly safe... No, you did what you could to soften the blow of making that first trip, Beverly. That Andile responded as she did..." Deanna hesitated, biting her lip as she thought through what she knew she had to say. "I believe Andile's response is a clear indicator that her mental condition is as precarious as her physical condition. And while it may be a consequence of her injuries - perhaps related to the brain damage - we have to accept that emotionally, Andile was already very unstable, very fragile, even before her injury. Captain," she said, turning to Picard, "it is my recommendation that Andile be offered Counseling again - but, if she declines the opportunity, that we consider the need for long-term sedation - and possibly stasis - until we can return to Earth and get her the medical and psychological care she needs." Picard drew in a long breath, nodding at the suggestion - but the nod was one of accepting the information, not necessarily the recommendation. For a long moment, he mulled the idea over in his head - then looked at Beverly. "Doctor?" he asked. Beverly hesitated as well, contemplating Deanna's suggestion - then sighed. "Andile is, unquestionably, emotionally unstable. And she has been so since before her arrival on this ship - but until now she had been able to control, at least to a degree, that instability. Her ability to control that instability, however, has been seriously impaired by her injuries, and as a result, she is acting out those instabilities more openly than she did before. "The question before us now is not, 'Is Biji mentally ill?' That, I think, is a given. Rather, the question is, 'Is she a danger, to herself, the ship, or the crew?' If we answer that question yes, then I agree with Deanna: we must, for her sake and ours, confine her, sedate her, even place her in stasis - if," she added firmly, "we decided she is a danger. "But _is_ she a danger?" Beverly continued. "To herself? No, Absolutely not. Her cultural indoctrination - her religious orientation - is absolute in this matter: andile may not suicide - by act or inaction," she said, anticipating Will and Deanna's objection before they could voice it. "She stepped in front of Tillerman's phaser," Will reminded her. Beverly smiled. "Self-sacrifice isn't suicide, Will; laying down your life for a friend, for a cause - that is honorable, it's noble - in our culture and hers. We build memorials to people who do what she did, Will; we call them heroes, not suicides. "You can't tell me that crawling back to Sickbay was good for her health!" the first officer protested. "I can - and I will. First, her artificial lung will not allow her to overtax its own capabilities; she is fully aware that it can not permit her to do anything excessive. If the work had required more air than the lung could provide, then she would have collapsed, her respiration rate would have dropped as a result - and her oxygenation rate would have returned to normal. She knows that - because it happened in the first few days she was wearing it. "Second, her sheer determination in completing that task - even if her reasons were of the worst type - was admirable. She refused to let anyone, even Tiron help her - and, while it took her over two hours to do so, she did, indeed crawl back. You don't think that takes determination? Then you try it," she added. "It might have been taxing, exhausting - ruinous to her knees - but she set herself a goal - and she succeeded. If she had simply given up, if she had let Tiron carry her back, then I would be more concerned than I am. But she didn't; she did what she's notorious for - and respected for: she fought. "All this brings me to the second question: is Andile a danger to our ship or the crew? In light of what she did on the Breen ship, I have to say, 'no'. Yes, it was the captain whose life she saved directly - but indirectly, she was acting to preserve the ship - and the Federation. If he had been injured or killed, there is every chance that we would have retaliated; certainly the Federation would have been placed in a very tenuous position. While we are not in a political of economic situation to initiate a war against the Breen, we could also not afford to _not_ act. To fail to do so would be an open display of out internal disarray - and a clear sign to the Romulans, Cardassians - even the Klingons! - that the Federation was ripe for the picking - and either unable or unwilling to defend itself. "No, Andile's actions on the Breen ship are a clear indicator to me that she would not permit the ship or her crew to come to harm," Beverly insisted. "I agree with you, Beverly," Deanna replied. "What Andile did before the accident is a clear marker of her mental state... then. But since the accident?" she pressed. "Since the accident, nothing has changed," Beverly countered. "Beverly!" Deanna gaped, "How can you say that? Biji's actions..." "Have been aggressive, yes. Vulgar and outlandish, yes - but dangerous? Captain, Deanna, Will, think about what she's done. She's gotten angry - yes. But did she physically lash out at anyone? No. "There is something else I would like you to consider," she added. "Andile has the right to refuse treatment; she has the right to refuse medication, food - everything related to her care. She has not done so - probably because she is fully aware that I could override that decision, claiming she was non compos mentos. That argument might or might not be valid - but, in the eyes of Starfleet and the Federation, I would have been legally within my rights to challenge her on the point. "But she didn't," Beverly continued. "She didn't fight us, not because it was a pointless fight - because fighting those fights she believed in, pointless or not, has always been one of her finest traits - but, I believe, because she knew, at one level of another, the hurt that would have caused us - those of us who were responsible for her daily care. Refusing care - and making us watch her as she slowly died - or refusing care, and being forced to suffer through our ministrations against her will - both of these would have injured us, the people around her. "She wouldn't do that; she would not deliberately hurt those who cared for her," Beverly said empathically. "But she didn't do anything to help you," Deanna pointed out. "You, yourself, pointed out that she was not cooperating." Will laughed, then shook his head. "Deanna, when has Beej ever made anything easy for anyone? Oh, I have no doubts she didn't make it easy for you and your people, Beverly - but I think you're right: it she had wanted to do you harm, she could have found a way." He looked at Picard - then at Deanna. "If it comes to a vote, then I've got to support Beverly on this. But..." "But something has to be done about the lieutenant," Picard agreed. "Suggestions?" Deanna spoke up. "Offer her another Counseling once again, sir - but make it clear that if she chooses not to participate, that her future in Starfleet will be in jeopardy. Picard shook his head. "I doubt that would work, Counselor. From what Cmdr. Riker has said, she's already decided that her career is over." "_If_ she's sincere about it," Deanna said doubtfully. "Starfleet has been her life for almost a hundred years," she reminded them all. "I doubt she'd give it up just because she's reluctant to go in to Counseling." "I don't think it's just a matter of being reluctant to go into Counseling, Deanna," Beverly countered. "It's more than that - much more. For the first time in her life, Andile is facing the fact that she has truly been injured." "She's been injured before," Will countered, "on Sipantha - or wherever it was that she was when she was hurt," he added. "The point is: she's been through this before. She recovered. What's different this time?" he asked. "Why's she giving up? She didn't give up before!" "She might have, Will - if she had been given a choice," Beverly replied. "But she wasn't given the choice; the doctors at Starfleet Medical did everything necessary to force her body to heal without her ability to consent or object - and with Andile's recuperative powers, she did heal. "But that won't happen this time. This time, the wounds are beyond the ability of medical technology to repair, beyond her body's ability to regenerate; this time, the damage is permanent; this time, she is not going to get better. This has never happened to her before," Beverly said with a quiet firmness. "For the first time - the first time, in a long, long life, she's confronting her own mortality. Worse, she confronting the fact that her life will never be the same again. "Andile has been injured beyond her ability to recover, beyond our ability to help her recover," she continued. "Yes, she will continue to gain strength, to regain her coordination, to learn to use her arm - but her breathing will always be impaired; we can not replace the lungs she lost, we can not give her back so much of what she lost. She's beginning to realize that this is how the rest of her life will be - and she can not cope with that fact," she concluded quietly. "So she's running away?" Will objected angrily. "What else can she do, Will?" Deanna countered. "What do you mean, what can she do? She could come to us for help! Damn it, we're her friends!" he protested. "She doesn't know that, Will," the empath said softly. "She's never had friends. She's lived her life - all of it - alone." "She's not alone now!" he snapped. "In her mind, she is," Deanna replied, "and until we can change that perception, she will be." For a long time, silence reigned in the small room, then Will spoke. "So what do we do?" "I'd like to get her into Counseling, to help her to understand that she isn't alone, that she does have others she can turn to," Deanna said. "Unfortunately, she's made her opinions about Counseling perfectly clear," she added. "And if we can't change her mind, if we can't help her before the negotiations with the Cardassians and the Romulans is completed," Beverly added, "we may never be able to help her. Once we reach Earth, if she still is determined to leave Starfleet, there will be nothing we can do to stop her - and nothing we can do to help her." Will sighed, then looked at Picard. "How much time does that give us, Captain?" he asked. Picard shook his head. "I can't give you a finite date, Will. The negotiations are progressing more slowly than I would have anticipated, due in part to the Breen's desire to initiate talks of their own." He gave a soft sigh of frustration - and exhaustion. Will smiled sympathetically at his commanding officer's fatigue; conducting negotiations with two potential enemies while simultaneously initiating first contact talks with another species was obviously taking a toll on Picard - but, Will added to himself, it was a toll that could work to their advantage. "You know, sir, if those talks were to slow down - perhaps drag on for another few weeks," he said hopefully, "it would give us a chance to help Biji..." "Will," Picard interrupted, "I will not jeopardize the talks - either set of talks - just to facilitate the recovery of one of my crew." The three officers stared at the man, disappointed in his answer - but understanding. Peace - and the survival of the Federation - were the reasons for this mission - and, Will reminded himself, the reason Biji had sacrificed so much. To forsake that, to ignore that sacrifice in an attempt to help her, would be an insult, an invalidation of everything Andile - and thousands of others like her - had given up for that greater goal. No, Will agreed, Beej wouldn't want that. "On the other hand," Picard continued, "I do believe that Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell would regret a too speedy conclusion to these talks; any decisions made in haste might well be rejected by our respective governments. Cmdr. LaForge has informed me that he has restored our long range subspace communications; I believe that it would be in the best interests of all parties if we were to communicate with Starfleet and the Federation, to advise them that we are safe - and request that they inform both Cardassia and Romulus of our status and the safety of their representatives, and that the discussions are progressing. If the Cardassians or the Romulans care to advise their ambassadors, they will be free to do so - just as the Federation may wish to send a replacement representative to replace me in these talks." "Sir," Will interjected, "even at subspace transmission speeds, it will take more than two weeks for our messages to reach Starfleet - and two weeks for their response to reach us," Will reminded him. "Indeed?" Picard replied. "How unfortunate." It took Will a moment to understand the captain's meaning - but when he spoke again, a moment later, there was a glint of mischievousness in the man's eye. "What's worse is that it will probably take the Federation - and the Romulans and the Cardassians - a few more weeks to decide what they want to do." "And until we do know their intentions," Deanna offered, "it would be inadvisable for the talks to continue - wouldn't it, Captain?" she said. "It would have the potential of being counterproductive," Picard agreed - then looked at the three soberly and seriously. "You have four weeks, six at the most. Beyond that... " He hesitated. "Beyond that, I can make no assurances. If Starfleet orders us back to Earth - and in light of the situation with Tillerman no longer being the Federation representative, they will most likely do just that - if they order us back to Earth, then we will have to return. And once we are there, there is nothing you can do to prevent the lieutenant from doing as she wishes - including leaving Starfleet, if she so chooses. "Six weeks - at the most. That's all the time I can give you," he repeated. "Make the most of it - and good luck," he added. Grinning, Will turned to Deanna, proffered a crooked arm, then headed for the door. Reaching it, however, they stopped, then turned back and looked at Beverly. "Coming, Doctor?" Will asked jovially. "We do need to make some plans, Beverly," Deanna said. "The captain bought us time - but it's going to take more than time to get Biji to accept our help. We're going to need a plan." Beverly nodded. "I need to discuss a few details with the captain first. I'll meet you in a few minutes," she said. "We'll be in Ten Forward," Deanna said. "Make it your quarters," Beverly replied hastily, a frown crossing her face - then forced a smile. "Andile may be secluding herself, but she has an uncanny way of knowing everything that's going on on this ship; what isn't overheard can't be accidentally shared with her," she advised them. The two looked at each other, brows raised in question - then looked back and nodded. "My quarters," Deanna said. "I'll be there," Beverly assured her, then turned away, studying her hands until she heard the door close behind her - then turned to face Picard. He met her gaze. "Why the secrecy?" he asked, glancing at the door that Will and Deanna had just exited. "If the lieutenant has isolated herself a completely as Deanna says she has, she won't overhear any ship's gossip." Beverly's brow arched in skepticism. "The most adept telepath this ship has ever encountered - and you think she won't 'hear' what we're planning?" She shook her head. "Naiveté doesn't become you, Captain." "I'm not being naïve, Doctor," he objected. "Despite the lieutenant's history, however, we have no evidence that her telepathy has returned; indeed, your reports indicate that that may be one of the areas of her brain that has suffered damage." "On the contrary, Captain; we now have evidence that even if there was damage, her abilities are returning," she replied. "Unless, of course, you believe your first officer has suddenly become prone to bursts of unreasoning anger," she added, looking at him questioningly. Picard pursed his lips in contemplation, then nodded, accepting her analysis that Will's sudden fury was far more likely to have been a projection of the telepath's inner rage than Will's disappointment in the woman. "I'll accept that," he demurred. "But what makes you believe Deanna's quarters will be sacrosanct?" he asked. "Biji can hear anything, in any place, that she wants - but she also understands and respects the privacy of those around her. She might eavesdrop on Ten Forward, but never in crew quarters. No, what we talk about there is safe." "And here?" he asked her, gesturing at the room around them. "I suspect Andile sees your ready room as being a part of your private world," Beverly explained. God knows you spend more time here than in your quarters, she added silently. "I doubt she would violate your privacy here anymore than she would violate it within your quarters." He nodded again, accepting the decision - then raised his eyes to hers. "So what was it you wanted to discuss with me, Doctor?" he asked. Beverly looked at the man for some time, then said in a voice tinged with badly concealed anger, "Four weeks. you gave us - and Andile - four weeks." "Possibly six," he corrected her. "Six weeks then," she conceded, none of the anger fading. "Six weeks to undo the damage that ten thousand - fifteen thousand - years of loneliness and isolation have wrought." "That's all the time I can arrange, Doctor," he countered, his voice growing equally cold. "Then why bother?" she retorted. "Jean-Luc, you know as well as I do that six weeks isn't enough time for Deanna to even make a dent in Andile's defenses - let alone convince her to initiate counseling!" she argued. "The lieutenant is a member of my crew, Beverly," he replied. "I have to make an attempt to help her. It's the least I can do." "Yes," she replied. "It _is_ the least you can do. Anything less would be deemed indifference or outright abuse of your crew; this way, doing the 'least' you can, the forms are met, the requirements observed; you did what was necessary - and if it fails, well, you did your part, didn't you?" she said caustically. "And after all, that's all that matters, isn't it? You did your part." He glared at her, stunned - then felt the fury return, unabated - and uncheckable. "What the hell do you want me to do, Beverly?" She glared back, equally furious. "What I want you to do, Jean-Luc, is to _do_ something! Not sit back and let your crew take on the responsibility while you sit up here, secluded and distant!" "I am not sitting back, Beverly; I'm genuinely concerned about the lieutenant..." "Concerned? She was in Sickbay for months - and aside from that one day in the operating room, you didn't come down to visit her once!" "She was unconscious..." "That didn't stop anyone else from visiting!" she snapped back. "Damn it, almost every crewman aboard made the effort to see her, to talk to her, to try to help her recover! Everyone - except her captain!" "I had work, Beverly - not only my own duties, but negotiations with Ambassador Tiron and Tar Zumell - and initiating talks with the Breen," he reminded her. "I didn't have the luxury of socializing." "Socializing?" she sneered. "You didn't have to have an animated conversation with her! She was unconscious! All you had to do was talk to her - talk _at_ her, for God's sake! Say hello! Say, 'How are you?' Say 'Thank you for saving my life'! But I guess that's a luxury a busy Starfleet captain can't afford; I guess having someone almost die trying to save your life is de rigueur for a busy man like you - not even worth the effort of saying thanks!" she goaded him. "That's quite enough, Doctor!" "It's not half enough, Captain!" she snapped back. "I've spent the last fifteen years watching you separate yourself from the people around you - and I accepted it. I accepted that line of yours that a captain can't have a close relationship with his crew, because a commander needs to remain objective; I accepted it, went along with it - hell, I think I even began to believe it! "But the truth is that it has nothing to do with objectivity; you're keeping your distance because you don't want the crew to get close enough to you to learn the truth!" "And that truth would be...?" he snapped back. "That you're a coward, Jean-Luc," she replied. "Oh, you'll face any enemy, any disaster, any crisis willingly enough - but when your crew needs _you_ - when they need _you_ - your heart, your soul, to comfort them, to reassure them - you're not there. You've run away, and left Deanna - and Will, and me - and everyone else on board, to clean up the emotional messes that a crew creates. That's not professional objectivity, Captain; that's cowardice - and cowardice at its worst." He stared at her, beyond anger now, stone-faced and rigid with rage. "It is not cowardice, Doctor, to attempt to provide a crewman with the help he or she needs - and right now, the lieutenant needs professional counseling..." "Wrong!" Beverly interrupted. "What she needs is a friend." "She has Data..." "Data?! As far as Andile's knows, he dumped her!" Beverly cried out. "The last person she wants to see is Data; the last person she can believe or trust is Data! She wants someone she can trust - and right now, despite everything he's done for her, he is the last person she can trust! No! She needs a friend - a real friend!" He met her eyes, seeing the challenge there - then looked away. "I'm certain Counselor Troi can act adequately in that capacity..." "But Deanna wasn't the one on the Breen ship with her," Beverly replied, her voice suddenly growing soft, gentle. "Deanna wasn't the one who shared her memories, her took on her pain when the Breen tried to repair her hands and feet, who carried her so you could both escape; Deanna wasn't the one who held her heart to keep her from bleeding to death..." She looked at him, her eyes soft with tenderness, with understand - with compassion... and more. "I know what happened over there, Jean-Luc; Jemat told me everything... "Not everything," he countered. "No? Then you tell me, Jean-Luc," she pressed gently. He didn't answer, preferring, instead, to stare at the stars. "Jean-Luc?" she tried again. "What didn't Jemat tell me?" For a long time he was silent, then... "I should have let her die." The words were spoken so softly that Beverly almost missed them. "Jean-Luc?" He stood before her, staring into nothingness for several moments - then looked at her, the glare and the ice gone from his eyes - but the rage, the fury, still there. But it the rage, the anger was not directed at her; instead, it was directed at a target far closer. "I should have let her die, then and there," he repeated. "Instead... Instead, I kept her alive. I made Data and Worf keep her alive. I made you keep her alive. But you were all right; I should have let her die. She saved my life... and I condemned her to... this," he whispered emptily. "Jean-Luc..." "I thought I was doing the right thing..." He suddenly stopped himself, shaking his head. "No. I keep thinking that, keep rationalizing what I did. But it wasn't the right thing. I know it now - and I think I knew it then." "Then why?" He didn't answer her immediately, turning instead to the windows, staring at the unmoving stars as though searching for something. "Then why?" Beverly repeated after a few minutes. "If you thought it was wrong, then why?" He studied the stars a moment longer, then turned to her once again. "I don't know," he answered. "I've asked myself that question every day since we returned, Beverly - and I still don't have an answer." "Maybe there is no answer," Beverly said sympathetically. "Sometimes, we don't act, we just... react." "Starfleet captains are taught not to 'just react'," he replied curtly. "Starfleet captains are also taught that sometimes they make mistakes; after all, even Starfleet captains are still human," she reminded him gently. For a moment the two were still silent, then Beverly spoke. "Whatever your reasons for what you did, Jean-Luc, you did it - and she is alive. As much as you might like to change what happened - as much as Andile might rather she had died - she's here. And she's in pain. And what she needs right now, more than anything else, is a friend. Someone who understands what's she's suffering. Someone who was there," she added. Picard looked at her, the anger flaring once again. "Damn it, Beverly, how can I go to her after what I did?!" he railed furiously. "What am I supposed to say? 'I'm sorry'?!" Beverly met his eyes - then nodded. "For a start, yes. And then, you go on to, 'And I'm not sorry. I'm glad you survived - now let me help you get well." He drew a deep breath, then shook his head. "I condemned her to this life she didn't want, Beverly; she's not going to be able to forgive me." "Perhaps not," she said quietly. "But you need to try, for her sake - and for yours. And then, Jean-Luc, you need to do something that's even harder." He looked at her, his eyes filled with question. "You need to forgive yourself." She stepped toward him, raised herself slightly, and placed a kiss on his cheek - then turned and left, leaving the man to his thoughts. For a long time, he watched the door she had passed through - then turned to the windows, and watched the stars. Constable Katie, ASC* Archive team ASC* archive: http://www.trekiverse.org or http://trekiverse.crosswinds.net Submissions/corrections: trekiverse@ trekiverse.org For archive updates: ASC-Archive-annc-subscribe@ yahoogroups.com ASC Stories-Only list: ascl-subscribe@ yahoogroups.com ASCEM Stories-Only list: ascem-s-subscribe@ yahoogroups.com ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek.creative or directly to the author. Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sat Jun 19 23:01:56 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n2.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.75]) by bunting (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bBMHR6Qi3NZFmR1 for ; Sat, 19 Jun 2004 13:44:55 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-13733-1087677894-stephenbratliffasc=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com eceived: from [66.218.66.27] by n21.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 09 Jul 2004 15:55:40 -0000 X-Sender: asc-l@ix.netcom.com X-Apparently-To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 95575 invoked from network); 9 Jul 2004 15:55:38 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.172) by m21.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 9 Jul 2004 15:55:38 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO swan.mail.pas.earthlink.net) (207.217.120.123) by mta4.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 9 Jul 2004 15:55:38 -0000 Received: from h-66-167-46-192.phlapafg.dynamic.covad.net ([66.167.46.192] helo=localhost) by swan.mail.pas.earthlink.net with esmtp (Exim 3.33 #1) id 1Bixbs-0006Rx-00 for ascl@yahoogroups.com; Fri, 09 Jul 2004 08:48:24 -0700 To: ascl@yahoogroups.com Organization: Trekiverse Message-ID: <5hfte01fhm4odgkgvbajl9okcb7igi0t80@4ax.com> X-Mailer: Forte Agent 1.9/32.560 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 207.217.120.123 From: ASC* Archive Team MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCL@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCL@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Fri, 09 Jul 2004 11:47:51 -0400 Subject: [ASC] NEW TNG: "Echoes" P/C, D/f (R) PT 160/? Reply-To: ASCL-owner@yahoogroups.com Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 X-ELNK-AV: 0 Make a clean sweep of pop-up ads. Yahoo! Companion Toolbar. Now with Pop-Up Blocker. Get it for free! http://us.click.yahoo.com/L5YrjA/eSIIAA/yQLSAA/5x3olB/TM --------------------------------------------------------------------~-> On 5 Jul 2004 17:31:01 -0700, in alt.startrek.creative, keroth1701@sbcglobal.net (Ke Roth) wrote: Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 160/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except Andile and a few of the others you're about to meet. I promise I won't make any money from writing this. FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 160 She sat near the top of the hill, looking down on the vast field that led from the _c'nera_ forest to the open harbor. Before her, people had already begun to gather in small groups, mostly in traditional family clusters, the two parents and their precious single child huddled between them, quietly talking, listening to the soft music that carried up from the water's edge where the musicians played. Here and there, a larger family of four dotted the landscape, made more noticeable by their inordinate size - and by the envious stares of the smaller families around them. None were larger, she knew; she could have programmed the holodeck to have created families of five or more - but that would not have been true to her memory - or to the facts. No, this program was as accurate as she could make it, from the slightly foul scent of the _c'nera_ forest to the sweet melody of the distant orchestra - to the sad reality of the culture dying before her. Dying in more way than one, she had reminded herself in the days she had spent in Sickbay, creating the program that would give her back her home world once more; dying not just from the sun that would, in the not too distant future, go nova, destroying all that had been Parash, killing her people, her culture - and her horrors. In one instant, all that had been would disappear forever, as if they had never existed - except in the minds of those who had been aboard the lone ship. There, the world would live on - for a few months longer. But how much longer would they have survived if the sun hadn't destroyed them? she wondered, studying the small groups before her. Not long; one child for every two adults was not enough for a society or a people to survive - let alone to thrive - and so often there were no children born to a couple. Those unusual families that managed to bring more lives to the world were few and far between - and with every generation she watched, they became rarer and rarer. A part of her knew she could make the calculation, that she could determine just how long her world would have survived from this point on - but she had not spent the last week working on this program so that she could waste her holodeck privileges on pointless computations; they had died, long ago - and nothing she could do now - or could have done - would have changed a damned thing. She gave a short harsh laugh, hating the way her lungs forced the air from her throat, hating the hoarse, uneven sound that her voice had become. Oh, the therapists had insisted that with time, with practice, it would change, that it would become 'natural', that she would speak as easily as she once had done... but it would never be the same, she knew. Speaking would always be an effort, a foreign activity - something that separated her from those around her, that reminded her that she was different. That she was alone. That she was andile. I should have stayed, she thought, staring emptily at those below her; I should have stayed and died with them. But regret was an emotion that andile didn't merit, she reminded herself as well; andile took what they were given and accepted it as their lot. The wind shifted, sending faint aromas of cooking food up to where she sat beneath the trees, and sending a faint wave of nausea washing over Andile. The first time she had sat here - and the last time, she reminded herself, so many millennia ago, the nausea had been because she had been starving. The _c'nera_ forests afforded protection for her kind - but nothing more. The trees poisoned the soil, keep all but the most basic of lichens and mosses from growing on the ground, providing no sustenance for even the insects and scurrying rodents that had for so many years - decades? centuries? she wondered - been her source of food. But the changes in the sun that presaged the final end the world faced had changed the world's climates. The annual floods that granted the limited fertility to the river banks to which the andile were exiled had failed for three years - and with each year, what little food they could provide had decreased until none was left. Starving, she had made her way from the river banks that had been her home to the mountains - and began the arduous climb. Time and again she had fallen, tearing her flesh, breaking her bones, rupturing organs - and each time, as she lay broken on the rocks, she had wondered when death would take her. It never did. And after a day or two - or a week or a month - she would find the broken bones healed, the flesh renewed, the damaged organs functioning - and she would rouse herself, and begin to climb again. How, she did not understand - but after a time, she ceased to wonder or even to care. All that she knew was hunger and thirst - and that beyond the mountains lay a world that had once given her life. And death. It wouldn't matter if they found her here among the trees, starving, or within the boundaries of the village, rifling through the middens searching for scraps of food; no matter that none of the people would willingly live among the foul-scented _c'nera_, no matter that there was nothing here that they could want or use; the mere fact that an andile dared live so close to humans was enough to spell her death. But she could not die, she reminded herself as she looked down at the others, pulling her cloak closer to her body. If she could die, this would be suicide - and andile could not suicide. Even if we could, Andile reminded herself, the holodeck would not permit it - or rather, Andile conceded, Beverly Crusher would not permit it. Andile hadn't expected her to do so; she knew full well she had thrown down the gauntlet when she had barred everyone - Tiron and Zumell included - from her quarters after the debacle in Ten Forward, submitting only to the presence of medical technicians when Beverly could prove the procedure was essential to her survival - and then refusing all peripheral medications related to those procedures. It had left the technicians to peel the flesh from her body each time they changed her artificial lung, ripping great strips from her body, leaving bloody and oozing wounds in lieu of soft pink flesh; it had left them to watch as spasms tore through her over-worked legs and arms during each therapy session; it had left them to suffer the rasping gasps of an over-stressed, overworked throat as she pushed through each session, allowing herself no respite from the hell that she faced - but allowing them no relief either. Beverly had begged and pleaded with the woman - but to no avail. The same regulations that required Andile to submit to treatments required Beverly to grant her those freedoms - regardless of the consequences. Left on her own for increasingly long periods of time - and in response to that strange upwelling of homesickness that had plagued her since that day with Tiron, she had begun work on the holodeck program - a holodeck program she had completed two days before. She had requested the use of the deck at that time - but Beverly, citing a diagnosis of clinical depression and Andile's increasing isolation, she had required Andile to submit the program she had written for the Parashian homeworld to Geordi for a thorough review, screening it intently for any bypass that would allow her to turn off the safety protocols. He would find none, Andile had known as she turned over the disc; there were none. No overrides, no bypasses, no potential opportunities for suicide or even accidental death. It was nothing more than a pastoral recreation of the world she had once inhabited, focusing on one spectacular evening that she had experienced one evening - along with a thousand other Parashians. She grinned coldly. No, try as they might, they would find nothing dangerous - only the gentle hillside, sloping up from the harbor, to the large plain and its soft grasses, to the rocky ground of the _c'nera_ forest, to the stunning night sky. That's all they would find - because that's all there was. That's all that was necessary. After all, everything she needed was safely locked in the mindset of the other participants - and even the most circumspect investigation Geordi could perform would not know to consider the possibility of mass hysteria - a fragment of rage and hatred that, on its own, meant nothing - but combined with that of a thousand others? Even the holodecks safety protocols wouldn't know to search out that one small bit of data. But it was enough, Andile knew, looking down at the hundreds of rocks and stones strewn about the ground. One inadvertent sound - and the people would realize they were not alone; one searcher - and they would find her; one look - and they would know what she was. The outcome was inevitable, she knew; there would be rocks and stones enough for each of them to vent their anger upon her. She wouldn't die, of course; she couldn't permit herself to suicide, even through another's actions - and the monitors and alarms she wore would alert Sickbay within moments of the event to what had happened. They would retrieve her - but no matter how quickly they reacted, the damage would be done - and the consequences inescapable. She knew; she had lived through it before - as she would live through it this time. Or rather, as someone would live through it, she reminded herself coldly. The villagers would throw stones first, aiming for the chest and the head first, she knew; that was critical to their technique - and to her plan. They would knock her down with that critical blow first, stunning her into immobility - then, drawing close, they would pummel her with rocks, stones, hands and feet until the rage was gone and they left her. But it was that first blow that was critical, she reminded herself; a blow to the chest would tear open the fragile surface of the artificial lung, and while - even with the anti-coagulated blood that was necessary for the artificial lung to function flowing through her veins - she would not bleed to death in the little time between when the blow landed and Sickbay received the automated alert and retrieved her, the flow of oxygen to her brain would have stopped for long enough for the damage to be, if not permanent, at least sufficient. Sufficient to end the memories, to stop the voices - to make the pain end, for once and for all. And if the hit her head... She smiled. A skull of tri-tanium lattice does not break as a skull of bone does - but the brain within bounces just the same. A hard enough blow - and part of the brain would turn to paste. Harder - and the blood vessels would break, filling the surrounding area with anticoagulated blood, blood that would not stop flowing, compressing the tissues, killing them - and blocking the memories forever. And there was nothing Beverly Crusher could do to stop the damage in time to save those parts of her brain; she knew from too many years of experience that it would take over an hour for even the toughest surgical drill to penetrate the duranium and bone casing. An hour - and those cells would be dead, dead, dead! she gloated, and there was nothing anyone could do to bring them back. It wouldn't kill her - nothing could - but what remained wouldn't be... me, she knew. It would be someone else, someone who could start her life anew; someone who could find the joys that life was supposed. Maybe she would even find love, Andile added solemnly. Maybe even with... him. He deserved someone good, someone kind, and gentle, and loving - and worthy of his love. Maybe it would be me - the me that will be left, she added, then raised her head to study the scene below. The sun had begun to set, casting long shadows across the field. Here and there, cooking fires were being lit as the families began the preparations for the evening meal, wanting themselves and the children fed before the stars came out, wanting the fires banked to nothing more than embers, glowing enough to warm them against the summer evening's chill, but not enough for their light to interfere with the heaven's presentation. They wouldn't, of course; she had programmed it that way - but even then, they had all respected the display with the respect it merited; no light from the ground had ever marred the night's presentation, nor would it tonight. And when it ended... then it would end, she knew. She huddled deeper into the cloak, wishing she dared light a fire - but that would have given her position away far too early, ending the program ahead of schedule. Not that it really mattered, of course, whether it ended now or at the end of the three hour span she had been given on the holodeck - in the grand scheme of the universe, the remaining two hours meant nothing. And yet she remained still, silent, knowing that though this would be her last night on her planet - or anywhere else, she did not want to go... yet. Soon. After she had seen the gods' gift one last time. She pulled the robe around her closer and watched the sun drop below lowest cloud on the horizon... For a moment, nothing happened - then, as the last vestige of the sun's sphere dropped below the edge, the light, diffused by the clouds on the horizon, exploded in a thousand rays of purest gold, casting their light on every surface, every person, every creature perched upon the hill and field. In that moment, they were all golden - every man, every woman, every child, every animal... Even the buildings of the towns shone golden, as if made of the purest and cleanest metal, then burnished to a high sheen. The boats on the water glimmered in metallic majesty - and in the sky... Andile drew in a long breath, staring at the ships that had been her home and refuge for the first eight years of her life, and felt a tear well in her eye. Home, she thought, the nostalgia threatening to overcome her control; home. She drew in a sharp breath, trying to choke back the tear that threatened... and heard a second, unexpected inhalation. No! she cried silently, dropping the rock. It's too early! They're not to find me for another hour yet! Not until after! she insisted. Terrified, she hastily struggled to her feet - but her feet and legs had forgotten how to respond to sudden changes. Caught off balance, tangled in the folds of the unfamiliar robe, she began to topple... Two hands caught her from behind, steadied her - then turned her around. "I'm sorry," Jean-Luc Picard said quietly as he released the tiny woman. "I didn't mean to startle you - or to interrupt your program," he said - then gestured at the display presenting itself in the sky surrounding them. "I was taken aback by your sunset... This is your homeworld, isn't it?" he added. Too stunned to do anything but respond, Andile nodded, then added, "Parash. It was... Parash," she clarified. "Lovely," he murmured. "Yes... wanted... to... see home.. again." One last time, she added wordlessly. I wanted this to be the last thing I saw, before it was all over, she thought - but alone! I need to see it - alone! "What... are... you... doing... here?" she gasped. The question seemed to elude the captain's mind for a moment; he studied the golden sunset - now fading into more common tones of red and yellow - then turned to Andile, and gave a slight inhalation as he came back to the present. "Oh. Yes. I'm sorry; I was engrossed in the sunset. It's been some time since I bothered to pay attention to the things around me," he added, "and I hadn't realized how much I missed them. You were saying?" "Why... are... you... here?" she repeated, the gaps between the words lengthening as her lungs fought to supply her with air. "Oh! Yes. Of course," he said, suddenly recalling the reason for his visit - then raised his right hand. In it lay a small rectangular wooden case, roughly a foot in length, a few inches wide, an inch or two in height. Two hinges were mounted on one side; on the other a small clasp. He handed it to her. "I had heard you were having some difficulty with your respiratory therapy; I thought you might find this helpful," he said, thrusting the case toward her. She gave him a puzzled look, then reached for the case with her right hand. But the muscles and nerves of that arm were still too unfamiliar with movement to be able to function well on such a fine task; the fingers spasmed, and the case fell from her hand. Picard caught it before it reached the ground, then took her right hand, opened the fingers, and placed the case back in it, closing the fingers around the wooden box. For a moment, she stared at it - then looked up at him. "Go ahead; open it," he insisted. She watched him for a moment - then looked down, and opened the case. "It's... a... flute?" He gave an embarrassed nod. "A Ressikan flute," he explained. "I thought it might help you." "Help... me?" He nodded. "Yes. With your breath control exercises," he elaborated. "I thought this," he nodded at the flute, "could help." She looked at the flute again. Picard smiled at the bewilderment on her face. "When I was first learning how to play it, I discovered that the most difficult part was learning to maintain the breath control. Knowing how monotonous therapy can be, I thought that this might be a more effective - and more enjoyable - way of practicing your exercises," he explained. She looked at the case again, then nodded. "Yes. Thank... you," she said - then closed the case and handed it back to him. "But... no," she said with unarguable finality. He blanched, surprised by the unexpected and abrupt refusal - the forced a tolerant smile to his face as he proffered the case once again, pushing it into her hands once more. "If you're concerned about the openings for the right hand, I assure you, there are numerous pieces that require only minimal fingering for the right hand - and," he coaxed, "it would help strengthen those muscles..." "No!" she snapped, cutting him off, then using her right hand, pushed the case away. But her control of the limb was wildly inaccurate; unintentionally, she caught the case by the corner, sending it flying out of the man's hands and clattering to the floor. To her surprise, his reaction was neither one of anger or disapproval - but rather of shock... and fear - as if she had thrown away something precious. Something cherished. I should know, she chided herself harshly; I should know what this is, I should know why it's important to him, she insisted - but the memory - the memory of a memory? she wondered, remained distant, hiding... A wave of pain ran through her head, eliciting a sharp gasp; she raised her hand - her good hand, her functioning hand - to her head, rubbing at the tearing pain behind her eyes. "Lieutenant?" Picard said worriedly. Without looking up, she shook her head. "I'm... sorry..." "Do you want to go back to Sickbay?" he asked worriedly. Instantly horrified, she looked up at him. "No!" she barked - then gave her head a slight shake. "Sorry... Just... meant... my first... night... away... alone... Don't... want... to... go... yet..." "Yes," the captain agreed. "Of course. I quite understand. I've spent more than a few days in Sickbay myself, and I can appreciate the desire to get away. However, one can overdo it the first time..." he suggested. "I'm... fine..." she insisted. "Just... headache. It'll... go away... in a... minute." "Yes, of course," Picard agreed. "But perhaps it might be advisable if I were to stay... Just until you're certain you're feeling better," he said. "No! I'm... fine!" she insisted - but even as she protested, the pain in her head intensified, sending a wave of near-overwhelming nausea rushing at her. Gasping, gagging, she grabbed at her head, but off balance, her robe, long, heavy - and unfamiliar after so many years of disuse - managed to tangle itself around her legs. Caught in its folds, she stumbled, tripping on the rocky ground - and began to fall. But the expected impact of fragile body against the rocky hillside never came; after a moment, she opened her eyes - and was surprised to find herself seated on the ground. There was something warm on her arm - something large, warm, secure... reassuring. Numbly curious, she looked down, and was surprised to see a man's hand holding her arm. Following it back to its source, she was surprised - yet not surprised in the least - to find herself staring into a pair of hazel eyes, their normal depth now clouded with worry. "What... happened?" she asked, a little dazedly. "You tripped," he replied quietly - then forced a smile. "I would suggest that your next holodeck program try a more even terrain - at least until you finish your physical therapy," he added. "Yes... sir," she agreed tiredly. "I'm... all... right now," she added. He watched her for a moment, then seeing her eyes growing clear once again, released her arm - then to her horror, eased himself down to the ground beside her. "I'm... really... all right," she repeated, a little insistently. Picard nodded - but he made no effort to raise himself up, let alone to leave. Instead, he looked at the rocks and dirt that made up the hill, seeming to study them in the growing shadows of the evening, then picked up a tiny stone, hefting it in his hand, and tossing it down the side of the hill. It made a soft clattering noise at it hit another rock, then the sound faded as it rolled to a stop in the powdery dust of the hill's dirt-covered flank. He watched the place where it landed - then followed it a few minutes later with another stone. Andile studied him as he tossed another few stones down the hill, then tried again. "Really... I'm... fine... You... don't... have... to stay...." He nodded, then found and tossed another stone - then looked down the hill. "A harbor," he said quietly. "I remember you saying you were born on a ship. Was this your home?" The question had been unexpected. Taken aback, she nodded - then realized he wasn't looking at her. "Yes," she said aloud. "It's... Oh'l'k'yuk." "Oh'l'k'yuk," Picard tried. Despite herself, Andile smiled at the mangled pronunciation. "Close... enough," she said. "My people... used... to... say... that... if you weren't... born... here... couldn't.... pronounce... it right," she managed. Despite himself, Picard smiled. "There are those in France who claim the same thing," he replied. The two fell silent again, studying the darkening horizon. Looking down, Picard found another tiny stone, then picked it up, studying it intently. So intently that it took Andile a moment to realize he had spoken. "Pardon?" she said. "I asked, Lieutenant, how you intended to do it," he repeated, still studying the stone. "How you intended to kill yourself," he clarified. "That's why you're here, isn't it? To see your home one last time - before you commit suicide?" She opened her mouth to protest - then stopped herself. The protests were pointless, she thought; he already knew - just as she had known - at least known something - about the flute he ahd brought her. Just what, she wasn't sure - anymore than he was sure about what she had intended, she knew; and while the specifics were missing, the generalities were not. He knew. They both knew. "Not... suicide," she clarified. "Andile.... can't.... kill themselves... even... even..." She stopped, the words catching unexpectedly in her throat. "Even when it hurts to much to go on," Picard finished for her. She nodded, her eyes stinging with the unexpected tears. Tears?! she gaped silently, horrified. Andile aren't permitted tears... "Perhaps, then, you are no longer andile," he offered softly, then turned to look at her. She gaped at him, astounded - and horrified. He heard her! she gasped wordlessly. Heard! - and understood. He knew! But how...? She paused, even in her own mind as memory, unbidden tapped at the periphery of her thoughts, teasing her, taunting her, reminding her again - as always, - of what she didn't know, or rather, what she had known... once. He knew her. She dug at her own thoughts, tearing through the veils of confusion that shrouded so much of her , searching out her past with him - but the memory refused to clarify itself, remaining buried among ten thousand others, hidden and lost to her conscious mind. Stricken and frustrated, she raised her eyes to him. "I... can't remember," she said plaintively. "I know," he answered. "But... you... know me?" she asked. "Who... I am? What I... am?" "I know who you were," he corrected her. She stared at him, astounded, benumbed, watching mutely as he raised his hand to her face - then stopped. "May I?" he asked. Too confused to understand, she nodded, then felt his hand touch her face, his thumb reaching to brush away the trail of moisture that marked where the single tear had coursed down her face. He touched her... She gasped, crying out as he made contact, a thousand - ten thousand, thirty thousand! - years of memories flooded through her, the pain simultaneously old and familiar, yet exquisitely new, fresh and excruciatingly sharp. She cried out as the thoughts tore through her, memories of every failure, every disaster, every shortcoming, every catastrophe that her been her life washed back over her; she cried out as she remembered in agonizing detail the wretchedness of what she was, of what she had been, of everything she had done... Varel! Oh, gods, no! By all the gods, no! She cried out in agonized horror, the sound sharp and piercing, belying the apparent weakness of her remaining lung. He had prepared himself for this; suspecting his touch would reawaken their bond - and with it restore each of the memories she had shared with him - he had planned this out, rehearsing this moment in his mind a thousand times - and yet it still caught him unaware. She pushed herself to her feet, pulling away from his touch, out of the range of his grasp before he could stop her - and before he had made his own way to his feet, she was racing down the hillside, stumbling over the uneven rocky terrain, blinded by tear-filled eyes, twisting from one side to the other as she misstepped, nearly falling - but always catching herself at the last moment, racing... Toward what? Picard wondered, watching. There was nothing here that could harm her; no cliff, no rocky outcropping that she could throw herself from; at worst, her still weak muscles might give way, allowing her to fall, letting her hit herself against the rocks - but even now, even as he watched her race away, down toward the harbor's heart, the terrain had begun to level out, the rocks and stones giving way to the grassy knolls where her people sat. Her people, he repeated - then horror, true horror, rushed through him. "Stop!" he cried out, racing after her. But he would be too late, he realized; she was too far ahead, filled with too much heart-sickness to heed his words; she would race into the heart of the gathering, and her people, seeing her robes, recognizing her for what she was would do what she had wanted all along, would grant her the very release that they, in their cruelty, would not allow her to grant herself. They would beat her, he thought; beat her - or stone her, he realized, understanding at last the reason for the exquisite attention to detail that she had afforded the program, the reason she had cloistered herself among the rocky terrain of the hill far above the town; it had nothing to do with a being the optimum advantage point for watching the sunset - but rather instead, had provided a way for her to give the program the weapons she needed - without triggering Beverly's suspicions or the holodeck safety protocols. But even so, the program wouldn't allow the people to kill her; the safeties would interfere, would stop the program before she was killed... But not before she was injured, he realized, understanding at last. Not before her brain was damaged so badly that everything she had been, every painful memory, every agonizing trace of what - of who - she had been was gone, irretrievably gone. Not suicide, he told himself, understanding all too well. Andile were forbidden suicide. She would live - or at least her body would live - but the person who inhabited it would be gone forever, freed from the prison of her own mind. Sophistry, he screamed silently at her; as far as they were concerned she would be dead - but rationalization had always been her forté, he reminded himself; she could dance her way around regulations and orders better than any officer - any person - he had ever met. But he damned if he let her dance her away out of her own life. "Computer, pause program!" he shouted as he raced after her. To his horror - but, he realized, not to his surprise - nothing happened. "Computer, end program!" he tried again - though he knew, even as the words left his mouth, that the command would be equally ineffectual. Damn you, he thought, realizing at once what she had done. In creating the program, she had installed an time-dependant terminator; once initiated, the program would run from beginning to end, and nothing short of terminating the power to the holodeck would alter that fact. It wasn't an uncommon program addition, he knew; many of his crew had installed such self-terminating programs in their own favorites, using the devices as alarm clocks, allowing themselves to enjoy a program from beginning to end in a given time span without concern about overstaying their allotted time slots on the entertainment deck. Her use of the device, however, had another, more sinister intention, he thought as he continued down the hill, racing after her; she had utilized it, knowing that it would make her rescue all the more difficult, ensuring the outcome she wanted - the one, he thought, that she needed so desperately. It was simple enough: once the attack had started, there would be no order that could terminate it; her would-be rescuers would be confronted with the reality of having to wade through dozens, possibly even hundreds of enraged citizens to reach her side - and while those attackers were holographic in nature, as long as the program was running they would act - and feel - very, very real. It would be no simpler a task than wading through the same number of real people - and perhaps even harder, for he had no doubts that she had imbued them with a level of determination unparalleled in normal humans. Of course, her rescuers could just beam her out - but in the midst of those same holographic images, her bio signs would be masked, subtly altered. Admittedly, all the transporter officer would have to do was pick up the group, en masse, with the transporter, and redeposit them in Sickbay; the holographic people, once away from the emitters, would simply cease to exist, and the lieutenant would be left, alone and available for treatment. But it would a take a moment - if not far longer - for the mind to remember that fact; invariably, the night duty crew in Sickbay would try to isolate her bio-signs first, to transport her alone, before they realized the futility - and the lack of necessity - for that finesse. And in the interim, the punishment would continue, and the damage would be done. It was brilliant he thought, praising the woman with one breath; brilliant - and deadly, he added, cursing her with the next. And not a damned thing he could do about it. Or could he? he wondered. "Computer, alter program time ratio; slow down hologram program time rate by a factor of ten thousand!" he shouted. For a moment, it appeared as though nothing had happened, Picard thought as he raced down the hill, wondering if the lieutenant had thought to circumvent even that aspect of the program - then he realized it was working. The flames of the small cookfires he was passing had changed, no longer flickering in the evening light. Instead, the now moved in slow, graceful waves, shimmering upward from the kindling and twigs that fed them, long liquid strands of gold and red that flowed, ever diminishing, into ragged points of golden fluid, bending this was and that, as though a piece of fine silk fluttered - slowly - in the midst of each small gathering. The effect was exquisite, even mesmerizing - but he refused to allow himself to study it, knowing that the woman who was the focus of his concern ran somewhere ahead of him, lost among the gathering. Lost - but not for long, he reminded himself; caught as she was in the miasma of her grief, she would not instantly realize what he had done. Not until she announced herself to those gathered - and failed to elicit a reaction from them, would she realized something was not right; not until she saw the flames or the oily thickness of the water that no longer lapped, but rather gently flowed in gracefully undulating ripples at the harbor's edge would she know that something had changed. And until then, he added, she would be the only one moving, the only one running... though, he added, considering her physical condition, he doubted she could continue the pace for more than a few minutes longer. Of course, that would make the situation worse, he added; if she stopped, he would have a far harder time finding her amidst the hundreds gathered by the water's edge. He doubled his pace - and was rewarded by a small flicker of movement near the edge of the stilled crowd - and by the faint echo of a voice calling plaintively, "Andile! I am... andile!" A moment later, as he drew closer, the voice grew louder more desperate. "The gods... curse you... I'm andile! Andile!" Pushing through the gathering - the bodies standing before him stiff and unresponsive - he came upon the tiny woman, slapping ineffectually with her left hand at a man who stood before her, seemingly oblivious to her presence. Not oblivious, he knew; he was simply not accessible on the same time reference. To him, the cry would be nothing more than the buzzing of an insect, the blows little more than an unexpected gust of breeze; the cause, moving a ten thousand times his rate of speed, was utterly imperceptible. "Damn... you! Can't you... hear... me? Don't... you care? I'm andile! I'm filth! Strike... me down! Cleanse... your.. village! Kill me... and... rid... yourself... of my... vileness. Kill... me... before... I poison... your children!" she wailed desperately, her voice growing emptier weaker, her blows rapidly decreasing in strength. "Kill... me!" she cried again, slower this time. "Please... kill.. me... Please... spare...me," she finished wearily, allowing her hand to drop to her side as she finally gave up in frustration, defeat and exhaustion. "They can't hear you," Picard informed her after a moment, watching as she slowly caught her breath. "I don't... understand... The program... was perfect..." she gasped. He nodded. "It was," he agreed. "Then... how...?" "I changed the time reference by a factor of ten thousand," he told her. "One minute to us is roughly seven days..." He didn't see the blow coming - only felt it as it caught him unprepared, knocking him to the ground. "Bastard!" Stunned, he looked up, only to see the tiny woman, enraged, preparing to deliver a second blow - this time with her foot. But her leg muscles, still uncoordinated despite her recent physical therapy, exhausted from her run down the hillside, weren't up to the task. As she raised her right leg, her left one gave way, sending her tumbling to the ground, landing her in a heap beside him. He heard the air knocked from her lung in a gush; worried, he reached for her, concerned that she had been hurt - but rather than finding a breathless, panic stricken woman, he found himself confronting a demon. Furious, livid with rage, she pushed herself to her knees, scrambling toward him, the anger on her face flushing her skin with a ruddy glow - and her eyes with a crimson fire. "You... you... bastard!" she cried, flailing at him, scrambling toward him on her knees, scrambling, then falling - then pushing herself upright once again, trying to reach for him, to beat him, to punish him for preventing her from doing what she had been trying, for denying her the peaceful surcease that death would have granted her... ...again. I was wrong that time, he thought to himself, but not this time. As she reached forward, trying to hit him again, he grabbed her wrists; off-balance, she fell forward, tumbling into his arms. He turned her around as she fell, pinning her arms against her chest, pulling her against him, securing her so she couldn't strike out at him again. The fact that she was now completely immobilized did absolutely nothing to stop her in her attempts to hit him again; swearing, gasping profanities, she struggled furiously against him - but there was no breaking his hold. Each blow grew lighter, each profanity weaker, less vitriolic - until finally she gave up, falling back against him in resignation. He held her arms a few minutes longer, unsure how much of the collapse was sincere, how much was pretense - then, sensing nothing duplicitous in her manner, slowly, cautiously, loosened his grip. To his relief, she made no attempt to move, no attempt to pull away of to lash out at him again. Instead, she simply lay against him, her breath easing, slowing as he felt the panic, the dread and frustration leached from her soul. Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet in the acquiescence to her utter defeat. "Why?" she asked softly. "Why won't you... let me... go? What did... I ever... do to... you?" she said in weary resignation. For a time he didn't answer - then, giving a soft sigh, eased his grasp of her, releasing her from his protective embrace, and leaned back, bracing himself against the side of the hill, staring at the slowly emerging stars for a time - just as he watched the stars from the safe cocoon of his ready room, watching them - but not seeing them. Finally, he sat up, picked at a blade of the grassy plants that covered the hillside, played with it for a moment, then let it flutter to the ground. He watched it fall, watched it land - then, without looking at her, his attention still on the fallen blade of grass, spoke. "You saved my life," he said quietly. "People... have saved your life before," she reminded him, turning back to look at him. He raised his eyes, meeting hers - then slowly shook his head. "Not like this," he said. "You almost died saving me. That's never happened before. I've had crewmen, fellow officer... friends," he added softly, "die so that the ship - and her crew, and by indirection, I - would survive, but it was never like this; never a life lost directly so mine would be saved." He shook his head. "Remind me..." she gasped slowly, "not... to do... any more favors... for you. Don't think... I could tolerate... any more... captainly gratitude," she wheezed. Despite the solemnity of the moment, he smiled for a moment - then let the expression fade and shook his head. "There is a part of me that wishes that was the case; that I did what I did out of misplaced thankfulness and a desire to return the favor - but I've had time - ample time - to think about this in the last few weeks - and I think I've come to terms with the truth." "Revenge," she said. He raised a brow at the unexpected remark. "Revenge?" "For not... accepting... you into... my warp physics class," she explained seriously. He stared at her, horrified that she would even consider the possibility the he would be so vengeful, so vituperative - then saw the glint in her eye. "You're joking," he said - though there was enough of an uncertain tone in his voice to belie his doubt. Andile nodded, then smiled. "Yes, I'm joking," she agreed - then reached out, patting his leg. "You... wouldn't do... that. You're - basically - a good... person," she told him. "Except... for a... misplaced... sense of honor," she added. He looked at her for a long moment, then turned his attention to the grass, plucking another stem, peeling it down to its thready fibers, then letting the soft breeze catch the filaments and blow them away on the soft currents that moved up from the water's edge. "There was no honor involved here," he said at long last. "If anything, what I did was utterly dishonorable." He hesitated - then looked at her once again, resolution marking his striking face with a painful hardness. "What happened wasn't because I wanted you to live - not," he amended hastily, "that I wished you to die, either! But..." Picard shook his head, "what happened, happened because I couldn't bear the thought of having your death on my conscience. I didn't want to spend the rest of my career, the rest of my life, knowing you had died just to save me. I knew that - but only subconsciously, I hope," he added, embarrassed. "I'd like to think that outwardly I'm not quite this shallow of a human being - but I knew, at some level at least, that if I lived, while you died - died just so that I would live! - I would spend every day of the rest of my life wondering if the effort was worth the outcome. Every success would be colored by the thought that it came at the cost of your life - and every failure would remind me that the exchange hadn't been a good one; you were gone - and I had wasted your gift," he admitted. He gave a final shake of his head. "In the past, I've had the temerity to accuse other of moral cowardice - but of late, I've been the one at the heart of that same accusation; the charge that I, too, am nothing more than a coward. "And I've come to realize... they're right." Andile studied the man for a long time, then patted his leg again. "Quite... an ego... you have on... you there," she said quietly. "Did... it ever... occur to you... that maybe... you're just... human? Flawed... and imperfect... and glorious... and brave... just like... everyone... else?" "Including you?" She looked at him, her face a mask of perfect, impartial neutrality - then inclined her head a fraction of an inch. "Touché," she answered - then to his surprise, she leaned back, letting him take up the weight of her body against his own - and realized, again, how frail her once strong body had become, how terribly fragile and fatigued it was now. And cold, he added, feeling her shiver as the set sun and the freshening breeze coming from the harbor pushed through the folds of her robe. He lay his hands over her arms, rubbing the robe over them, chafing them lightly - but even so, her shivers continued. "You're cold," he said. "Andile... aren't permitted... warm robes... only... enough to cover... ourselves," she explained. He chafed her arms a little harder. "There is such a thing as being a little too true to the facts," he reminded her. "I was... planning... on dying..." she countered. "A little cold... wasn't... going to be... a problem," she added. "And now?" he pressed, hoping that her earlier response had meant what he thought it had - but knowing that she could - and would, and, indeed, had - turned her words around to mean only what she wanted them to mean. "And now... it's a problem," she replied, her answer as oblique now as it had been then. He sighed in frustration - but it was the only answer he was going to get. For now. "In that case..." He eased her forward, rising to his feet, then offering her his hand. Helping her up, he waited for a moment, making sure she wasn't going to fall - then stepped to one of the nearby camp fires, lifting small flaming branch from the mass. "It should be warmer up the hill a little further," he told her. "Your program has a little over two hours left to run; we can start a fire of our own up there and watch it in comfort," he said. "Yes... but andile... aren't allowed... fire..." she protested. He looked at her, sober and solemn - and tired of the verbal dance they were performing. He needed to know, once and for all, what her, her real answer was. Was she willing to try living, for the first time in her eons long life? "No, they're not," he said firmly. "Fire - like tears, and joy, and laughter - are for humans. So the question is, Dee," he continued bluntly, "are you ready to give up being andile - and start being a human? Do we take this stick up the hill and start a proper fire, or do we stay here, cold and miserable?" "No one's... making you... stay," she reminded him. He shook his head. "No. This time I'm staying - for my own reasons. I'm not running away any more. So do we stay here - or do we go up there?" he repeated. She looked at him for a few minutes, then turned her attention to the liquid waves of orange and yellow that streamed up from the branch. "I... was always... fascinated... by the flames... I wanted... to sit... near the fire... but..." she added, looking from the fire to the man, uncertainty crossing her face; uncertainty - and fear. "I'm scared." He studied her for a time - then answered with a nod. "As am I - but I've let cowardice shape too many actions - too many of the truly important actions - throughout my life. I don't want to go on like that - and I'm hoping you don't either." She didn't answer him quickly - and for a moment, he felt himself disappointed by her reticence, by her reluctance to forsake the behaviors, the self-enforced culture that was destroying her slowly. But one doesn't relinquish ten thousand years of history in a moment, he reminded himself a moment later - anymore than he could relinquish his own, far briefer, past in such a short time. No, she would need time to come to her decision - just as he had needed his. "Don't answer me now," he told her a moment later. "Just... just tell me you won't do anything... foolish... tonight. Give me a chance to help you understand what could be... what your life could be..." "And if... I decide... it's not... what I want?" Picard drew in a long breath, knowing this question would be coming, dreading it, hoping against hope that she wouldn't ask - and hoping against hope that he wouldn't have to answer. "If we do this, it will be... as friends," he informed her. "Please understand: I do not hold friendship lightly. Unlike other, I do not use the term interchangeably with acquaintanceship, but rather as a separate - indeed, sacred - relationship between two people, that transcends almost every other bond. I believe that friendship - true friendship - requires mutual trust and respect of what and who the other person is," he answered. "How far... does that... trust and respect... go?" she asked suspiciously. He inhaled again, steeling himself, then answered. "If, in the end, you decide this is not what you want... I'll help you do whatever it is you feel you need to do," he said. Andile shook her head; he had said what she wanted to hear - but with such obvious reluctance that she hesitated to believe him. "You'd help... me kill myself?" she pressed. He hesitated for a long time - then nodded reluctantly. "Yes. If, after everything, you still feel your life is intolerable - then, as your friend, I will do what you require of me," he repeated. She stared at him, glaring at him and his pretense, searching out the lie, the duplicity that he knew lay beneath his words - And found his distaste of her intentions, disappointment in her plans and disapproval of her actions... And reluctant, but sincere honesty. He meant it, she gasped silently. By the gods, he meant it! And he would do it! she realized in horror - and joy. Over his own objections, over his own moral imperatives, over everything he believed and held dear, he would do what friendship asked of him. Still she hesitated; if they were to be friends - true friends - she owed him the truth. "I don't know..." "All I ask is that you try," he said. "As I will," he added. She hesitated a moment longer - then gave a single, solitary nod of her head. "All right. What... do I..." "We," he corrected her. She nodded again, a small smile on her lips. "What do... _we_ do?" she asked. Picard tightened his grasp on her hand and began to guide her through the crowd. "We," he informed her as they slowly wended their way through the motionless throng, "climb up this hill, start a fire of our own, and watch the meteor shower. It's been a long time since I've seen a meteor shower - and a longer time since I've allowed myself to just enjoy one," he said - then fell silent for a time before turning to face her. "Maybe... maybe being a Starfleet captain isn't that different from being andile," he said. "You were denied the joys of being human because society forbade them to you, told you that you weren't worthy of them." "No one... denied you... those... pleasures," she pointed out. "Not true," he countered. "I did." "Because you were... unworthy?" she gasped. He hesitated, looking away as he nodded. She gave a soft grunt of disapproval. "I was right..." she wheezed. "You are... an idiot." He stopped, turned, glared at her - and then, to both their surprise, broke out laughing, the laugh building slowly from a chortle to a hearty laugh - then fading away, leaving nothing but a smile on the man's face. "You may well be right," he admitted. "But I don't have to continue being an idiot - any more than you have to continue being something you aren't. Come on," he said gently pulling at her hand, "we've both got a lot of lost time to make up for." -- Constable Katie, ASC* Archive team Archive: www.trekiverse.org | trekiverse.crosswinds.net | qcontinuum.trekiverse.net Submissions: submissions trekiverse.org For archive updates: ASC-Archive-annc-subscribe@yahoogroups.com ASC* FAQs: http://trekiverse.crosswinds.net/FAQs/ ASC Stories-Only list: ascl-subscribe @ yahoogroups dot com ASCEM Stories-Only list: ascem-s-subscribe @ yahoogroups dot com ASCL is a stories-only list, no discussion. Comments and feedback should be directed to alt.startrek.creative or directly to the author. Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Fri Jul 09 22:41:22 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n27.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.83]) by condor (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bIXBN74p3NZFjK0 for ; Fri, 9 Jul 2004 08:48:19 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-13808-1089388098-stephenbratliffasc=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!prodigy.com!news.glorb.com!postnews2.google.com!not-for-mail From: keroth1701@sbcglobal.net (Ke Roth) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW TNG: "Echoes" P/C, D/f (R), Pt 161/? Date: 20 Aug 2004 21:01:46 -0700 Organization: http://groups.google.com Lines: 850 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: 68.251.77.192 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Trace: posting.google.com 1093060907 14083 127.0.0.1 (21 Aug 2004 04:01:47 GMT) X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 21 Aug 2004 04:01:47 +0000 (UTC) Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative:160480 X-Received-Date: Fri, 20 Aug 2004 21:01:52 PDT (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 161/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except Andile and a few of the others you're about to meet. I promise I won't make any money from writing this. FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 161 "Let's start again," Picard ordered his pupil. "Proper posture," he said, setting the example, straightening his own back as he sat on the edge of the couch, carefully placing one foot slightly ahead of the other, pulling back his shoulders. "Check your finger position: make sure all the holes are completely covered." He glanced down, making sure that his owns hands were in the proper position, then raised the instrument to his mouth, watching as his student did exactly the same. "Proper air support," he continued. "Breathe in from the diaphragm," he continued, drawing in a deep breath of his own, "and release the air in a smooth, continuous stream. One, two, three..." he said, then raised and lowered the flute to indicate the beginning. The sound was weak, wavering, moving from flat to sharp and back again, nothing like the pure tones that emanated from his own instrument - but not, he admitted, entirely unlike the sounds he had produced in those first weeks and months - years? he asked himself, wondering how long he had abused the ears of those around him before he had gained a degree of proficiency. Hopefully not too long, he decided, feeling his teeth grate as the tone suddenly wavered from horrendously flat to bitterly sharp and shrill. He pulled his flute away from his lips, then reached out, motioning Andile to do the same thing. "Sorry," Andile whispered, gasping. "I don't think... I'm cut out... to be a musician," she informed him. "You're doing fine," Picard replied. "You just need to watch your finger position; you weren't covering the holes completely," he advised her. Andile looked down at the errant fingers of her right hand, then slowly opened and closed the offending limb, then repositioned her fingers over the holes, nodding her readiness to continue. A readiness she didn't truly possess, he thought silently, noting the trembling of her fingers and hands, the increasing tremor in each tone she produced, the decreasing gaps between each hastily drawn breath needed to maintain the sound - but understanding the woman well enough to know it would take far more than a faltering body to make her concede defeat. To do so would have meant her death a dozen times - a hundred times! - over, he knew; to give up on something as basic as learning to play a flute, simply because her hands hurt, her arms were spasming, her lungs were heaving - or that she was growing weary - simply was not within her being. That she was feeling all those things, however, was another matter entirely. "Let's take a break," he said, setting his flute back in the case, rising from the couch. "Can I get you a drink?" For a moment, Andile hesitated, as though give in to the fatigue she was so obviously feeling, yet anxious to take advantage of the hiatus. In the end, however, propriety and etiquette won; after all, Picard thought with a smile, one did not easily counter a captain's order, even when veiled as a suggestion. Andile slowly lowered the flute to her lap. "I'd love a scotch," she said, "but the doc would have a fit." He nodded, knowing full well of the practitioners of the medical arts and their over-protectiveness toward their patients, even when that protectiveness was unnecessary. "How would she feel about a glass of wine?" he offered. "Probably the same," Andile admitted. "Ah," Picard said disappointedly. "I, however, would, like it," she continued a moment later. "But..." he began to protest. "Captain," Andile interrupted, "if you want me to consider relinquishing being andile, then you have to allow me to make human errors of judgment - including making the occasional questionable decision about my health," she informed him. "But," she added, "if it will make you feel better, I've seen my test results; a glass of wine - or even two - aren't going to harm me. The worst that can happen is that I'll get a little tipsy. In that event, I trust that you will get me back to Sickbay safely?" she teased gently. "My intentions, mademoiselle, are strictly honorable," he replied, giving her a haughty half bow, then disappeared behind the room partition. The '49, he decided as he crouched before the temperature-controlled cabinet that housed the bottles of wine he had brought up from the cellar at the house in LaBarre, trying not to look at the single bottle of '47 vintage that lay beside it, not wanting to think about Robert's admonition to share it with a friend. He had intended to do just that, he thought; he had intended to share it with Beverly, first planning to drink it to celebrate their friendship, then, later, hoping to drink it to celebrate something more - and then, much later, to open it in honor their fallen friends and family after the war had finally ended. But the opportunity had never come to pass, he added - and now it never would, he reminded himself. Perhaps I should open it, he thought - then shook his head, practicality winning out, not wanting to open the only bottle when they would each have but a single glass. Soon, he added - then smiled; perhaps Robert's words would fulfill themselves after all - and he would share the wine with a friend. For now, however, the '49 would do. He removed the bottle from the miniature cellar, straightening and beginning the ritual procedures of serving the liquid - and recalling the events of the last few hours as he did so. Coming back to his quarters had been unplanned, an automatic response to the stunned silence that had filled them both at the conclusion of the meteor shower. It had been spectacular, far beyond anything experience or imagination could have prepared him for; so close to the galactic center, the night sky glimmered with hundreds of thousands of stars of every color and size, shimmering with the pastel wash of interstellar dust radiating out from the exploding remains of the stars which had once contained them. Alone, even without the meteor storm, it was a sight that had left him - left them both - breathless, stunned, awestruck. And when the storm hit, it took them beyond words, beyond reaction; silenced, made utterly insignificant by the magnificence of the events above them, they had watched, made wordless by the wonders above them. The silence had lingered long after, after the last of the meteors had passed, after the souls gathered on the hill below them had wandered back to their homes, after the last vestiges of the magnificent program had been completed - and they found themselves sitting on the floor of the black and yellow gridded room. Still silent, he had risen, helped the woman to her feet, slowly and wordlessly led him back to his quarters - and she had gone with him, neither questioning the appropriateness, the rightness, of their destination. Finally, he had asked, "Was it really like that?" Andile nodded, her voice reverent. "Yes - and more so every year. So beautiful... we thought it was a gift from the gods, proof that they loved us, even though they had left us. And every year, the display was bigger, more intense... We didn't know..." Her voice trailed off as she looked away, staring out the windows that lined the living area of his quarters. "How could we know?" she replied. He nodded. How could they know? He asked himself. How could so primitive a people have even imagined that the growing intensity of the storms indicated a massive shift in the status of the sun; that the 'gift' their gods had bestowed upon them was actually a harbinger of the end that was coming to their world? And yet, it was that gift, that nearness of the night sky to their daily life that had motivated Andile's people to develop interplanetary travel in only a few, brief millennia - and had, Picard reminded himself, ultimately responsible for her being off world in that final, horrific moment, when all that she had been, all that her people had been and had known... ended. He looked at her, studying the woman that world had borne, seeing before him evidence of both the best and the worst of that planet. She must have sensed his thoughts, for she shook her head, refusing to accept his wordless pronouncement. "Don't think that," she admonished him. "Don't blame them. They were... good people..." "Good people?! Dee, they abused you!" he protested. "You were only a child - and they beat you, tortured you - condemned you to a life as a virtual slave..." "It was the way our world was," she countered softly. "It's how they were raised, how I was raised... You can't blame people for acting in compliance with the way they were taught, Captain," she reminded him. "Abusing children - torturing an entire class of people, sanctioning their murders! - transcends cultural boundaries!" he argued. "Dee, what's wrong is wrong!" "No," she protested softly. "What's wrong in your society isn't in another," she countered. "What my people did to me, to my kind... they had their reasons," she said. "You don't have to like those reasons; I don't have to like them - but it's not our place to say they are wrong... or right. They simply are what they are." Picard drew a deep breath, then faced her. "So you don't blame the Cardassians for what they did to you?" he asked, barely able to hide his anger at her unreasonable tolerance. "They were defending their home world," she reminded him. "Defending..." he gaped. "Dee, I can understand you defending your own people - but the Cardassians! By the gods, how can you defend them? They beat you, tortured you... they raped you..." "I know what they did to me!" she snapped back, her anger suddenly flaring as hot and high as his own. "I was there, damn it!" she shouted. "I was there! I was there - and that is the point. I was there, on their world, trying to subvert their government, trying to defeat their military! What did you expect them to do? Let me run in, destroy their way of life - and not try to defend themselves?! Damn it, Picard, it was their world! I had no right to be there, no right to be doing what I was doing! When I was caught, I was subject to their laws, their rules, their culture - just as I was on Parash... Just as I was on Earth. "Just as I am here," she added coldly. "Your rules, your regs, your cultural norms, condemned me to life, when the very decency you protest that my people didn't have would have spared me that!" she reminded him furiously. "How dare you condemn them - any of them! - when you're no better?!" she cried angrily. He stared at her, astounded by the vitriol of her tone - and the acid truth of her words. "Dee..." he began weakly. "I'm sorry," she begged, instantly contrite. "I don't blame you! I really don't! You did what you had to do - by your upbringing, your tradition, your culture! But for those same reasons, I don't blame them either!" she continued. "How can I?" she added. "You were trying to save me; they were trying to save their worlds, their way of life. How can one be right - and the others wrong?" she asked him. He wanted to argue the point, to tell her that what they had done to her was somehow wrong, done out of anger, out of retribution - while what he had done was right, done with the best of intentions - but the words stuck in his mouth, glued there by shame - and his own self-blame. Instead, he looked at her with open, appraising eyes, and asked, "Is this tolerance something all andile are taught?" he asked quietly. Surprised, she raised a brow - then shook her head. "No. Blame - and the anger related to it - are emotions, feelings - and andile aren't entitled to feelings. How we responded to our positions was never considered; does one care if the garbage can likes or dislikes how it is used?" she asked. "And that's what we were: psychic garbage cans for the dying to use, to void their souls of the sins of their lives - and free themselves for the Ascension." And in the process, condemning the andile to an eternal death, he thought to himself. Andile smiled. "You don't believe in the Ascension," she said quietly. "No," he agreed, "but you do. Your people did. How could they justify their actions, knowing that you would be spiritually doomed?" "They could - just as people can abandon a sinking ship, leaving behind the captain or the crew. There's no difference, Captain," she said. "Except the captain and the crew stay behind by choice," he pointed out. She nodded, sobering. "Perhaps, then, in our own way, we too volunteered to stay behind." She thought for a moment, then looked up at him. "There was a time, Captain, when andile were considered something more than filth, when we were honored and cherished, our role venerated by those we served." "When you were _hahn-deel-a_," he echoed. She stared at him, confused. "How...?" she began, then froze, her jaw dropping. "Oh, dear gods, that's why you called me 'Dee'!" "As a short form of the name by which I first met you - Hahn-deel-a," he agreed. "Professor Hahn-deel-a, to be exact," he added. "After leaving the Academy, I lost track of you - and when I finally heard your name again, I attributed the difference in pronunciation to time and a faulty memory. Now, I realize..." "That I had taken undeserved honors upon myself," she said coldly. "That you had realized the hahn-deel-a, as well as the andile, were both aspects of the human culture that spawned your world - and you took pride - well-deserved pride - in what you had done for those people of your world - and other worlds, I expect," he countered sternly. "There was nothing wrong in what you did," he reminded her. "No - but it's not unlike you renaming yourself William Shakespeare," she replied. He considered, then inclined his head. "Point taken," he conceded. "May I ask why you allowed it to change back?" "Errors, mistakes - a realization that I was not hahn-deel-a," she said quietly. "I am andile, Captain," she reminded him. "As much as you wish I weren't, I am." "Dee..." "And since we're both uncomfortable with that topic, perhaps we should change to something else," she said, then gestured at the instrument case on the table. "You were going to try to teach me the flute," she reminded him. "Maybe this would be the opportune moment to start." "Maybe it would," he agreed. For a half hour they discussed the instrument, its working, the design of the mouthpiece and how the sounds were produced - and then spent another thirty minutes replicating flute after flute until they made one that both fit her smaller hands yet played in tune with his. Posture, breathing technique, posture, music theory - and the first feeble attempts at making a decent sound with the instruments, had taken the better part of the next hour - and, Picard realized as he carefully poured the wine into the glasses, the better part of her Andile's reserves. Picking up the glasses and brought them into the main room. Handing one to her, he touched the rim of his glass to hers, the raised the glass to his lips. "Oh, my." Startled, he looked at her, surprised by the reaction. "Not to your liking?" he asked concerned. "Oh, no," she countered, taking another sip, sighing contentedly. "It's lovely. It's just been so many years since I've had wine - I'd forgotten how lovely it is. From your family's vineyards?" she added. He looked at her in startled amazement - then frowned. The frowned earned a soft laugh in response. "I'm not snooping through your thoughts, Captain..." "Jean-Luc," he corrected her. "If I'm to call you 'Dee', then you must call me Jean-Luc," he informed her. "That, or I'll be forced to resume calling you Professor," he added. "Oh, gods!" she laughed. "Not that! It's been - what? Fifty years? - since my teaching days? No; I thought it a presumptuous title then - but the powers that be demanded I have a teaching title. Probably they were right," she conceded, taking a third sip of the wine, feeling the warmth of the liquid spreading through her body. "It's hard to take someone seriously when they don't look any older than you do - let alone to accept them as an authority on a topic," she added taking yet another swallow from her glass. "No, the title definitely helped - even if it was ostentatious." "Maybe it helped at first," Picard agreed, "but once you started to talk, there was no doubt about your qualifications," he said. "And once your reputation was started, there was no stopping it. By the time I reached your class, it never occurred to me that you were anything but the revered Professor Hahn-deel-a..." He stopped in mid-sentence as her face contorted in an expression of grief. "Dee? What's wrong?" he asked worriedly. "I'm sorry," she whispered tearily. "Sorry? For what?" he asked. "For not accepting you in my class," she said half sobbing. "For turning you down - and never explaining! For everything... Oh, gods, I'm so sorry..." He gaped at her, stunned, first by her over-reaction - the by his sudden understanding of the cause. By God, he thought: she's drunk! It wasn't possible, of course, he knew; people simply did not get drunk on four sips of wine - and certainly not within a minutes of having those few sips! Then again, he admitted, there were people with very low tolerances for alcohol - but hadn't Will told him how she had served him - and herself - a magnificent scotch on their first encounter - and how, despite Will's own reaction to the wood-scented amber liquid, Andile had remained stone-cold sober throughout? But that had been almost half a year ago, he added soberly, before her earlier injuries had manifested themselves to the degree they had, before Tillerman had almost killed her - before he had forced her to undergo countless therapies and dozens of surgeries in an attempt to keep her alive, despite a body that had been pushed beyond all reasonable limits. Or, he added, with a half smile, it could have been something far simpler. "Maybe the wine wasn't the best idea either of us have had, Dee - at least not on an empty stomach," he said - silently adding, not to mention after such a trying and traumatic evening. Taking the glass from her, he set it on the table, and asked, "When was the last time you ate?" She sniffed, thought, then said, "Breakfast." It was nearing two in the morning, he thought, meaning it had probably been at least eighteen hours since she had eaten last. No wonder the alcohol was hitting her so quickly - or so hard! "Far too long ago," he declared. "What did you have?" She sniffed again. "Part of a croissant," she said. "You should remember," she added accusingly. "You were there." "I was..." he began - then his eyes widened. "Dee," he said soberly, "are you telling me the last time you ate a meal was over four months ago?" Andile nodded. "The doc fed me through a tube in my stomach for a long time, then had me on intravenous feeding... she wants me to eat, but I can't," she said miserably. "Well, you're going to have to try tonight," he said firmly, taking her by the hand and leading her to the dining table, then gently - but firmly - pushing her into one of the chairs. A moment later, a plate was placed before her, steam wafting up from the array of poultry and vegetables, teasing her fragile stomach with its subtle scent. "Poached chicken with vegetables," he informed her. "One of my mother's specialties," he added. "Very nutritious - but easy on a delicate stomach," he said, placing a second plate before the opposite chair, then taking his place behind it. "Eat," he ordered. "I can't..." she whispered, then added, "I'm not hungry." "Consider it an order," he countered firmly, explaining, "If you think I'm going to take you back to Sickbay drunk, you're sadly mistaken. I have had sufficient encounters with the medical professionals aboard this ship to know better than to incur their wrath any more than is strictly necessary. "And you," he added quickly, realizing his peril might not be cause enough for the mildly inebriated woman to appreciate, "If you go back in the condition you're in right now, they are going to think long and hard about letting you out again. "So it will behoove us both," he said resolutely, "for you to eat something." She gaped at him as if uncertain if he were being serious or simply teasing her - but meeting his gaze, seeing the dry lack of humor behind them, she knew better than to argue. She lifted her fork, and pulled away the tiniest of strands of chicken, chewed it dutifully, then swallowed it awkwardly, uncomfortably, and forced a nod. "It's very good," she insisted, setting down the fork. "Yes, it is," he replied. "And you'll enjoy the next bite even more," he added. She looked up, about to protest her lack of appetite - but seeing his expression, realized there was no point in arguing; if she lost the argument here, he _would_ take her back to Sickbay, as she was - and damned be the consequences to them both. Cowering slightly under his stern gaze, she picked up the fork again, cut a small - but slightly larger - piece from the chicken, raised it to her lips - and began to chew. It _was_ good, she admitted; the chicken was perfectly cooked, tender and moist, its flavor mild, but subtly enhanced by the intense broth that had been spooned over the meat to keep it moist - but the combination of the mildness and the rich broth were both gentle on her too-long empty stomach while tempting her taste buds, encouraging her to take yet another mouthful of the savory food. "Try the potatoes," Picard suggested, using his fork to point at one of the tiny, red-skinned tubers. Hesitantly, Andile stabbed the thumb-sized tuber with her fork, then lifted it, considering the tiny red sphere for a moment before tentatively moving it to her mouth and nibbling a tiny bite - then gave a soft sigh. "They're very good," she murmured. Picard smiled, triumph and pride tightening the corners of his eyes into fine lines. "Yes, they are, aren't they?" he agreed. Andile nodded, then took a second bite of the tiny tuber. "You know, I had forgotten how good food could be." "After four months of abstinence," he replied, "I'm not surprised." "In truth, it's probably closer to two years," she corrected him, her enthusiasm quickly fading - though, he noted, she didn't put down the fork she was holding. Instead she continued to stare at the tiny morsel it held, her eyes locked on the red-skinned vegetable impaled on its tines. "What happened on Cardassia - and after - made it impossible to eat. When I finally was able to start again, there was so much damage to my liver that eating became excruciating," she admitted. "Proteins, carbohydrates - every bite would be agony; every meal left me sick, vomiting, in such terrible pain... it was as though he was hitting me with that axe all over again," she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It never stopped; as the damage progressed, the pain grew worse and worse..." "Dee," he whispered, stricken, "you should have said something, told someone..." "What? That at last my body was dying? That at last, I would find peace?" she asked him. "If I told them, they would have stopped it, they would have healed me, they would have made me better." "Dee..." he started. "I didn't want that, Captain," she interrupted him, continuing as though he hadn't spoken. "I wanted peace; I wanted death." He looked at her, stunned, hurt - and shamed. "But you let Beverly treat you," he reminded her. "Because the ship needed me," she replied softly. "You needed me - and... because I owed you," she added. "Owed me?" She nodded, giving a half smile as she did so. "I didn't accept you into my class," she reminded him. "All those years ago, I turned you down. Not this time," she added with a shake of her head. "I decided that that would be my way of apologizing," she explained. "To you - and the universe at large," she added mysteriously. Mysteriously enough, Picard realized, to draw him in. "The universe?" he responded. She nodded. "You've never asked, but weren't you curious why I didn't accept you into my physics class?" "I assumed I wasn't good enough," he replied chastely, earning a short laugh in response. "Oh, by the gods! Does that work with the women?" she asked. He raised a brow. "Does what work?" "That, innocent, slightly hurt, slightly humble act? 'I'm not good enough'," she repeated, aping him. "Oh, it must suck them in, cooing, 'Oh, you poor, put-upon man; how modest and unassuming you are - and yet a Starfleet captain! How charming! How delightful! How delicious!' " she said mockingly, laughing as she spoke, then grew sober. "How often did you get horizontal because of that line?" she asked seriously. He raised an indignant brow in apparent offence - then gave a large sigh and conceded a small smile. "I'll deign not to discuss my sex life, historical or current, but..." He sighed again. "It has been known to have an advantageous effect on some women - especially in my younger days," he conceded. "Obviously, it does not have that effect on you, however." "I've been around the galaxy long enough to know a calculated line when I hear one - though, if you'd tried that when you were enrolling for my class, it might well have worked then." "It would have been sincere then," he countered. "Which is why it might have worked," she answered - then grew serious. "But I would have turned you down any way." He studied her for a long moment, then set down his fork, folded his hands beneath his chin, and looked at her. "Why - or rather, why not? I had a sincere interest in warp physics - and after sitting through you class lecture, I believe I had the inspiration as well as the ability to have been a good engineer." "No," she replied. "No?" "No," she repeated. "You would not have been a _good_ engineer; you would have been an _excellent_ engineer_ - one of the finest Starfleet could have had." "Then... why?" he asked, genuinely curious. "Oh, don't think I wasn't tempted," she sighed. "A young man with the energy, the desire and the capability that echoed my own? What I wouldn't have given to have had you as my protégé!" she sighed, shaking her head - then stopped and met his gaze again. "But long ago, I swore I would not take on any student who was obviously destined for better things than I could grant. You would have been an excellent engineer - but I knew you had the potential for more - so much more. And though it was hard to do, and though I hurt you - and myself - in doing so, I turned you down for my class. "And I made damned sure you were turned down for the other specialty classes you requested as well," she added. "And don't you think for a minute that I didn't have a fight on my hands trying to convince the others that they had to let you discover that your true potential, that your ultimate path lay not in one scientific specialty - but in that field that was the hardest of all - leading men. "Fortunately, most of your instructors agreed with me - except Galen," she said angrily. "He only saw the potential you could bring to his field, to archaeology, never what you could do for the universe as a whole. That ass," she sneered angrily. "He would have kept your abilities for himself. Selfish bastard," she added under her breath. She fell silent, looking down at the plate of food before her, her thoughts drifting back to those events of a half-century before, remembering as thought they had been yesterday. Picard remembered as well, though time had allowed the memories to fade, the fond ones lingering more prominently in his thoughts, while the other faded into obscurity - but all now tempered by curiosity, doubt - and resentment. I was manipulated, he thought angrily; manipulated, shaped... and used. "Not used," she whispered back, countering his anger with her soft words. "Never used. And if you had objected strongly, if you had fought to continue in a certain field, to continue your studies in any area, no one would have stopped you; if any field had struck you so intensely that you would have fought to stay, we would have pulled back. You were a student; we had the obligation to stretch your minds and your knowledge to the extremes that we could - but we also had the obligation to respect your ultimate decision. "If you had chosen to finish your studies with Galen, we would have done nothing to stop you; it was, in the end, your life, your decision. But when you chose to continue with Starfleet, we rejoiced." He stared at her for a long time, anger and resentment simmer deep behind his eyes. "I don't think," he said at long last, "that I appreciate being manipulated - even for my own good." Andile looked back, her expression blunt - and her tone doubly so. "I understand; it's like having someone decide that you should live - even when you were dying, even when you ached for death, even when the last thing you wanted was to keep on living," she told him, looking at him with an all-too-knowing gaze. He met the gaze - then gave a sigh. "Touché," he said. She set her fork down. "We both have wronged the other, Captain - with the best of intentions, with the purest of motivations - but nonetheless, we have each had a significant effect on the other. So... what do we do now?" she asked. For a long time, Picard watched her as he thought - then he reached out, took her fork, and handed it to her. "Now... we finish dinner," he informed. "And, apparently, we change topic as well," she said. He considered for a moment, then nodded. "I need some time to come to terms with what you've said - and what you did," he said. "As have I," she reminded him - then reached out, took the fork, and stabbed at another one of the tiny potatoes. "These are good," she said. He smiled, appreciating her silent consent to the subject change. "So... what shall we discuss?" he asked. "You could tell me about the negotiations," she suggested, cutting into another morsel of chicken with the side of her fork, He raised a brow in surprise. "You mean you don't know?" he responded, surprised. "I thought you... I mean," he corrected himself, "I thought Sickbay was the hotbed of gossip..." "You mean," she countered, "that everyone talks to me - and therefore, if anyone knew what was going on, it would be me, yes?" she said in a syrupy sweet tone. He hesitated, suspecting he was about to walk into a trap - then sighed, and plunged in. "Yes," he conceded. To his relief, she smiled. "You're right; usually everyone talks to me. But..." she let the words trail off. "I understand," he said. And he did understand. He understood her need for solitude, the aching desire to be alone with the rage and the pain that had filled her for far too much time, the need to be alone, away from others who would distract her from her anguish, who would remind her of the joys of life, and the needs of those around her. He understood, he had been there, been in her place, been so hurt, so devastated the isolation was all he could bear - and none, not any one had dared to risk penetrating that hardened shell of self-pity and self-imposed loneliness. Except, of course, Beverly, he added - then instantly silenced the thought. That part of his life was over. But this part, he reminded himself, was just beginning. "That being the case..." he began with a smile, He launched into a detailed description of the situation, outlining the salient points of the Cardassians, Federation and Romulan arguments - and the inevitable, and occasionally insurmountable, conflicts that were delaying the progress of the talks, interrupting his speech with the occasional sallies into the plate of food before him, or to tear a piece of bread from the warm baguette he replicated a few minutes after starting his explanation of the negotiating table politics, offering it to Andile, watching as she savored its crisp crust, and slightly sour flavor, enjoying her pleasure in regaining the long-forgotten habit. It was a pleasure to have her at his table, he thought, remembering how, in their few past encounters, it had been so easy to talk with this marvelously complex person, to listen to her take on the topics at hand, to argue a detail - and beginning to understand why his crew had fallen in love with her, why she had become the focal point of so many lives on his ship. I apologize for having saved your life, he thought silently, because I know it hurt you - but for my crew, my ship - for myself, I will never ask your forgiveness. We are all richer for your being a part of our life - and for your life continuing on with us. And I will make it up to you, he swore. "Still," he concluded quite some time later, "we push on, all of us knowing that, in the end, we have two real choices: peace - or eventual, mutual destruction of our societies. Of course, now that the Breen have entered the picture - I did tell you that the Breen are interested in an alliance with the Federation, didn't I?" he asked. She nodded slowly, her eyes slightly glassy, her fork still poised over the plate - a plate which now held only the remnants of the small salads that had come after the meal, traces of dark green and red leaves glinting with the finest sheen of a perfect vinaigrette. He smiled, enjoying the look of satisfaction on her face, relishing the fact that he had managed to get her to eat - a feat that no one else had yet achieved, and rose to his feet. Of course, he told himself as he touched the control pad, securing two glasses of water, it was only right that he would have something to boast about - since he would have to confess to Beverly - or her crew, he added, noting the early hour of the morning - that he had also managed to get her intoxicated as well. Not that four sips of wine was really intoxicating, he added defensively, silently preparing his - and Dee's - defense; she had simply responded badly. "The biggest stumbling block had been, as you probably suspect, Jay Tillerman. As a former Starfleet officer, he is liable for the damage he caused to the ship, not to mention the murders. And," he added softly, regretfully, "what he did to you." He stopped, staring down at his plate, his appetite fading as the regret and shame over his failure to realize that it had been his former acquaintance was responsible for everything that had happened on his ship in the last few months - and he had not realized that fact. Jay had sabotaged his ship, suborned one of his crew, drugged another, killed four, killed the Breen captain - and had nearly killed the woman who sat across the table from him, his newest friend, as well. Friend, he thought, letting the word roll over his tongue, realizing that, despite his earlier protestations, she was, indeed turning into a friend. He smiled, contented - then allowed the smile to fade as he realized he would have to tell Dee the truth. "The Breen," he said at last, "are not going to allow us to extradite Jay. They say they don't agree with his actions - but that under their law, what he did aboard our ship was not criminal - and what happened on their ship was an accident. In their way, Dee, they aren't unlike you; they do not believe in holding a grudge. What happened was an accident - a horrific accident, but still an accident. They won't charge him, Dee; he'll be free to do as he wishes - so long as he remains in Breen space. However, as we don't have a treaty with the Breen, his position as Ambassador carries no import. If he returns to Federation space - or that of an allied people - he can be arrested and tried. But..." He shook his head. "Jay's a coward a heart. He won't return to Federation space - not if there's even a hint of danger. I'm sorry, Dee," he added, raising his eyes to look at her, to face the anger and rage that he knew would be there. But there was nothing there; nothing at all. Instead, she sat before him, frozen in place, her eyes shut, one hand still holding on to the fork, one piece of salad still perfectly poised on the tines. He smiled - then felt the smile fade as he studied her still form. Her too-still form. "Dee?" he said softly, worry putting a strained edge on his tone. She didn't move. "Dee!" he repeated, more loudly this time, almost shouting her name as he hurried around the table - then stopped as he realized the truth. Andile wasn't breathing. NewMessage: Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!prodigy.com!news.glorb.com!postnews2.google.com!not-for-mail From: keroth1701@sbcglobal.net (Ke Roth) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW TNG: "Echoes" P/C, D/f (R), Pt 162/? Date: 5 Sep 2004 07:17:08 -0700 Organization: http://groups.google.com Lines: 944 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: 68.251.36.131 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Trace: posting.google.com 1094393829 21382 127.0.0.1 (5 Sep 2004 14:17:09 GMT) X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 5 Sep 2004 14:17:09 +0000 (UTC) Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative:160643 X-Received-Date: Sun, 05 Sep 2004 07:17:14 PDT (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 162/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except Andile and a few of the others you're about to meet. I promise I won't make any money from writing this. FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 162 Picard slapped the commbadge on his chest, shouting, "Picard to Sickbay! Medical emergency!" Instantly, Alyssa Ogawa's voice came back to him, clear and alert despite the early hour of the morning. "Ogawa here, sir. What's the nature of the emergency?" "It's D... It's Lt. Andile! She's not breathing!" he snapped back. Silence followed his announcement - a silence that seemed to stretch on forever as a thousand horrific possibilities filled his mind. Was it the food? The wine? The stress of the confrontation - and the catharsis - on the holodeck? The physical strain of trying to play the flute? What happened? He asked himself in grief and horror - then added the thought that lay behind the rest: Was it me? Did I do something to cause this? Did _I_ kill her? "Doctor!" he snapped aloud as the silence became uncomfortably long. "One moment, Captain," Alyssa replied patiently. "Damn it! She's not breathing!" There was another silence - though shorter this time. "Captain," Alyssa replied with practiced tolerance, "Andile doesn't have to breathe; her artificial lung works continuously, without inhalation or exhalation," she reminded him gently. "But..." he protested instantly. "Sir, this has happened before. There's no need for concern," she said patiently. "No need for concern?!" he gaped. "No, sir. Captain, the lieutenant is wearing a medical monitor; if her vitals range outside of a set of pre-determined standards for more than a few seconds, we would be instantly alerted. And right now, her monitors are showing all vitals - including her oxygenation levels - are well within acceptable ranges. However," she added, knowing that mere scientific facts were not always enough to convince a person of a situation, "you can verify that she's not in danger. Look at her lips. What color are they?" the physician instructed him. "Umm... Sort of a pale rose color - pink, maybe?" he guessed, trying to think of which shade of peach the flesh most closely resembled. "But not blue," Alyssa confirmed. "No," Picard agreed. "Good. Blue would indicate a lack of oxygen. Now, please look at her hands - at her fingernails." Picard stared at the frozen woman, then carefully prized loose the rigidly held fork from her fingers, splaying them apart and staring at the tips. "Pale pink - but there seems to be small half circles of white at the base," he added worriedly. He could almost hear the doctor smiling as she replied. "That's normal - and healthy. " "But she's not breathing!" he protested. "Surely that's not 'normal and healthy' - not even for the lieutenant!" he argued. "No, it isn't," Alyssa agreed. "However, it is not unusual either. Andile's diaphragm was damaged during her surgery; she's undergoing therapy to regain full control of the muscle - but just as with any other muscle training regimen, the muscle can be over-taxed, and go into spasm. A cramp, if you will. We do have medication to reverse the condition, however. Where is she?" she asked. Picard stopped, suddenly realizing how awkward the current situation was. "Err... The lieutenant is, uh..." He hesitated, then continued, "She's in my quarters," he said - quietly. There was an equally awkward pause on the doctor's part. "I beg your pardon?" Alyssa answered. "Did you say..." "Yes," he interrupted, more forcefully this time. "She's in my quarters. Now, if you would hurry, Doctor?" he added sternly. "I'm on my way," Alyssa said. He tapped his badge again, waited a moment to ensure that the connection ahd been broken - then stared at the unconscious woman. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he asked her, knowing there would be no reply - yet somehow suspecting she was laughing at him, even so. "You delight in seeing me embarrassed in front of others," he continued - then sighed. "What is it about you women that you relish our humiliation, our public mortification - and yet we tolerate it?" he mused aloud. "Do we need you so desperately that we will endure anything you inflict upon us, just to have you in our lives?" he asked her - then softened his voice, his eyes locked on her - but his thoughts elsewhere, decks away, focused on someone else, someone who also enjoyed the torment she inflicted on him, someone from who he would tolerate anything... Someone who he had foolishly - oh so foolishly - chased out of his life. He gave another sigh, studying her yet again, considering - then strode from the dining area. A moment later, he returned to her side, lifting her into his arms with a easy movement, then carried her out of the room, gently depositing her on the bed he had turned down just moments before. "It's bad enough that I have to explain to Dr. Ogawa about the food and the wine," he explained to her. "I'll not add to that having to explain why I allowed you to fall from a chair and fracture your skull." He was startled by the sound of a soft exhalation following the pronouncement, and, as he watched, he thought he saw the faintest rise and fall of her chest. Uncertain, he placed his hand just over her slightly parted lips, waiting for another of the tiny breaths - and, after a few moments, felt a damp warm touch on his hand. He pulled his hand back, relieved at the return of the autonomic function - and instantly chagrined by what he deemed his own over-reaction. I should have just waited, he thought to himself; I should have re-evaluated the situation, reminded myself of the facts - including the fact that Andile's lungs are artificial and that she has neither to inhale or exhale in order to breathe - before I panicked and called for help, he chided himself. Such behavior would have been intolerable from the rankest of cadets - let alone from a starship captain! But starship captains aren't medical professionals, he reminded himself a moment later; we aren't trained in the intricacies of human physiology - or in the mechanisms that emulate their function. When someone stops breathing, you respond - and if the situation becomes embarrassing later, well, damn it, it become embarrassing. Better a little public humiliation than public mourning, he added. Still, he added, discretion was one of Dr. Ogawa's finer traits - and one I intend to utilize fully, he thought to himself. He stepped to the foot of the bed, pulling the blanket over the almost still form, then stepped out of the room. A minute later, he admitted Alyssa Ogawa to his quarters, quickly directing her to his bedroom without offering an explanation as in - to how they had come to be there - or allowing her an opportunity to ask for one. "It happened when we were sitting at the table," he did explain. "One moment we were talking - the next, she was unconscious. I moved her to my bed so she wouldn't fall and injure herself. When I lay her down, however, she began to breathe again," he added, suddenly needful of the reason to justify the panicked call to Sickbay. To his relief, Alyssa nodded approvingly. "You did the right thing in calling us, Captain; while this has happened before, it's something we're watching carefully - and it's easier to address if we know when it happens." Then, with the brisk efficiency that he had come to associate with the medical officers on his ships, she sat on the edge of the bed beside Andile, opened her case, pulled out a scanner and began to pass the device over the woman's body - and frowned. "What's wrong?" Picard asked worriedly. "Her liver enzymes are off," Alyssa replied. "It's alarming; she's been holding steady for so long; I thought we were out of the woods, that her liver had completed its repairs - but this would indicate that she's taken another turn for the worse," Alyssa informed him unhappily. Picard hesitated, guilt riddling him, then gave in, knowing the truth would eventually out - and that Andile's health was more important than any embarrassment he might suffer. "It's my fault," he said. "We had some wine..." Alyssa looked up at him, surprised. "Oh?" "Not much," he added hastily. "The lieutenant probably had, oh, maybe a tablespoon in total. She seemed to get a little... tipsy," he added, "so she stopped." "I'm not surprised," Alyssa said. "Her liver metabolizes alcohol - and everything else - at a remarkably higher rate than most humans. Until she builds some tolerance, she'll feel the alcohol almost instantly - but she'll also recover in minutes as well. "But in any case, a tablespoon of wine - or even a glassful - wouldn't have done this." "Maybe something she ate," Picard suggested. "No. Eating wouldn't have hurt her at all. If anything it would help her! God knows we've been trying to get her to eat, but she's been refusing..." She stopped in mid-sentence, his words dimly registering. "Captain, are you saying she ate something?" "Just a little poached chicken with broth and vegetables," he demurred. Alyssa continued to stare at him. "Just chicken and vegetables," she repeated. "It wasn't very much," he objected. She continued to gape - then smiled widely. "You got her to eat!" she said a third time. "Captain, we've tried everything we could dream of to try to convince Andile to start eating again - but nothing seemed to reach her! A few more days, and we were going to have to start TPN - total parental nutrition - again and that would mean confining her back to Sickbay! And if that happened..." "If that happened, you were concerned she would never leave again," he concluded for her. Alyssa nodded. "The setback would have profound psychological and physical ramifications that I think we could not surmount; we most likely would have had to place her in stasis if she were to survive until we returned to Earth," she admitted. "But now..." "It was only a small bowl of chicken and broth," he reminded her, trying to rein herd on her rapidly growing enthusiasm. "That was all." "It was... wonderful, Captain; a wonderful start," she countered, then turned back to Andile, completing her scan. "And it's an explanation for what I'm seeing; her liver enzymes are within norms for someone who has eaten something after so long a hiatus," she concluded. "And her stopping breathing?" he pressed. "As I said, this has happened before," she reassured him. "Andile's diaphragm spasms frequently, especially after she's had her therapy." He blazed red. "My fault again," he admitted. "I was trying to teach her to play the flute. I must have overdone it," he confessed. Alyssa smiled at him gently. "Please don't worry, Captain; aches and pains - and the occasional muscle cramp - are the price we all pay when we're trying to develop our muscle strength. In Biji's case, however, those cramps are simply a little more... well," she mused, "dramatic. "And disconcerting for Beej and those around her," she added. "We've put her on medication to control the spasms, but she is several hours overdue for her injection," she added pointedly. "I was just about to have the computer search the ship for her when you called." She reached into her bag, drew up a hypo, checked the contents and dosage, then pressed it to Andile's neck. Almost immediately, the unconscious woman drew a deep - relatively deep - breath, then let it out - and with the exhalation, seemed to move deeper into unconsciousness. The doctor frowned, peeled back Andile's eyelid, and stared at the pupil, then checked her scanner. "That's odd," she murmured. "What? What's 'odd'?" he replied instantly. Alyssa stared at Andile for a moment, checked her scanner again - then looked up a Picard. "She seems to be... asleep," she said, somewhat dazed by the statement. "Is that bad?" "No - but it's... unusual," Alyssa said, puzzled. "Her typical response is to regain consciousness after the injection - not to move into a deeper sleep. In fact, she doesn't usually enter deep sleep at all. What sleep she gets is only when we've sedated her - and with her metabolism as fast as it is, the sedatives usually wear off in one to two hours. To be honest, Andile hasn't had a spontaneous night's sleep since her injury." And far beyond that, Picard added silently, remembering the hints of vivid and haunting dreams that had filled his own sleep - dreams that, only recently, he had come to understand were not his own. Alyssa slipped the scanner back into the bag, closed it, then rose to her feet. Picard followed her as she left the room. "What now?" he asked. "I'll contact Sickbay, and have a team come down with a gurney; Andile's so sound asleep, she'll never realize she's been moved - and with any luck, this sleep will continue until morning," she said. Picard nodded, acknowledging the information - but as Alyssa reached for her badge, he reached out, stopping her. "Dr. Ogawa... I don't mean to question your medical judgment - but is that wise? That is, if she's resting as thoroughly as you say, should you risk waking her by moving her?" The physician studied him for a long moment. "You mean: why don't I just let her sleep here?" she said skeptically. Picard gave a slight shrug. "Would that be a problem? She is asleep, after all..." he began. Alyssa smiled tolerantly. "I appreciate the thought, Captain - but," she grew somber, "Andile is ill. She isn't living in Sickbay because she has nowhere to go, sir; she's there because her medical condition is still fragile. The spasms of the diaphragm are only one thing that she needs medication for; she needs to have the skin under the lung cleaned, she needs medications, she needs monitoring..." "You said she's wearing a monitor; wouldn't that alert you if something happened?" he asked. Alyssa hesitated. "It's not just the medical monitor, sir. She... she had nightmares," she explained reluctantly. "Rather violent ones, at times. She'll awaken, screaming..." I know, he replied silently, remembering the nightmares that had followed his encounter with the Borg, the Cardassians, the news about Robert and Réné... He shook his head. Of all the people aboard the ship, he alone knew the nightmares that plagues Andile all too well... "All the more reason to have someone with whom she's comfortable present, wouldn't you think?" he pressed. Alyssa sighed. "Sir..." He looked at her beseechingly, pleadingly. "Doctor, she fell asleep - here. There was a reason - beyond the food and wine. It was here - because she felt safe here. How do I betray that trust and send her back to a place where she can only sleep a few hours a night - and then only because she's drugged?" Alyssa stared at him again - then shook her head. "The meds..." "You can give them to her," he countered. "It's not just one medication, sir, it's a series - over a period of time. Thirty micrograms of medfenisone every four hours, two cc's of dephynisoline every six, parathyronine upon waking..." She shook her head. "She needs attention, sir; someone to be there to give her the medications throughout the night," she said. "I'll have to assign a nurse..." "I'm here," Picard countered instantly, surprising the doctor - and himself. "You, sir?" Alyssa said, disbelieving. "I'm already here, Doctor," he explained. "I've administered hypos before..." "In an emergency!" she protested. "The technique is the same," he argued. "Yes, but..." She stopped, staring at Picard - then looking back at Andile's sleeping form - then back at Picard, and grew sober. "Sir, you don't owe Andile anything," she said, pleading with him in quiet but fervent tones. "The decision you made, to keep her alive, that was a command decision, one you made in the best interest of the ship and the crew..." He stopped her with a gesture. "Doctor, I made that decision for all the wrong reasons - but reasons I refuse to regret," he said firmly. "My request to you, however, is not because of a misguided need to make amends for my actions to a crewman I may have wronged," he insisted. "Then why?" Alyssa pressed. Picard hesitated. The truth? he asked himself. That she had tried to kill herself - and that had stopped her - and now, he admitted, the responsibility for keeping her alive, for helping her find a new path in life had fallen to him? That was hardly what he was about to tell the woman standing before him. Alyssa Ogawa was as compassionate a human as Picard had ever met, and it was her empathy, her ability to understand her patient's needs - and their suffering - that had helped make her the nurse she had once been, as well as the physician she now was. But compassion and empathy had to take a back seat to the realities of her role as physician: if she knew Andile had tried suicide, she would not only have refused to let her stay here, she would have had her confined in Sickbay under constant watch - or perhaps even under constant sedation - until she could begin the intense counseling that inevitably followed a suicide attempt. It wouldn't matter that she had stopped in her attempt, that she had agreed to try not being andile, that she had given her word that she would not repeat her attempts as long as the mission continued; those were promises she had made to Picard - and promises that Alyssa - and the rest of the medical staff - would dismiss as meaningless, made under duress in an attempt to free herself - just so she could make another attempt, later. She wouldn't of course, he added silently - but he doubted that Alyssa would understand that fact - especially if she learned that he had agreed to help Andile kill herself if she could not find her way free of being andile. No, he decided, the truth was not the answer. Then again, perhaps the truth was needed here. "Doctor," he said at last, "I respect your knowledge and your abilities - more than you will ever know. You - and others like you, other physician, other medical practitioners - have saved my life more often than I care to remember. And I thank you for it," he added sincerely. "But there were times during those long recoveries when I felt that I, as a person, had been forgotten; instead, I felt reduced to being nothing more than an amalgam of my symptoms, my injuries, my surgeries. "I think that the lieutenant is in that position now," he continued. "She is no longer the person she was, but rather an mélange of treatments, surgeries, therapies, medications - all at a time when she needs to focus on returning to the person she was before this began. "Tonight..." He shook his head. "Tonight, there were no drugs, no treatments, no therapies. Yes, she practiced her breathing technique - through conversation, through practicing music. She drank, she ate - not because it was medically advisable, but because it was the companionable thing to do. "And she fell asleep, not because it was time to do so, or because she as drugged into unconsciousness - but because she was tired. And she felt safe and comfortable. "With all due apologies, Doctor, right now, the last place she needs to be is back in Sickbay. No, this is where she needs to be; not necessarily with me - but beginning to reassert her existence as an independent person, not just a patient. "Dr. Crusher was quite correct when you started to allow her a degree of personal freedom - allowing her visit the other areas of the ship. Now, you need to go one step further, to take the next logical progression in her recovery." He could see the resistance in Alyssa's body; he could almost feel her refusal to consider the idea. "What if you're wrong?" she countered. "Then I'm wrong," he conceded. "Medically, you'll still be monitoring her - just as if she was in Sickbay. If she's in trouble, you can transport her directly back there." "If we catch it in time," Alyssa argued. He smiled. "Doctor, if you thought you could not monitor the lieutenant's condition adequately, you wouldn't have given her free reign of the ship in the first place," he replied. Alyssa pursed her lips, knowing he was right - then gave a sigh. "All right," she conceded. "She can stay - for tonight! - but only on the condition that her monitor indicates no abnormalities," she said firmly. "If it goes off, if her vitals are off by even a small percentage, then she'll have to come back to Sickbay - immediately," she added. "No compromises, Captain; this is either my way - or no way," she said. He nodded. "What do I need to do?" he said. "I'll give her the meds she needs now, then get the ones she'll need for the remainder of the night and bring them back here. I'll also need to program the computer to alert you when she needs the next ones," she advised, rising to her feet. "She'll need to come back to Sickbay when she wakes up so we can exchange her lung set for the next." "Is there a particular time...?" Picard asked. "No. We usually change it first thing in the morning because she's less aware of the pain - but that's strictly a matter of our convenience. The lung tissue is viable for thirty-six hours, so she'll be fine until late tomorrow night," Alyssa promised. He nodded his agreement, then escorted the petite physician to the door. "I'll be right back," she promised. Picard nodded silently as the doctor left - then sighed, silently asking himself what he had just committed himself to doing - and not knowing the answer. For twenty minutes, he contemplated the question as he cleared the dinner table, then cleaned the flutes and replaced them in their cases - but finding no answers. Perhaps, he decided, there was no real answer; perhaps it was simply a matter of helping a friend - then shook his head. No, he knew, friendship was something that developed over time - and despite a history that spanned fifty years, tonight was the first time he had spoken with Dee in anything even resembling an attempt to get to know her solely for the sake of knowing about her. If there was a friendship to be found there, it would be months - or years - in the making. What then? he wondered. Pity? Hardly, he insisted. Andile invoked many an emotion in those around her, himself included - but he could not imagine pity being one of those feelings. Pity was for the weak, the helpless, the powerless - and she was none of those things. Perhaps he was driven by compassion or empathy or even commiseration - but pity? Never! He considered for a moment - then looked at the closed door to his bedroom. Compassion - or could it be something more? he asked himself bluntly. I was in love with her fifty years ago; could this be some remaining vestige of that feeling? No, he decided; whatever I felt for her once, it was fifty years ago - and we both are different people now. And even if there were some traces of those old feelings... well, he thought firmly, this was not the time for such a relationship. Emotionally, neither of them was ready for such a relationship; she was still recuperating, both from her injuries and her recent breakup with Data - and I... I still have feelings for Beverly, he knew. Pointless, meaningless feelings - feeling he knew that would never be returned, because of what he had said and done - but feelings he had nonetheless. What then? he wondered as he glanced into the darkened room where Andile lay sleeping, studying he still form, watching the miniscule rise and fall of her chest as the remnants of her real lungs did their job - then shook his head, knowing he didn't have an answer. Then again, he thought, finding answers to the questions of the soul was not his responsibility: that was why, he thought, starships had counselors. He smiled, pleased in the knowledge that that task fell to another - then let the smile fade as the door chimed again, and he opened the door to face Alyssa Ogawa once again. A half hour later, the grin was completely gone as he realized the enormity of the project before him - and the true fragility of Andile's condition. So many meds, so many things to watch for, he thought, wondering once again if he had made the right decision as he watched Alyssa administer another injection, the check her patient's status with the monitor. Perhaps she would be better off in Sickbay... "I have to confess, Captain," Alyssa said softly as she studied the readout, "that I have my doubts about this - but there's no arguing with the facts: I don't think she's slept this well in months." She hesitated - then looked up at Picard. "Sir... with your permission, I'd like to try something." He raised a brow in question and doubt. "I mentioned that she needs to have the lung changed tomorrow..." "I recall," he agreed. "The biggest problem Biji has is that the lung is oozing bio-mimetic gel onto her skin - and that it's drawing her outer epidermal layers into the lung. It's not affecting the performance of the lung, but it is damaging her skin badly. We're having to literally rip off layers of tissue every day - and she refuses pain meds. We've tried using the ECMO while she's sleeping - to allow her own recuperative powers to manifest themselves - but the oxygenation is less effective than the lung, and it has affected her sleeping and her regenerative abilities. What I'd like to do - with your permission - is remove the lung tonight - leave it connected by an extra-long catheter so she can still receive full oxygenation - but allow her flesh to recover while she's sleeping." He raised a brow. "Is that safe? Wouldn't the... tubes?... get tangled?" "No, sir; I'll secure them in place - not that Biji moves very much while she sleeps," she added sorrowfully. "She can't tolerate much pressure on her right arm, so we get her into a comfortable position, then support her body with pillows and bolsters. It limits her movement." "It must be uncomfortable," Picard murmured. "It is - but she never complains," Alyssa answered. "I wish she would; I wish she would stop being the stoic - and let us know she's in pain, that she needs us; I wish she would let us help her," she added plaintively, almost bitterly. "But Beej is Beej," she sighed after a moment. "Better to have her - and all her stoicism - then to have lost her. Now, if you'll give me a few minutes, I'm going to remove the lung," she advised Picard. "Do you need help?" he asked. Alyssa smiled. "Thank you, but... I think this is something better left between a woman and her doctor. If you get my drift," she added, looking at him knowingly. He met her gaze - but the emotion in the expression was one of confusion rather than comprehension - until he realized that Alyssa was beginning to strip off Andile's overshirt. "Er... yes. Of course. If you need anything...." Flaming red, he hastily turned, hurriedly excusing himself from his own bedroom, pressing himself against the wall so there was no chance he could inadvertently look in upon the semi-dressed woman. Thus it was that he found himself filled with both horror and embarrassment when the physician called out only a few minutes later. "Captain?" "Yes, Doctor?" "There's a Sickbay gown in my bag; could you get it for me?" He nodded, not realizing the doctor couldn't hear his motion, then hastily hurried to where she ahd left her bag, withdrawing the blue gown, recognizing it as not dissimilar to the ones he had worn on more than a few occasions - and remembering how uncomfortable the damned things were. Not intentionally, of course, but after even one day, he had ached to regain his own nightwear, his own pyjamas, hating the feel of the slightly coarse fabric as it rubbed against his flesh. The thought of it pressing against the raw and worn tissue of Andile's body made him shudder. Stepping back to his bedroom, he tapped on the jamb. "Come in, Captain," Alyssa replied. "You're certain?" He didn't have to hear a laugh to know that she was smiling at his never-yielding hold on propriety - but he declines to apologize; there were just somethings that were not done. At least, he added, not on my starship. Not in my quarters. "Don't worry, sir," Alyssa replied, "She's covered." He nodded, then entered the room, trying not to look at the recumbent form, trying not to notice the two thin plastic tubes, filled with burgundy red fluid, that pulsed rhythmically from beneath the medical drape that covered Andile's chest to the silver metallic shirt that lay neatly arranged over the back of a chair, and handed the gown to the doctor. With practiced deftness, she replaced the drapes with the gown without revealing Andile's one remaining breast - but there was no way to avoid exposing Picard to the red, raw flesh of Andile's chest, or the ragged white scars and irregularly dented skin that marked where the reimplantation of her arm had been performed - or the small silver patches of the regenerators that dotted her chest and arms, all giving lie to those places where he body was unable to heal itself against the forces of her injuries, and the stresses of the bio-mimetic gel; all reminders, Picard thought, of the frailty of a body that had once healed itself with near flawless perfection - and with almost instantaneous speed. And it would again - in time, Picard reminded himself wordlessly. When she was well in body - and in spirit. In the interim, he added, Beverly would regenerate that tissue, renewing the flesh to as close to perfect as medical technology permitted - but even the most marvelous of technologies had its limits; until all the surgeries were completed, Beverly would limit herself to healing only the worst of the damage, knowing that with each use of the regenerator increase the friability of the delicate tissue. For what remained, Andile would have to heal herself - over time, and with the consequences that had faced all her antecedents - pain, scarring, and slow, slow recovery. It was the best Beverly could offer the woman, he knew - but looking at the raw, puckered flesh of her arm and chest, it didn't seem like enough. And doubly inadequate, he added, knowing the decision to leave Andile as she was, to allow her to heal on her own, only reinforced the knowledge that of how much lay ahead, how many surgeries lay before her. It was not, he thought to himself, a reminder that he could have born easily, had he been the chronic patient; how had Andile been able to face that realization of what lay before her, day after day after day? he wondered. Or perhaps she hadn't, he added; perhaps that fact, that despite all the surgeries that had gone before, she had as many - if not more - to face in the days to come had been one of the reasons she had chosen to end her life this evening. As he watched, Alyssa, finished dressing the woman, positioned her carefully on her back, then moved to the foot of the bed, pulled off Andile's boots and socks, leaving the woman's black leggings in place, then pulled the blankets back over the sleeping body. "I don't think she'll need to move during the night," she concluded, studying the sleeping woman, "but if so, you'll need to help her turn on to her left side; use a pillow to support her right arm, and another behind her back to keep her from falling back - and she should be comfortable until early morning." Alyssa put her equipment back into the bag - except for the half-dozen hypos that were arranged on the nightstand and the small monitor that was arranged at the head of the bed, silently watching over the sleeping form. My bedroom, he thought to himself disapprovingly, has become Sickbay in absentia. It was not what he had intended when he made the suggestion... ... and yet, he thought as he followed Alyssa from the room, ordering the room lights to dim to a fraction of their earlier level, hearing the door slide shut with a gentle finality behind him, he found himself unable to regret what he had done. "Captain?" Alyssa's voice interrupted his reverie. He raised a brow in surprise as he turned to her. "Doctor?" "Biji's asleep - and her readouts indicate she may stay that way for hours," she announced. "You make that sound as though it were not a good thing, Doctor," he pointed out. "No," Alyssa countered with a smile. "It's wonderful. As her doctor and her friend, I'm happy that she's finally getting some sleep - and some food! It's so wonderful to know she's getting a part of her life back; knowing that... " She smiled, shaking her head, biting her lip - and Picard thought he saw the trace of a tear in her eye. "Knowing that," she continued, "I beginning to believe she just might make it. You know, we knew that, after those first few rough weeks, we could drag her back to the world of the living - we knew we could keep her body alive - but the Biji we knew and loved? Captain," she said thoughtfully, "we had no way of knowing we could keep her with us. Tonight... I'm beginning to believe once again. "But," she added quickly, surreptitiously wiping a tear from her eye, "she's not out of the woods yet. She's definitely not stable enough to be on her own. If you have to go to the bridge - either for an emergency, or because she's still sleeping and it's your shift, you need to call Sickbay, to have someone come here and stay with her until she does waken. She'll be fine on her own for a few minutes - but under no circumstances do I want her to wake up alone," she insisted. Picard frowned, sensing that the physician was concealing something. "It's not her waking up alone that worries you, is it?" he said. Alyssa looked at him, surprised by the unexpected perspicacity of the man. "No," she agreed. "It's the dreams, the nightmares..." Alyssa studied him - then gave a short, quick nod. "They're horrifying, Captain; not just for Biji - but for everyone in Sickbay. The screams..." She shuddered, recalling the shrieks that filled Sickbay almost every night. "At first we thought it was the pain - she clutches at her hands, her wrists, at where the scars used to be - but every test we run shows there are no pain receptors being affected. "It's psychological trauma, Captain - but because it is psychological, not physical, there's nothing we can do for her. That's something she'll have to deal with - when she decides she's ready. But speaking on behalf of the entire Sickbay night shift.. well. We all love Biji - but as far as we're concerned, her getting into counseling can not start soon enough. "Which brings me," she added with obvious reluctance, "to the other matter I need to discuss with you." Alyssa gestured at the two chairs that they ahd occupied only a brief time before. Picard gave her a curious glance, then followed her gesture, taking one of the chairs while she perched again on the edge of the other - then drew a deep and uncomfortable breath. "Sir, your relationship with Andile, whatever it is, is absolutely none of my business." Picard frowned, his forehead wrinkling in creases of confusion. "I'm sorry?" "I mean personally," she added hastily. "Whatever your relationship is with Andile - well, it's none of my business. But as her physician, sir, I am obligated to let you know that I believe it is unwise - perhaps even potentially dangerous - for Andile to become involved in a romantic relationship at this time. She was badly traumatized by the events surrounding both her current injuries as well as those from two years ago - and she had not yet begun to address either of those issues. For her to involve herself in an emotional relationship would be foolish for he - and for you, sir," she informed him. Picard felt his face beginning to warm as his cheeks flushed. "Doctor..." he began to explain. "But the choices you and Biji make are your own. However, sir, I must inform you that, at this time, a physical relationship is absolutely contraindicated," Alyssa plunged ahead. "Even the most careful of sexual relations could damage her lungs, put undue pressure on her vasculature - not to mention that we have not yet begun to repair the scarring of her vagina and anus. Intercourse for her would not only be painful, but it could be life threatening..." "Doctor!" he seethed. "I'm sorry if this embarrasses you, sir, but you have to understand the full ramifications of what can happen!" Alyssa insisted. "The tissue is so fragile that it could easily tear, and she could bleed to death before either of you were aware of the problem. I don't mean to insult you, Captain, but during the heat of the moment, even the most tender and careful of lovers..." "Doctor," Picard interrupted, his voice low and full of fury, his face blazing crimson, "I hope you are not suggesting that you think I would take advantage of the lieutenant, just because she is my guest..." "No, sir," she replied. "Of course not. I'm simply informing you of the consequences, should such a decision - a mutual decision," she added hastily, "be made," she said. Picard glared at her - then forced himself to calm down. She's doing her job, he reminded himself; she's protecting her patient as best she can - albeit completely unnecessarily, he added silently. He nodded slightly to the petite physician. "I appreciate your advice, Doctor, and I respect the fact that it took a fair amount of courage to face me about this issue. However, it was... not necessary. The lieutenant and I are... friends. Nothing - absolutely nothing - more," he assured her. "And she will be returning to Sickbay in the morning," he added hastily. "Tonight is simply a matter of...convenience - compassion, if you will; giving her a chance for a good night's sleep for the first time in months. With any luck, it will establish a pattern that you and the others can build upon," he added with a smile. "Yes, sir," Alyssa replied blandly, wondering how a man so wise in the ways of running a ship, so astute about politics and diplomacy and science and art could be so far off the mark when it came to understanding the realities of the human heart - especially his own, she added. She opted for silence, however, saying nothing, merely nodding her acceptance of his pronouncement, then stood up, reached for her bag and moved to the doorway. "Remember, sir, if you need me, I'm just a call away," she said at last. "I'll have someone here in minutes." "Thank you, Dr. Ogawa. I'll bear that in mind. And now... Have a good night," he said, watching as she stepped through the door, tapped the locking mechanism - and turned to survey the room around him. Twenty minutes later, the dinner plates had been cleared, the flutes carefully cleaned and returned to their respective cases, the rooms straightened - and he had slipped back into his bedroom, secured his pyjamas and a robe, changed - oh-so-quietly - in the bathroom, secured an extra pillow and blanket from the closet and slipped back into the living area. Tightening the belt of his robe around him, he arranged the pillow at one end of the couch, stretched out over its length, arranged the blanket over his body and checked the chronometer. An hour until the next med, he realized. "Computer," he called out. "Set alert to wake me in fifty-five minutes - low level alarm," he added, uncertain if the noise of the alert would wake his guest - and not willing to have this, her first real night's sleep, end prematurely - or disastrously - because of an overloud alarm. Then he added a second order. "Lights," he instructed the computer, then, as the lights faded, he found himself staring at the stars. If wasn't quite the same, he decided; the perspective from his couch wasn't quite as it was from his bed - but the stars were the same ones he had watched for the past few months, and something in the unfamiliar familiarity contented his soul as little else could do. He yawned, closed his eyes - then half aware, half in unconscious act, reached out for the mind of his friend. There was nothing there - nothing, but the relaxed calm of a sleeping mind. _Good night, Dee_, he thought to her. And then he thought of nothing else. NewMessage: ath: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!prodigy.com!news.glorb.com!postnews.google.com!not-for-mail From: keroth1701@sbcglobal.net (Ke Roth) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW TNG: "Echoes" P/C, D/f (R), Pt 164/? Date: 14 Nov 2004 15:32:16 -0800 Organization: http://groups.google.com Lines: 868 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: 68.77.27.36 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Trace: posting.google.com 1100475137 6640 127.0.0.1 (14 Nov 2004 23:32:17 GMT) X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 14 Nov 2004 23:32:17 +0000 (UTC) Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative:161355 X-Received-Date: Sun, 14 Nov 2004 15:32:20 PST (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 164/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except Andile and a few of the others you're about to meet. I promise I won't make any money from writing this. FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 164 Deanna ran her hands over the tunic and skirt she wore, smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles as she hurried toward the massive doors that marked the entrance to Ten Forward - then stopped a few feet short of the actuator. Calm down, she thought; find your center, she added, closing her eyes, drawing a slow breath, then rapping her fingers against the nerve plexus just behind her ear. All good calming techniques she reminded herself, ones that she had taught hundreds of her patients and friends over the years - but, after a few moments, she realized none were working for her tonight. It wasn't that she was late for her dinner with Beverly; they were both equally guilty of allowing work to interfere with their weekly 'girls' night out', and Beverly would certainly understand that her last appointment for the day had run late. She was flustered because she was attending this dinner with Beverly under false pretenses: Beverly thought she was meeting with a friend - but Deanna was going as a counselor. Worse, she thought as she ran her hands over the casual outfit once more, a counselor in sheep's clothing - or rather, she amended, in friend's clothing. A part of her had wanted to her to remain in her usual uniform, a subtle reminder to Deanna and her would-be patient that their encounter was a professional one. The other part, however, had argued that while Deanna might be going as a counselor, what Beverly was expecting was a friend - and that meant taking a few extra minutes to change from her work outfit to something more typical for their weekly outing. It was deceptive, she thought to herself - but what she was doing was not meant to be malicious - anything but, she added. Beverly was, after all, her best friend, - but sometimes the line between friend and counselor blurred, she reminded herself - and sometimes what a friend really needed was a counselor... even when she didn't know that was what she needed. She started to run her hands over her dress once again - then stopped. No more putting it off, she chided herself - then stepped toward the door. The massive doors slid apart, opening to a gentle wave of noise and general camaraderie as others took advantage of the dinner hour to share a meal in the ship's lounge, the overall positive energy refreshing Deanna as she entered, reducing her tension as she looked around the room for her friend. As she had expected, Beverly was at their usual table; spying her, Deanna waved, then hurried to her friend, leaning over the table to give her friend a hug before taking her seat. "Been waiting long?" Deanna asked as she sat down, surreptitiously noting that there was already a drink on the table - and that it was half-empty. "A while," Beverly agreed a little coolly - then managed a tired smile. "Will keep you late?" she asked. Deanna shook her head, then gestured at one of the servers to come to the table. "Will's on beta shift while the negotiations are still in abeyance. He'll take the alpha shift back from the captain when the discussions start up again." "Oh?" Beverly asked in surprise. "I didn't know they were starting again." Deanna nodded. "The captain made an announcement about it earlier this evening. Didn't you get it?" she asked curiously. Beverly shook her head. "I was doing some research in Sickbay; I haven't caught up on my intraship mail yet today." "Well," Deanna explained, "both Ambassadors Tiron and Zumell received coded communication packets from their governments today. And while they didn't reveal the contents of those packets, I could sense their mutual relief when they opened them. I suspect that they - like the captain, and the rest of the crew, for that matter - were concerned that after the Enterprise went missing for so long, the talks would have been canceled - or worse." "They thought we might have gone to war in the interim?" Beverly asked. "Considering the situation we left, I wouldn't have been surprised if that had happened. I don't think I was the only one worried about it, either. The overall level of tension on the ship had been growing increasing tense ever since we left Earth. But shortly after they received their messages, they each spoke with the captain - and he made a general announcement a few hours later. "And we needed that," she added with a sigh. "The captain's announcement has been only the second piece of good news the crew's had in a long time." "Second piece?" Beverly asked, curious. "What was the first?" Deanna gave her friend a surprised look. "That Beej was going to make it," she answered, as though the answer had been an obvious one. "You may resent her, Bev - but she is loved by a lot of people on this crew - and respected by most. She did save the ship - and the captain's life," she reminded the physician grimly. "I don't resent her!" Beverly snapped back. "Oh, no. Of course not," Deanna agreed sarcastically - then smiled brightly as the server approached their table. "I'll have whatever she's having," she said, gesturing at Beverly's glass, then looked at the physician. "Another for you, Bev?" she asked. Beverly nodded. "Two Serovian brandies," the server echoed. Serovian brandy? Deanna thought, startled; pretty strong stuff for a before dinner drink, she thought - but deigned not to react. "Anything else?" the server asked. "Two fettuccine alfredo with asparagus and broccoli," Deanna answered instantly. Two brandies on Beverly's empty stomach might make her work as counselor simpler tonight - but the doctor would pay for the indulgence the next day, and that was not something she wanted her friend to suffer. "And a loaf of that crusty bread - and butter," she added. The server smiled, then turned away. "I'm hungry," Deanna hastily explained in response to Beverly's surprised expression. "Will made me miss breakfast," she explained with a red-faced smile. "And lunch... " She sighed and shook her head. "Second thoughts about the wedding?" Beverly teased. Deanna stared at her friend for a moment, confused - then, understanding, shook her head. "Missing lunch wasn't Will's fault, Bev. It was... something else entirely. You know," she sighed, "as much as I was relieved to have the negotiations back underway, there are times I regret that we re-established contact with Starfleet." Beverly, her glass half raised to her lips, stopped and raised a brow instead. "Oh?" "Contact with Starfleet means contact with the Federation - and that means contact with Betazed," Deanna sighed, "Ah! Your mother," Beverly realized with a sympathetic smile. "I wrote her a message to let her know that Will and I were engaged - but I couldn't send it until we re-established communications. Considering how far out we are, and how long it took us to restore communications, that means she couldn't have gotten it until two weeks ago at best - barely time to read it and answer - and yet I received a message from her today. She's got the entire wedding planned, down to the last detail - including the date, the honeymoon - and what our first child is going to be named!" Deanna raged. "Well," Beverly demurred, "planning a wedding can be tedious - and a little overwhelming. Maybe she's just trying to help you out," she mused philosophically as she sipped the dark gold liquor. "Beverly," Deanna countered knowingly, "we're talking about _my_ mother. She just wants to make sure that everything is done her way!" "Point taken," Beverly commiserated with a slight bow of her head. "But remember this, Deanna: whatever your mother does, she does it out of love for you." She tilted back the glass, finishing the last of the liquor, then set down the glass. It was promptly removed and replaced with a fresh one as the server returned and placed a pair of drinks before the two women. "Thank you," Deanna said softly, then met Beverly's eyes, seeing in them the experience of being a bride - and of being a mother. A mother whose own child was missing. "You may be right," she agreed softly - then raised her drink. "A toast: To my mother. To mothers everywhere. May the gods keep them safe." "To mothers everywhere," Beverly replied. They touched rims then each took a sip from their glass, Deanna barely able to choke back a cough at the strong liquor. "My god! How can you drink this stuff, Bev?!" she gasped. "After the first one, your mouth gets numb," the physician replied quietly. "After two your throat follows suit; after three, all the feeling returns - but you don't care," she explained. "And how many have you had?" Deanna managed, still gasping at the burning in her throat. Beverly smiled wearily. "Just the one - two with this - and don't worry, Counselor, it'll be my last," she added, a hint of resentment in her tone. "I wasn't judging, Beverly," Deanna countered gently. Beverly looked at her friend, then shook her head repentantly. "I'm sorry, Deanna. That was uncalled for. I've just had a bad day. A bad week," she amended. "I'm sorry," Deanna replied. "Anything I can help with? Professionally... or personally?" "No," the doctor answered - then gave a bright but forced smile. "Then maybe you can help me," Deanna countered. "Oh?" The empath nodded. "Bev, you've been a bride. My mother's efforts aside, I'm at an absolute loss about what to do for the wedding. I mean... where do I start planning? What do I plan?" she asked with a hint of desperation in her voice. As she watched, Beverly sat back, closed her eyes, thought for a few moments, then sat up again and looked at Deanna. "It was a long time ago, Deanna - and the same circumstances were completely different. I was in med school, Jack was just starting out as an officer; we had to fit the wedding and honeymoon in on one of his leaves and one of my mid-term breaks. We really had no plans; we barely had a wedding by any standards except technical definition. No wedding gown, no wedding party to speak of; just me, Jack, Jean-Luc..." Her voice trailed off as tears welled up in her eyes, and she hastily took a swallow from her drink. "Bev?" To her surprise, Beverly slammed the nearly-empty glass back down on the table, her knuckles turning white around the tightly held glass, her face growing red with rage. "Damn it, Deanna! He's sleeping with her!" Deanna's gasped in astonishment at the unexpected explosion of anger and hurt from her friend - as did a number of the other diners at the adjacent tables. Setting her hand on Beverly's to quiet her, the counselor turned to the others and smiled reassuringly at them. It must have been enough, for the others turned away - slowly - and resumed their own , earlier conversations. After a moment, confident that their discussion was no longer being monitored, Deanna looked back at her friends, fury raging in her eyes. "Beverly..." "Don't tell me he isn't!" she seethed. "I was there last night - and they weren't even making a pretense of sleeping apart. No blankets or pillows on the couch... and there were indentations in both pillows - and the bed on his side was warm! He's sleeping with her," she repeated angrily. Deanna stared at her friend for a long moment, wonder whether to try to ameliorate her friend's pain - or simply confront it outright with the truth. She studied Beverly for a moment - then decided. "Yes, he is," she confirmed quietly. Beverly drew in a sharp breath, as though taken aback by the affirmation. "You knew?!" she seethed, betrayed. "I'm their counselor, Beverly," she reminded the woman grimly. "A change in their relationship - especially one of this nature - is something that a good counselor would ascertain and discuss with them, and only them," she added. "I am the ship's CMO," she reminded Deanna harshly. "And when their sleep patterns and room selection affects their medical status, you be the next to know. But this didn't. Yes, Beverly, the captain is sleeping with Biji - but that's all he's doing." "Isn't that enough?!" Beverly raged. "Beverly, he's _sleeping_ with her. That's all. They're not having a sexual relationship. They share a bed." "And you believe that?" Beverly scoffed. "I do," Deanna replied. "I've served with the captain for enough years that I can sense when he's... involved in a relationship," she admitted with a hint of an embarrassed blush, then continued, "And he's not. In that type of relationship, I mean," she added hastily - then gave Beverly a frank look. "And you know it as well," she said accusingly. "I've seen Biji's medical reports; I know she was assaulted before - and that if she were to resume a... relationship..." Deanna chose the word carefully, "it would show up in a medical scan - or with an emergency call to Sickbay. And to be blunt, I don't think the captain or Biji would risk her health - or her life - as fair trade for an orgasm." Beverly frowned, silently acceding to her friend's assessment. "But if they're not... you know..." "If they're not having sex, why are they sleeping together?" Deanna proposed - then nodded, accepting the question, considering the answer. "Beverly, you were married. Weren't there times when you and Jack shared a bed for reasons other than making love?" she asked. "For talking?" "You can talk in the living room," the physician snapped back. "Did you and Jack talk in the living room?" "Sometimes," Beverly insisted. Deanna smiled, hearing the obstinance and the hesitancy in Beverly's voice. "Well, Biji and the captain do talk in his living quarters sometimes as well. But there are times, late at night, in the early hours of the morning, when the matters of greatest significance and smallest triviality weigh the heaviest upon our hearts and souls. You've been there, Beverly; you've had your share of troubled nights when what you ached for the most wasn't a partner to share your body - but to share that part of your life. Right now, Biji and the captain are facing demons they've both held back for most of their lives - and they're finding comfort in the knowledge that they are there for one another, both in counseling - and afterwards. It's something they've both lacked in their lives - a confidant in whom they can be utterly secure. Someone with whom they can discuss their deepest secrets and fears - without worry about being betrayed. Someone who will be there in those small of hours of the night when we feel most alone. Above everything else, Beverly, what they both need right now is a friend." Beverly looked at her friends, a stricken expression on her face. "He could have come to me," she whispered. "He used to come to me." Deanna gave her a hard look. "Once - but now?" she asked coolly. "Be fair, Beverly: he went to you once before, Beverly - and you shot him down. And still, he waited. He's waited for more years than any man could reasonably be asked or expected to wait, hoping against all reasonable hope that you might change your mind, because deep in his heart, you were the only woman he truly loved. How long did you want him to keep on waiting?" she asked. "He hasn't always waited," Beverly protested. "There have been other women..." "He's had affairs," Deanna objected. "So have you," she added. "But nothing has ever come of them. And do you know why? Because neither of you are willing to commit to anyone else if there was even a glimmer of hope for relationship between the two of you." "You're saying it's my fault all his other relationships have failed?" Beverly gaped. "To be blunt, yes," Deanna replied, "as have yours. Let's be honest here, Bev: as long as you're there, he'll always have doubts, always wonder if he shouldn't wait just a little longer, just in case you come around. It's cruel, what you're doing to him, Beverly, what you have done to both of your lives! Whether you mean it or not, it's been cruel - but it's a cruelty I realized I could no longer support - not when there was an option at last. "When Biji and the captain mentioned the change in their sleeping arrangements - and it was accidental at first; Beej had a horrific nightmare and the captain went to calm her, only to fall asleep on the bed with her - I supported it whole-heartedly, and I've encouraged them both to embrace their need to share their lives this way. It's been difficult for them both - they are both very private people, both, in their own ways, terribly shy, terribly reserved - but they both knew that maintaining the emotional status quo in their lives was unfulfilling and ultimately counter-productive to what they both want." "And that is...?" Beverly asked pointedly. "What we all want, Bev: to be happy," Deanna said. Beverly fell silent, casting her eyes down - then reached for her drink, taking another large sip from the glass. "And while I wouldn't say that they've found that happiness, they both have made remarkable strides in their recovery since that time," Deanna added. She hesitated a moment, taking a sip from her own glass, then setting it down and confronting the woman before her. "And to be equally blunt," she added, her tone growing cool - almost brusque, "if and when the time comes, I'll support the further evolution of the relationship - if that's what they want. People need people, Beverly," she reminded her friend, "even Biji; even the captain. Especially the captain," she amended. "He needs someone who can share his life beyond the limitations of a professional relationship. He needs someone who can and will care about him - and about whom he in turn can care for. "He had that once before; he had a wife - albeit for only a few minutes of subjective time - but it stirred a part of his soul he's repressed throughout his life. I believe he's realizing that he no longer wants to repress that past of himself. He tried to explore that need with Anij, once; he's trying it again, in a new way, with Beej. "It's important for him to fulfill that need, Beverly, just as it's important for Biji to do the same. Hell, it's important for all of us to enrich our lives and fill those parts of our souls that we've left empty, whether by choice or not. Let him find that part of himself, Beverly; if you can't find it in yourself to create a relationship with him, then at least have the decency to let him have that grace, that relief, that blessing with someone who does care about him," she chided her friend quietly. Beverly started at Deanna for a long time, then felt a tear begin the slow journey down her cheek. "I do love him," she whispered softly. "I know," Deanna answered softly. "I think he knows as well - but knowing isn't enough," she added. "Not for either of you. You have to do something; you have to act. You have to let him know, once and for all!" The doctor shook her head. "I can't. I just can't! Not yet!" "I know, Beverly," Deanna replied sympathetically. "Your marriage to Jack - and his death - had left you afraid of another real relationship. Your parents dying when you were a child, then Wesley disappear - none of that has helped; every real relationship you've ever had has ended with your being horribly hurt - and I can understand why you wouldn't want to risk it again. But can you tell me that the life you've been leading these last few years has been fulfilling? Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life? Alone - but too scared to risk another commitment - and possibly another hurt?" Beverly looked at her friend for a long time - then shook her head. "I don't know, Deanna; I just don't know." Deanna reached out, laying her hand atop her friend's. "Then think about it for a while; give yourself a chance to think about what you have, what you want - and where you want your life to be. And when you decide, I help you find a way to accomplish those plans... Just as you're going to help me with my wedding," she added. Beverly sniffed back a sob, wiped away a tear - then managed another smile - though this one wasn't as forced as the earlier one. "I know Betazed weddings are performed in the nude. I suppose that eliminates the problem of a dress," she laughed. "Presuming we marry on Betazed," Deanna countered. "But I think Will would like to be married on Earth - and it would be easier for all our Starfleet friends to attend if we were there," she added. "If mother insists, maybe we can have a second, smaller ceremony on Betazed later." "On Earth then. You'll definitely need a dress," Beverly said. "White?" "I thought white was the symbolic color for virgins," Deanna countered. "It was, once," Beverly agreed. "Now it's just tradition for a first wedding." "Even so, I'd rather not invite comments," Deanna decided. "And white never has been my best color anyway. Dark amethyst is good." "Talk about inviting comments!" Beverly countered. "What about pink?" The discussion was interrupted momentarily by the arrival of the food - and by the surreptitious removal of the mostly untouched drinks. Hungry, the two set to their meals as they continued their discussion of the minutiae of the wedding, until Beverly sat back, sated, relieved - but, to Deanna's dismay, once again with a troubled look on her face. "I presume that look isn't about what to order for dessert, is it?" she said. "Since we always order chocolate mousse torte, you know it's not," Beverly agreed. "So what is bothering you?" the empath asked. "You're the empath, Deanna," Beverly countered. "Don't you know?" "An empath, Bev - not a telepath. I know it involves the captain - but then again, most of your emotions involve him," she said. "I think that's overstating the case a bit," Beverly grumbled. "Hardly. It's an understatement, if anything," the counselor said. "And he is involved in this, I can tell. So give, Bev; what's bothering you?" The physician considered for a moment, then gave a defeated sigh. "I think... I think it's time to step down, Deanna; I think my emotions are affecting my abilities as CMO." Deanna gaped at her friend, stunned by the revelation. "How? What emotions? And in what way?" Beverly sighed again. "I told you I was in the captain's quarters last night; I didn't explain why," she added. Deanna nodded. "I was wondering about that," she demurred. "Usually Alyssa takes the night shift - but since Biji's out of Sickbay now, I thought I'd cover a few shifts for her so she could spend some nights with her family," Beverly explained. "That was nice of you," Deanna murmured. "Well, I'm certainly not using my nights for anything exciting," the doctor replied. "Better that Alyssa enjoy her life. I'm sorry," she added hastily. "That was rather self-pitying, wasn't it?" she asked. "You're entitled... once in a while," Deanna conceded. "Go on." "We got an emergency call from the captain; Biji had gone into respiratory arrest and he couldn't revive her." "Oh, my god!" Deanna gasped. "What happened? Neither of them mentioned it in their session tonight!" "She didn't get an adequate dosage of one of her drugs last night; after two hours, the effective level in the blood was too low to support the area of her brain that controls respiration. After the captain notified us, we treated her - and she recovered quickly." Deanna nodded, understanding at last how Beverly had come to learn about the change in sleeping arrangements. "So what is troubling you - aside from the obvious?" Deanna asked. "Dee..." Beverly hesitated, then looked at her friend. "You know that what he calls her, don't you?" Deanna nodded. "Damn it, Deanna, that's _your_ nickname - not hers! Doesn't he know that?" she grumbled. To her surprise, however, the empath only smiled. "No, he doesn't. But what you need to remember is that to the captain, I am not, nor have I ever been 'Dee'. I am 'Counselor', Deanna, Commander Troi - all as needs be - but he had never called me by anything that could remotely considered as a familiar name. In fact, if you were to tell him that 'Dee' was my nickname, I will guarantee that he will be completely astounded by the fact. He simply doesn't think of any of us - except maybe you and Will - in those terms. That he finally has found someone he can think of in those terms is one of the healthier changes I've seen in him of late. "So if I don't mind it, neither should you," she continued. "Now you were saying...?" Beverly hesitated, searching out her train of thought once more before continuing. "Err, yes. The meds. At first I thought that the fault was in the captain or Andile - that they had incorrectly used the hypo, and the dosage was insufficient. And of all the drugs, this is the one that an insufficient dose could kill Beej - and we might not catch it. As the dosage falls off, respiration is decreased gradually; oxygenation of the brain tissue is decreased - and brain damage and death may occur before the medical monitor alarm level is reached." She sighed. "The only thing that saved her is the fact that she _was_ sleeping with the captain - and he sensed something was wrong. When he couldn't wake her, he called us - and that's when I found out what was what." "I'm sorry," Deanna said. Beverly shrugged. "It's hard to be unhappy when you realize that it kept Beej alive," she said. "But it was more than a bit of a shock," she conceded. "Not as much of a shock, though when I examined the hypo that had delivered the incorrect dose. As I said, I assumed that it was human error - even though Jean-Luc swore he had used it correctly. When I examined the hypo, however, I discovered a flaw in the device itself. The infusion tip was mis-aligned. No matter how you used it, half of the drug was rerouted into the chamber. Every dose was reduced by fifty per cent - regardless of who used or how it was used," she informed her friend. Deanna's brow furled in horror. "But... how? How did that happen?" "The easy answer is that it was replicated during that brief time when the replicators were failing," Beverly replied. "Something in the program was damaged, and the hypo was incorrectly created. I've checked all the remaining hypos, just to ensure that none of the others were affected - and it appears to be a fluke; a one in a million error." "You don't sound as though you're buying that possibility." Deanna replied. "It's... a possibility," Beverly insisted. "What other options do you have?" "That someone deliberately damaged the device." Deanna's eyes widened. "You think someone's trying to kill Beej?" she whispered, horrified. "I think... I think Andile knows too many things about too many people - and that there are those back in Starfleet who would like to see her not return. Tiron and Zumell aren't the only people to receive communications from home," she reminded the counselor. "Unfortunately, almost everyone has received some communication from home; I'm afraid we're not going to find any help there." "But there couldn't be that many people who could have programmed the replicator to make that critical change - could there?" Deanna countered. "No. And in fact, no hypos have been replicated since we've been in contact with Starfleet," Beverly said. "I checked the log." "So..." "So someone had this planned in advance." "The saboteur?" Deanna gasped. "It could be. I hope it is," she added, then explained as she saw the horrified look in Deanna's eyes. "If it's the saboteur, then we're still dealing with only one person. If not..." "If not, then there are two - at least - still aboard," Deanna realized. "I analyzed the hypo; the molecular breakdown is consistent with the rest of the hypos manufactured on the ship - but when or by whom, I can't tell, except that it was made prior to our computer failure; the replicator logs were erased when the system failed," Beverly concluded. "Someone who knew that at some point, a defective hypo was going to be needed. But how do you know someone's going to need to be treated - unless you already know they are sick?" she asked. "Beverly, do you know what you're saying?" Deanna gasped. "I'm saying that no one - not one person on this crew - knew Biji was ill - dying, in fact, when she first came aboard. Almost no one in Starfleet knew how severe her condition was, and how very likely it was that she would require treatment - except for the people who refused to treat her: her physician at Starfleet Medical - and their direct superior, Adm. Thaddeus Czymszczak. I am now sure that he arranged to put at least one person aboard to watch Andile, and to kill her if necessary. But I still don't know who," she added angrily. "Worse, I'm so uncertain of my place with the captain that I'm reluctant to approach him with what I've found! "Damn it!" she raged. "I'm his CMO! We're supposed to be able to discuss anything concern the welfare of the ship or crew - and yet I can't talk to him about this - or anything! "What do I tell him? That I suspect my own people? One of my nurses, a tech? Alyssa? Greg? Who do I trust? Or do I tell him I don't trust anyone? Do I take over the complete control of Andile's care myself? What about the rest of the crew? And what happens when..." Her voice trailed off again. "When what, Beverly?" Deanna asked, sensing the real source of the woman's troubles underlying her unspoken question. "What happens when what?" she repeated. Despite her prompting, however, Beverly remained silent for a long time, lowering her head to her upraised hands, silent, thinking - and wondering. After a long time, she raised her head and faced her friend. "I need to leave this ship, Deanna," she said softly. "I'm questioning things that I once never would have questioned; questioning what to do - when a proper doctor would have know the correct path all along." "Beverly," Deanna countered gently but firmly, "you are both a good doctor - and a proper one. You'll do what's right - even if that means it takes you a day or two to reach the correct decision," she assured her friend. "Now, what's the question you're worrying over?" Beverly smiled at her friend, though the reassurance seemed less effective than Deanna had hoped. "You're a good friend, Deanna - though you're probably not going to think the same of me after tonight." She drew a long breath. "You know as well as I that, in her present condition, Andile will not be able to resume her role in Starfleet. Yes, they'll find her a position somewhere - at a desk, if she's lucky - but she'll never be able to return to field work. Her condition is just too fragile. "She'd never stand for that, of course," Beverly added. "She'd leave and find herself a place where she could work. In other words, if nothing changes, she'll be gone in a few months - and Jean-Luc and I will find ourselves back where we are now." "Is that what you want?" Deanna asked. "It may be better than the alternative," Beverly objected. "Which is...?" Beverly hesitated again. "I think... I think I can give Andile back her lungs. Real lungs," she added. Deanna gaped her eyes widening. "Beverly! That's wonderful! But... all the problems with Andile's hands... I thought she couldn't accept cloned tissue!' "She can't - or rather, she can't tolerate tissue that's cloned ex vivo. Her immune system is constantly modifying itself, changing in response to God-knows-what - but rendering her resistant to anything from the outside - including her own tissue, if it's been outside her body for more than a few weeks," Beverly explained. "We were barely able to reattach her right arm - and she's still receiving anti-rejection drugs to help the attachment complete the healing process." "Then how...?" "I think it's possible to clone a pair of lungs - within her body," Beverly explained. "Inside her body? Is that possible?!" Deanna murmured. "In theory; reality may be something else altogether. You see, there's only a small portion of the left lung remaining - so there is ample space within the chest cavity for the tissue to expand without severely affecting her remaining lung. I can implant a few cells from each lung and provide an adequate blood to permit growth; medication will enhance the development and natural growth of the tissues. "The problem is that the lungs are not mirror images; the left and right have different shapes - and cloning in vivo limits the amount of manipulation I can do to the cells. In other words, I need cells from both the left and right lungs to properly do the job - and Biji doesn't have that tissue." Deanna shook her head, confused. "Then where are you planning on getting the cells?" "From the only compatible donor on the ship - the captain. He's donated nanites to her in the past; not only are they genetically compatible, but she's already been allo-immunized to his presence." "So he could save her - give her back the life she once had," Deanna replied softly. "Or give her back the life she has now," Beverly countered. "A life - with him. Do I save her - so she can have him? Or do I doom her to a life she'll hate - and try to win him back for myself?" she asked. Deanna raised a brow. "I can't answer that for you, Beverly. That's a question only you can answer." "No it's not," Beverly sighed. "You can't win what isn't yours. The captain would never want to be fought over - and he would never consent to go off with the winner of such a battle. I won't fight for him, Deanna. If he wants Biji, he can have her - with my blessing - and with my help. I'll talk to them both tomorrow about what's involved. If they agree, I'll begin the process in a few days - then, with any luck, the lungs will be mature enough to replace her existing lung and the external device in about a month. If it's successful, then she should be able to return to partial duty in five weeks - and full duty within six months. That is, if she's ready," she added, looking pointedly at her friend. "If you mean psychologically, my best guess is that she will," Deanna replied, quickly determining that this discussion fell under Beverly's purview as Andile and the captain's physician. "We've been making some remarkable progress with the regressive dream recollection. While the nightmares are still horrifying, there are some noteworthy changes." "The axe is gone?" Beverly asked, remembering the constant presence of the blade in Andile's dreams in Sickbay. "No," Deanna conceded, knowing that the first night that the image of the axe faded from the dream would be the first real confirmation of Andile's emotional recovery. "But it is significant that when the axe falls now, Varel is still alive." Beverly tilted her head. "Significant how?" "Until now, Andile encounters the axe only after Varel dies," Deanna explained. "Now, for the first time, she is not seeing herself as ultimately responsible for what happens to the child. Events have been taken out of her control - both literally - and figuratively," she added. "The axe cuts off her hands and Varel's head, symbolically preventing Andile from changing anything that happens from that point forward. Biji is finally beginning to accept that she did not have control of the situation; that, in the grand scheme of things, there was nothing she could do - or have done - to change what happened." "But she was responsible for Varel's death!" Beverly protested softly. "She killed her!" "And you think there is a day - a minute - of her life when she isn't painfully aware of what she did?" Deanna asked, her voice both cool and sympathetic. "She knows what she did, Bev; now she has to come to accept what she didn't do, as well. And for Andile, that's the far harder task. That she's beginning to understand that, even at this basic subconscious level, is a good sign. "But there have been other little advances in her condition in other ways," she added. "Oh?" Deanna smiled. "She was complaining about the captain's idea about going to the holodeck after therapy. She wanted to eat dinner first!" "Andile wanted to eat?" Beverly said with obvious delight. "Not only did she say it - but I was acutely aware of a growing sense of hunger while she was talking about it - and it wasn't just the fact I had missed two meals. But now that I think about it..." She waved at the server again, who hurried over. "Something else?" he asked. "Two chocolate mousse cakes," the Betazoid said promptly. "And two coffees," Beverly added. "Extra dark, extra strong," she added - then smiled at Deanna. "Before I broach the idea to Beej and Jean-Luc, I want to make damned sure it's feasible - and I'm not going to do that on one and a half brandies," she said. The server gave a half bow then cleared the table, leaving the two woman alone once again. "I think you've made the right decision, Beverly," Deanna informed her friend. "There was no decision to make, Deanna," the physician replied, "Except the decision to finally give up on thirty years of hope. But you know what they say," she reminded her friend. "All good things must fade away." Like friendships, like unfulfilled romances - like so many things, she thought. "And I'll let it fade," she added softly. "As long as he's happy." NewMessage: Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.pas.earthlink.net!elnk-nf2-pas!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newshub.sdsu.edu!postnews.google.com!z14g2000cwz.googlegroups.com!not-for-mail From: keroth1701@sbcglobal.net Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW TNG: "Echoes" P/C, D/f (R), Pt 165/? Date: 26 Dec 2004 17:11:22 -0800 Organization: http://groups.google.com Lines: 721 Message-ID: <1104109882.116683.162770@z14g2000cwz.googlegroups.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 68.77.58.242 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" X-Trace: posting.google.com 1104109888 14555 127.0.0.1 (27 Dec 2004 01:11:28 GMT) X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 27 Dec 2004 01:11:28 +0000 (UTC) User-Agent: G2/0.2 Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com Injection-Info: z14g2000cwz.googlegroups.com; posting-host=68.77.58.242; posting-account=9kmkYQwAAADvLaOMFrDa9R8QBO-VtHOe Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative:161704 X-Received-Date: Sun, 26 Dec 2004 17:11:29 PST (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) My apologies if this posts twice. Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 165/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 165 "You don't have to do this," Geordi reminded his friend, the concern in his voice unmistakable. Unmistakable - except to the android standing beside him at one of the consoles in Engineering. "Reviewing the status of all the ship's departments is a part of my duties as operations officer, Geordi," Data reminded his friend, a slightly confused expression on his face. "My presence here, however, is simply a matter of routine," he added, "and is not intended to suggest that Engineering is in any way deficient." Despite himself, Geordi smiled. "I wasn't concerned about that, Data," he assured the android. "We've been stuck here for almost six months; some of the crew might be going a little stir crazy from all the inactivity - but I've enjoyed it. It's the first time in years that I've had the time I wanted to bring the engines up to their maximum efficiency!" he explained joyfully. "I just wish that I could have re-installed Beej's engines..." He stopped himself in mid-sentence and shook his head apologetically. "I'm sorry, Data; I shouldn't have brought up her name." Data gave another confused look to his friend. "I am fully cognizant of Andile's name, Geordi. I do not understand why you are troubled by the use of it." "I," Geordi protested softly, "am not troubled by it, Data; I was concerned that you might be," he explained. "You believe it is inappropriate to use her name?" the android countered, perplexed. "Due to her injuries, she has been removed from the official duty roster indefinitely," he continued. "It would therefore be more inappropriate to refer to her by her rank, though Starfleet regulations do allow such familiar usage until such time as her official status has been formally determined - and that will not occur until after we have returned to Earth. Nonetheless, utilization of the appellation..." Geordi raised a hand to still the torrent of words. "Data..." The android fell silent in mid-explanation, looking at his friend. "Yes, Geordi?" "I wasn't concerned about the correctness of what I was calling her; I was concerned about bringing up her name at all!" Geordi explained. The perplexed expression crossed Data's face again. "I do not understand, Geordi," he said. "While in many cultures the verbalization of an injured or ill comrade's name might be taboo, forbidden lest the evil spirits responsible for the harm done were to be recalled to the individual, I do not believe that is a practice on modern Earth - or, for that matter, your ancestral practices. Or am I mistaken?" he added concernedly. "Data," Geordi said with a frustrated sigh, "I'm not worried about me; I'm concerned for you! You and Beej were... well, you know, an item... and I just thought..." "Ah. You were concerned that being reminded of Andile's presence on the ship - and her importance to the Engineering department and your enjoyment of her presence herein - would arouse negative emotions within me," Data said. "Yeah," Geordi replied. "Something like that," he agreed. Data inclined his head in understanding - and appreciation. "Your concern is noted and appreciated, Geordi - but it is unnecessary. I have discontinued the use of my emotion chip; I am no longer subject to emotions, negative or positive." Geordi looked at skeptically at his friend. "Data, this is me you're talking to," he reminded the android. "You know: your personal engineer? Not to mention," he added with a hint of underlying doubt, "your best friend?" Data met Geordi's questioning gaze with a sincere expression. "You are my best friend, Geordi," he assured the man with gentle sincerity. "Then don't lie to me, Data - and don't lie to yourself. We both know your programs were designed in become integrated into your autonomic functions the longer you used them. You've had your emotion chip running for years; after all this time, what you're feeling is no longer being generated by the chip, Data; those are _your_ emotions - and you can't turn them off any more than I can turn mine off." "That statement would not be entirely accurate, Geordi..." Data began to protest. "All right," the engineer conceded. "You didn't have the chip long enough to experience the full range of emotions for a long enough period for them all to become part of your internal programming, but the basic emotions - happiness, sorrow, hate... love," he added softly, "those emotions have become as much apart of you as... as... your art, your music, your acting," Geordi insisted. "You loved her, Data..." "No," the android countered. "I did not love her." "Data..." Geordi sighed patiently. "I _do_ love her," he corrected her friend. "Indeed, I believe I will always love her." Geordi smiled sympathetically at his friend, relieved at the android's confession of the truth they both knew. "I know, Data," he said gently. "Which is why I thought it might be a bad idea for you to be here today." "You believed my seeing Andile will cause me emotional distress?" "I doubt that just seeing her would do that, Data - but if you insist on doing the review today, in the way you have it laid out, you're going to be doing more than just seeing her; you're going to be working with her. The captain and Dr. Crusher have agreed to let Beej resume a few of her previous duties. Not many of them - I think they're testing her limits - and not for too long; a few hours is all - but she is scheduled to be working where you are planning to be - and when you are there." "Despite a remarkable recovery, her injuries and the subsequent recovery have left her considerably weaker than she was prior to this mission," Data agreed. "Perhaps I should suggest that the lieutenant's return be delayed until her recovery is more complete." "I already tried that, Data," Geordi confessed, hoping to have spared his friend the uncomfortable situation, "but the captain was adamant about her starting today." Data nodded. "I would have to concede that her return, even in the limited capacity she is to undertake, would have to commence at some point - and the captain must have concurred, deciding that there was 'no time like the present'." More likely, Geordi thought with a smile, that Andile had made life for the captain and Dr. Crusher miserable, raising holy hell at being cooped up in her quarters all day long with nothing to do. Or rather, he amended, disapproval growing dark in his thoughts, the captain's quarters. Not that it was his business, he added; who the captain slept with - or didn't sleep with - was none of his concern... but still, he thought, if the captain had to take up with someone, taking up with his second officer's ex was inconsiderate at best - and at worst, damaging - if not flat out destructive - to the morale of the crew. Not that anyone begrudged either of them their emotional and physical needs; after all, both the captain and Beej were well-liked and respected - but to flaunt their relationship so openly, to actually move her into his quarters - and after having only known her for such a short time? It was disturbing, Geordi decided; no, more than disturbing; it was downright disappointing. After all, he thought, there were those aboard who had been holding out hope that the captain and Dr. Crusher would somehow find a way to overcome all their personal problems and get together - and, Geordi conceded to himself, he was one of them. But while hope was indeed a glorious thing, sometimes hope was not, in and of itself, enough; after fifteen years together, it seemed that the relationship was simply not to be. The fact saddened him - but then, he admitted, figuring out his own relationships had never been his strong suit; trying to figure out why other the relationships others had succeeded - or failed - was completely beyond him. And beyond many of them, he added: after all, the captain and Beverly hadn't figured it out, he conceded sadly - and for that matter, neither had Andile and Data. At least, he added, not with each other. Perhaps then, he should be happy that at least the captain and Andile had found something for themselves... together. But how happy could he be when his other friends were so badly hurt? "Okay, so she's starting today - but Dr. Crusher has given me strict instructions that she is not to work more than two hours - and all of it is to be desk work," Geordi said. "You could delay the start of the review until she's done..." "That would require you to work past your duty shift," Data countered. Geordi smiled. "Oh, and _that's_ never happened before," he chuckled. "Our present circumstances would not justify such an expenditure of your free time, Geordi," the android objected. "Fine," the engineer said. "Then why not do Engineering tomorrow? She won't be here tomorrow," he reminded the android. "I have the communications section review to perform tomorrow, Geordi," Data reminded his friend. "And you couldn't just switch the two?" Data frowned. "It would be inappropriate to perform a routine review without first alerting the department head." "Data," Geordi protested, "we're sitting in the middle of nowhere - and we haven't moved an inch for almost six months. If there's a single department that isn't at peak performance, then the section head _should_ be written up, regardless of whether you gave proper advance notice, Data - and you know it as well as I do." "That is not the point, Geordi," Data replied. "No, it's not," Geordi agreed. "The point is: you miss her, you want to see her - and if possible you want to talk with her, interact with her. I understand, Data," Geordi commiserated. "I've felt that way about some women. But it isn't healthy," he added. "For either of you. It didn't work out, Data - now it's time to move on. Let her go, Data," he advised. The android studied his friend, considering the words - then, to Geordi's sorrow, shook his head. "I can not, Geordi. But I will not permit her to be hurt by my actions or my needs. I will therefore perform the review in another section of Engineering until she has gone; I will not attempt any interaction with her, nor will I initiate any conversation... if that is acceptable with you," he added. Geordi sighed. "It's not whether it's acceptable to me, Data; I just don't want you to be hurt anymore than you have been already." "But I have not been hurt, Geordi. Seeing her does not hurt me..." "Data," Geordi interrupted softly, "you do know that she and the captain are... well, you know..." "They are alleged to be involved," Data concluded for him. More than alleged, Geordi protested silently, having seen the two walking slowly through the corridors only a few nights before, engrossed in what could only be described as an intimate conversation - and having seen them enter the captain's quarters - together - a few minutes later - but held his tongue. "Yeah," he said instead. "If that is true, then I am happy for them both." "Really?" Data replied, taken aback once again by how little he understood his friend, even after all their years together. Data looked back at the engineer, then answered, "No. But, perhaps, in time, if I say the words often enough, I will come to believe it." Geordi studied his friend for a long minutes, then lay his hand on the android's shoulder, giving it a consolatory squeeze. "I hope, for your sake, Data, that you're right. So," he continued, "where do you want to start?" Data ran his hands over the console before them, pulling up first his original plan for the day's work. "Based upon your previous comments, Geordi, I presume that you intended on having Andile review the engine upgrades you have completed today." Geordi nodded. "Even for Biji, it's a pretty intense review - and it should effectively kill about two hours." Data looked at his friend skeptically. "She will know immediately if you are simply presenting her with 'make work', Geordi, attempting to occupy her time for the requisite two hours she will be here." "It's not 'make work', Data; I need her to review the changes I've made since she was... hurt... before I can have her look at the efficiency rates we're achieving." "You are concerned about the efficiency rates?" "Not the rates themselves, but about the fractional increase in heat output," Geordi said. "While the specs say we can handle the additional load, I'd like to beef up the exchangers, just in case we run into a situation where we need the ability to handle that extra load." "A wise precaution," Data concurred. "And one I'd like Biji in on; even after all this time, she still know the Enterprise better than anyone aboard," Geordi sighed. "True. I would offer my help as well, but given your previous remarks, I presume you would deem that inadvisable." "You can say that again," Geordi muttered. "All right. Given that Beej will be studying the specs in my office for two hours, what if we were to start your review with the changes we've made in the plasma manifolds, then work out way backward to the dilithium chamber? By the time we're back, Beej will be long gone." Data nodded. "That would seem a logical approach, Geordi. May I review your notes on the manifolds?" he asked. Geordi nodded, then pulled up the file, transferred them to the console, and began to outline the new pathways he had engineered. The two remained gripped in the technical discussion for several minutes - then Geordi found himself looking away from the file, an uncomfortable sensation tickling at the periphery of his sense. A change in the engines? he worried instantly, his every sense on the alert. But the deep throaty thrum of the engines was unchanged, the faint resonance running through the floorboards beneath him and the muffled sense of vibration no different than they had been on any day for the last few months. He scanned the boards displayed before him, searching out a tell-tale that was lit where it should be dark - or dark, he added, where it should be light. But nothing was out of place there either, he realized a moment later. Then what...? The realization came to him a moment later; it wasn't a change in the engines he was sensing - but rather, a change in the engineering team themselves. Normally, Engineering hummed with activity, with the low voices of dozens of people discussing their work, calling out orders and responses, the unavoidable noise of work being performed as equipment was overhauled or repaired or upgraded - all the inescapable noise that was as much a part of Engineering as the warp engines were. But that noise, he realized, was suddenly missing. He turned around, looking out over the people who made his crew, only to find them not only silent - but locked into place as well, their silence a sign of respect - and astonishment. "Oh, come on!" Andile said, her voice now faint and gasping where once it had been soft and mellifluous - but the caustic grin on her face unchanged. "You guys act like you've never had anyone return from the brink of death before!" she goaded them as she walked slowly into the room, the captain following behind her. "On this ship, it should almost be routine! Miracles, my friends, are our stock in trade! We are, after all, engineers - engineers on the finest ship the Federation had ever known! Now, come give your Biji a hug, tell me how much you've missed me - and fill me in on the latest gossip! I've been out of the loop for months!" The tension, which had been almost palpable, suddenly gave way, crashing in on the room's inhabitants as they ruches forward to embrace the delicate engineer, sweeping her away from her guards and into the loving arms of her friends and co-workers. "Beej..." "Tomas and Marnia finally set a date..." "The infuser array..." "I came to read to you, Biji; did you hear me?" "My niece wrote..." "You're so thin... "You look so much better..." "You're so pale..." As Geordi and Data watched, the tiny woman was carried away by the throng, apparently secure and content in their presence - then the two looked back at the captain who was watching the crowd with unmistakable concern. "Give them a few minutes, sir," Geordi protested. "They haven't seen her in months..." Picard raised a hand to silence the protest. "It's all right, Geordi," he reassured the man. "It'll take your people - and the lieutenant - several months to reacquaint themselves to one another - but your people are professionals; I know they'll return to their assigned positions as soon as they realize she is not leaving." Data inclined his head a fraction. "Is that official, sir? Lt. Andile is being returned to duty?" "No," Picard demurred, lowering his voice "The lieutenant's presence here is... therapeutic. She is facing another surgical procedure in the near future, and Counselor Troi felt that returning to duty, even in a limited form, would help the lieutenant reestablish a positive mental attitude." Geordi's forehead wrinkled as a worried expression crossed his face. "A dangerous procedure?" he asked, his voice now equally low as Picard's. Picard raised a brow in silent question. Geordi shook his head. "Captain, Biji's as strong as they come. If Dr. Crusher and Counselor Troi are concerned about her needing a positive mental attitude, then it's because the procedure is dangerous, and they want every advantage they can get." The captain looked at the engineer, then at Data - then gave a reluctant nod. "Dr. Crusher has developed a technique that might - only might!" he emphasized, "permit the cloning of a new set of lungs." "Captain," Data argued quietly, "the doctor may not be aware of this, but Andile has been the subject of multiple attempts to clone her hands; the procedures failed - and caused her great emotional and physical distress. In light of these negative attempts in the past, I do not know if such a plan is wise," he cautioned. "Dr. Crusher is fully aware of the previous cloning attempts and their results, Mr. Data," Picard replied sharply. Startled by the tone, Data raised his brows in surprise, then gave a short nod of acquiescence. "My apologies, Captain; I did not mean to suggest any incompetence on the doctor's part. My concern was simply for the lieutenant." Picard stared at the android - then gave a long sigh. "Of course it is, Data - and if there is an apology, it is on my part. I realize you are concerned for the lieutenant's well-being - as are we all - and," he added gently, "that the gift that you have given her - the creation of a external, functioning lung - has allowed her to regain much of the life she had before. "Dr. Crusher's attempt to clone a new set of lungs for the lieutenant wasn't meant to imply your work was unappreciated or unwelcome," he continued. "Indeed, the fact that you were able to free the lieutenant from her confinement to a Sickbay bed, and allow her much of her previous freedom, was what inspired Dr. Crusher - and Jemat - to pursue this idea, and to attempt to completely restore the lieutenant to the lifestyle she had before the accident." Data gave the captain a peculiar stare. "I am not offended by their attempts, sir - nor by the fact that Andile wishes to resume all of the activities she enjoyed before she was hurt. I just do not wish her to be disappointed once again." Picard nodded, then looked away, studying the woman across the room, not wanting the two officer to see his grim expression. If this doesn't work, Data, he thought grimly, she won't be disappointed: she'll be dead, he thought, reminding himself of Beverly and Jemat's dire warning of all the things that could go wrong in the next few weeks. The implanted tissue could fail to engraft properly, he thought, remembering the litany the two had detailed, triggering an immune response that would prevent any further attempts to transplant cells form his body to hers - but even if it engrafted properly, the blood vessels might fail to develop adequately to permit proper air exchange from blood to tissue. But even if everything went properly at first, the strain of supporting rapidly growing tissue might prove too great a task for her body, damaging or killing Andile in the process. And even if everything went perfectly... Even if it all went according to the plans - and the hopes - of Beverly and Jemat, there would come that final step in which the remaining tissue of Andile's own lungs had to be surgically removed and the new ones transplanted - a procedure that, in other circumstances, would have been relatively routine. But nothing with a woman of Andile's age and condition was routine, they had told them both; if the transplants failed to engraft, the lysing cells would contaminate Andile's system, triggering massive organ failure - and death. Of course, she could always stop the procedure at any point, he reminded himself, and opt to resume the life she currently had - with its certainty of survival - and its limitations. But she wouldn't, he knew, one hand rising to touch the still-tender places on his chest where Beverly had excised several alveoli from each lung a few hours before, preparatory to the implantation that would occur the following day; if Andile had had doubts, she would never have permitted him to endure even that trivial procedure if she had not intended to go through with the entire process. And, Picard added, Beverly would never have given Andile permission to resume even these minimal hours if she didn't feel the psychological boost were essential for the engineer's ultimate survival. No, they were all committed now, he thought: Andile to the return of her life, Beverly to the ultimate well-being of her patient - and he to watching the possible loss of the two women he cared for - Andile to death - and Beverly to the self-recrimination of losing a patient. Not that Beverly hadn't lost patients before - but in those cases, she had been able to maintain a professional dispassion, a distance that kept her from being emotionally tied to them. This time, though, her patient was both friend and enemy - and if the outcome were not a good one, he knew his friend would never cease questioning whether she had somehow sabotaged Andile's treatment, unintentionally hurting - or killing - her, somehow yielding to a subconscious command despite her conscious intentions and efforts. It would end her career, Picard thought; never completely certain of what had happened, she would never again trust herself to care for another person - and her career would end as certainly as Dee's life would. My fault, Picard apologized silently; if anything happens to Dee, the pain you suffer, my dear Beverly, will be my fault entirely. I could stop it, he reminded himself; until those cells are implanted tomorrow, I still have the right to rescind my decision. It would end any chance Dee had at the resumption of her previous life, he reminded himself; worse, it would be a devastating blow to Beverly, another inference that I doubted her abilities, when, in fact, I admire her. She didn't have to do this for Dee, he thought; she could have allowed her to go on as she is, justifying her decisions by claiming that she had restored Andile's abilities to lead a reasonably normal life - and that, by medical standards, that was good enough. But good enough simply wasn't, he reminded himself, pride surging through him at the thought of what his CMO - indeed, his friend - had done; Beverly had gone above and beyond, as she had done so often in the past. No wonder I admire her, he thought. No wonder I love her. Loved, he amended, sobering - then glanced at Andile, the crowd around her thinning - then looked back at his other officers. "You'll see to her work?" he asked Geordi. The engineer nodded. "I'd like her to review the work we've been doing; I'm concerned about changes in the heat exchangers and I'd really like her input on my plans to upgrade them." Picard nodded his approval. "If you'll see to that, then...?" he said, dismissing the engineer. Taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, Geordi stared at Picard - then strode toward the diminishing crowd encircling the diminutive engineer. He watched for several moment, them certain Geordi was out of ear-shot, turned to Data. Before he could address the android, though, Data offered, "I will be performing my routine Engineering review..." Picard stopped him in mid-explanation. "Not today, Mr. Data." Data raised a brow in curiosity. "Sir, I can assure you that my personal feelings for the lieutenant..." "Are not in question," Picard interrupted. "Indeed, those feelings may be beneficial, considering the task I have for you." Despite Data's protestations of not having emotions, there was not doubt that Picard's words caught the android sense of curiosity; he looked at Picard, eyes raised in interest. "Yes, sir?" "Data, we - Dr. Crusher and I - have reason to believe that several attempts have been made on the lieutenant's life in the last few months," he advised the android. Data stiffened. "I was unaware of such events, Captain," he replied. "No one is, Data; we haven't advertised it, letting people believe that they have simply been set backs in her recovery; indeed, each attempt has been planned so that it looks just like that," he admitted. "And you are certain they are not?" Data asked. Picard shook his head. "Certain, no; there is always the possibility, remote as it may seem, that everything has been a stroke of massively bad luck on the lieutenant's part. But..." "But, as the lieutenant would aver, coincidence of such magnitude is usually reserved for poorly written novels." Despite himself, Picard smiled. "Agreed. But if its not coincidence, then it's exceptional planning and execution - and there can not be many people on the ship capable of both." Data nodded. "I understand." "There's more," Picard added. "Whoever had attempted to kill the lieutenant may also be involved in the circumstances that resulted in our being here in the first place; someone attempted to discredit the lieutenant during our investigation of the sabotage, in order to prevent us trusting her knowledge and abilities." "I thought that Ambassador Tillerman - along with Commander James - was responsible for the sabotage," Data opined. "They didn't act alone, Data," Picard reminded him. "For one, they had to have had assistance at a high level in Starfleet: without her promotion, Commander James would not have been in position to join the crew of the Enterprise - and that promotion in rank had to have been instigated by someone in the Admiralty." "That does not suggest another conspirator left aboard," Data pointed out. "No - but neither Jay nor Sandra James were experienced enough to be trusted to execute a plan this detailed without flaw; whoever wanted this mission to fail would have sent along another saboteur, perhaps unknown to those two, just in case things went to hell." Data nodded. "We have encountered continuing computer issues that defy standard engineering solutions - and that suggest a conscious external cause," Data mused. "Solutions that the lieutenant might be able to resolve - if she were alive - and trusted," Picard countered. Data frowned. "I do not understand." "Killing someone is an injudicious way to remove them from the playing field; while effective, it immediately raises questions - and this ship has a reputation for not allowing questions to go unanswered. No; given the circumstances, if someone wanted a crew member's effectiveness nullified without removing them entirely, it would be far more effective to raise doubts as to the trustworthiness and remove then that way," Picard pointed out. "Then you believe the information raised at her interrogation was falsified?" Picard shook his head sorrowfully. "No. The lieutenant herself admitted it was all truthful. But there is no way our computer should have had access to that data; it was top secret, eyes only material, limited to Starfleet Command and the Admiralty." "A computer error, sir? Files transmitted in error?" "Always a possibility, Mr. Data - but for one slight error on our mysterious agent's part: the lieutenant's fingerprints were found on the damaged relay - fingerprints that match her Starfleet records." Data nodded. "Yes, sir - but I still do not understand." "Data," Picard said patiently, "the lieutenant's fingerprints were recorded when she joined Starfleet - but the hands she had at the time she was alleged to have tampered with the relay were surgical implants; the prints she had at that time were not the ones on Starfleet's records. If the lieutenant had handled that relay, the prints would not have matched her records. No; whoever planted that relay took made imprints from the records, not knowing that her hands had been surgically replaced rather than being cloned. "It was an error - one of a very few they made - and one we must capitalize upon if we are to find the saboteur and keep the lieutenant safe," he declared. "Safe? Then you believe her life is still at risk?" Data said. Picard nodded solemnly. "An attempt was made the other night, while she was in... er... my quarters," he said uncomfortably. Data nodded. "Then I will begin my investigation immediately," he replied. "Sotto voce, Data," Picard added hastily. "Do so - but keep it quiet. We haven't a clue who the individual is - and if we let him - or her - know we are looking for them, they might well fade into invisibility once again." Data nodded. "Yes sir," he said, then turned away - only to turn back again a moment later. "Sir?" "Yes, Data?" "I would like you to know that I am not offended by your relationship with the lieutenant; I erred in dissolving the relationship we had, but having done so, I have come to accept that she should continue to develop her personal and intimate relationships with others," he said. "Therefore, while I am disturbed by the attempt made upon Andile's life, I am grateful that she was with you at the time." "Data.." Picard began, "our... relationship... isn't like that. We're..." "Sir," Data interrupted. "I do not require details. Indeed, I would prefer not to know the extent of your involvement with her. All that concerns me is... that she is happy. Now, if you will excuse me...?" Picard nodded, sighing as the android walked away - then looked across the room at the subject of the android's affection. Are you happy? he wondered. Are any of us truly happy? How ironic, he thought; we spend our lives, are careers, trying to ensure the safety of worlds we will never inhabit, to protect the lives of people we will never know, so that they can search out the happiness we are all entitled to - and yet we deny ourselves that very prize. Perhaps Beverly was right, after all; perhaps leaving the Enterprise is what she needs if she is to find her happiness. But there was a time I thought it could be with me, he added wordlessly. He studied the engineers before him, watching as they talked - then turned and left the room. NewMessage: ath: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newsswing.news.prodigy.com!prodigy.net!news.glorb.com!postnews.google.com!z14g2000cwz.googlegroups.com!not-for-mail From: keroth1701@sbcglobal.net Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW TNG: "Echoes" P/C, D/f, Pt 166/? Date: 1 Jan 2005 12:51:52 -0800 Organization: http://groups.google.com Lines: 969 Message-ID: <1104612712.770113.131740@z14g2000cwz.googlegroups.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 68.77.58.242 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable X-Trace: posting.google.com 1104612716 26282 127.0.0.1 (1 Jan 2005 20:51:56 GMT) X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 1 Jan 2005 20:51:56 +0000 (UTC) User-Agent: G2/0.2 Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com Injection-Info: z14g2000cwz.googlegroups.com; posting-host=68.77.58.242; posting-account=9kmkYQwAAADvLaOMFrDa9R8QBO-VtHOe Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative:161793 X-Received-Date: Sat, 01 Jan 2005 12:51:57 PST (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Woo-hoo! Happy New Year! Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 166/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except Andile and a few of the others you're about to meet. I promise I won't make any money from writing this. FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 166 Deanna stirred sleepily, sensing the slight movement from her bed partner, and turned to look at him, sleep and love competing equally in her expression. "You're up early," she whispered sleepily. He smiled at her, at first in apology for having wakened her - and then with a more mischievous grin. "When you're in my bed, Imzadi," he whispered back, "I'm always 'up'," he informed her - then reaching for her hand, led it beneath the blankets so she could verify the fact for herself. "Umm, you are," she purred sleepily yet happily, her eyes closing as she caressed him - then looked back at him, an equally devilish look in her own eyes. "And you're not," she added. Startled, Will opened his half-lidded eyes to met her gaze, instantly worried, his hand suddenly opening to engulf hers as she held him - then frowned. "I'm not... what?" he asked, having found no change in his body's state. "You're not," she murmured, her hand still exploring him, "in your bed," she reminded him. "These are my quarters," she added. Relief fought with frustrated resignation as he looked back at her. "Imzadi," he said warningly, "there are simply some things you should not tease a man about; hydraulic engineers aren't the only ones who have to worry about sudden - and catastrophic - losses of pressure." Deanna laughed softly. "I don't think you have to worry about that quite yet, Will," she reassured him. "But if you're concerned, I'm sure Beverly could take a look..." she began to tease. He cut her off with a kiss, then pulled back and shook his head. "I wasn't worried," he answered. "I believe that if you continue to exercise your muscles, you'll be able to always keep them functioning at top performance." "Top performance?" Deanna repeated, her eyes opening wide, her look crestfallen. "That was 'top performance'?" she asked sadly. Will gaped at her - then, watching as she began to laugh softly, removed her hand from its current location and occupation, pulled it free from the covers, and pinned it to the bed with his own hand. A moment later he had secured her other hand as well - then looked down at her. "You want top performance? I'll show you top performance," he informed her - then lowered his head to her, covering her mouth with his, and began to kiss her, her laughter fading away, quickly replaced with soft moans which disappeared soon after as passionate groans and cries took their place. "Top performance?" he repeated a considerable time later, looking up at Deanna who was now lying happily on top of him. Content, she murmured a soft groan of satiation, too replete with pleasure to manage a more detailed analysis of their love-making. Smiling, Will lifted his head, kissed her thoroughly, then eased her off of him and back to the bed before pushing his way free from the covers. Fifteen minutes later, he stepped from the shower - and sighed in frustration as he realized that, once again, he had no clean clothes. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped back into Deanna's bedroom and moved to the replicator, ordering up a clean uniform. "You know, Imzadi," Deanna said softly as she reached his side, handing him a steaming mug of black coffee, "you could just leave a few uniforms here. It would save time - and who knows when will have a red alert in the middle of the night - and the replicators go down?" she asked... again. Will nodded, agreeing silently with her old argument even as a clean uniform appeared. Taking it, he removed the towel and finished drying himself. "Not that," Deanna added, appreciatively looking over his body as he began to dress, "you wouldn't make quite an impression on the bridge crew if you showed up like that." "There isn't a bridge officer who hasn't had that nightmare," he replied - then gave her an equally appreciative study, enjoying the way her thin dressing gown clung to the curves of her body. "Though in your case, it would be a delicious fantasy," he murmured. She moved to him, meeting him with a passionate kiss - then felt him push her away, gently - and reluctantly. _Imzadi?_ she asked, slightly hurt. Will smiled at her. "Duty," he said. "You're not on for another two hours," she reminded him petulantly. "I know - but I know the captain's going to be on the bridge for only a few minutes this morning before the day's negotiations start - and there are some things I need to review before I meet with him. Important things," he added, moving close to her, pulling her into his arms as he looked down at her. "Oh?" "I've been thinking about this for some time, Imzadi." "About what?" "Your bureau is too small." Deanna raised a brow. "You're going to see the captain about my bureau," she repeated skeptically. "In a way," Will demurred, then pulled away, took her by the hand and led her back to the bed. Sitting down, he pulled her to his side. "You're right; one of these days, there's going to be a crisis on the ship in the middle of the night - and I'm going to need to be on the bridge in a hurry. But... " He hesitated. "Please understand: I love you, Deanna," he prefaced, steeling her for the words to come, "but you have more...stuff... on and in your bureau than any ten men." "You've been in the quarters of ten men?" she teased. He grinned, shaking his head. "You know what I mean - and I'm not complaining. These are your quarters, your space, your possessions; just because I don't have as many things doesn't mean you should - or shouldn't. But you do, and that means there is no space for my clothes, not to mention the other things I would like to have on hand in the morning," he reminded her. "I could clean out some drawers..." she offered. "I wouldn't ask that of you," he countered. "And... it's not the point," he continued. "Then what is the point?" she asked. "Starfleet regs permit married couples additional living space. That would give us room for your things - and mine, without either of us having to give up our possessions. The problem on the Enterprise is that there are no married officer's quarters available, because none of the senior officers are married," he reminded her. "I don't see a solution, then - unless you want to take over one of the unused junior officers quarters," she added - reluctantly, hating the thought of giving up the expansive windows that revealed the vast depths of space beyond. The stars they displayed had become her companions, her night lights - indeed, the marvelous background that outlined Will's form when they made love each night - and morning, and afternoon, she added with a smile - then frowned again. Given a choice, she wouldn't willing give up the stars... except, she added, if that was the choice that had to be made to make a home for herself and Will. "A few months ago, I would have agreed - until I remembered what Geordi did in Sickbay, creating a 'private apartment' for Beej by tearing down some of the interior walls." "But Biji's space was smaller than our quarters," she reminded him. "Yes - but the theory - tearing down an interior wall to add space - is the same." "We both have neighbors," Deanna pointed out. "I don't think they'd want to move," she said. "No, and I wouldn't ask them. But due to the fact we shipped out without a full crew complement, there are several unused spaces in section three; with some work - and the captain's permission - Geordi and his team could enlarge the space so it would be adequate for a newly married couple," he suggested. Deanna fell silent, considering the idea; section three wasn't quite as optimal a location as her quarters - or Will's were, since it was not quite as conveniently located by the ship's main turbolifts... but for that same reason, there were fewer occupants in the adjoining spaces as well. It would be nice, she mused, not to have to check her responses to Will's... attentions. Not that she believed in routinely screaming during the height of their passions - but every now and then... Deanna grinned at her fianc=E9. "Sounds lovely, Will. Absolutely lovely." And once we're ensconced in our new home, free from any possible accidental eavesdroppers, we'll see about that 'top performance', she added silently. Some time later, Will stepped onto the bridge, studied the scene before him - and stopped. There was something... well, he thought, not wrong - but different, with the bridge crew this morning. Usually the last few hours of the night shift were noted by a more casual atmosphere that reflected the reduced number of personnel present and the more intimate relationships that had developed among the tight-knit group. There was nothing untoward in their interactions, Will knew, just a strong sense of camaraderie and fellowships that was difficult - if not impossible - to achieve among the larger group that manned the bridge during the other two shifts of the day. This morning, however, the conversation seemed a little... stilted, a little more subdued - and, Will realized, definitely more limited, the officers restricting themselves to topics directly relating to their work, and even then holding themselves to brief questions and concise answers. Nothing wrong, Will thought - but different, nonetheless. It took only a moment for him to realize the cause. _Ah, ha!_ he thought. _The captain's in his lair_. Of course, he amended instantly, that wasn't a fair simile; the captain was hardly a predator - and the crew were not helpless prey, nor was there even an iota of animal fear perfusing the room. No, the dynamic at work here was simple - and complex at the same time, Will thought: respect. It was interesting, Will mused as he watched the others, even fascinating, how people responded to the captain, wondering if the man were aware of the effect he had on those around him. He must be, Will decided after a moment; after all, people were not promoted to the rank of Starfleet captain without fully understanding the effect they could exert on their crew by their behavior, their demeanor - or in the case of a man like Jean-Luc Picard, his mere presence. Or even his lack of presence, Will added, looking to the closed ready room door. It didn't matter that the man wasn't on the bridge, he thought; the bridge crew knew their captain was nearby - and as such they were going to remain at this level of optimal performance on the least chance that the subject of their admiration might come out of his ready room unannounced. Such behavior wasn't necessary, Will told them wordlessly; the captain didn't require this level of formal adherence to Starfleet protocols - and yet, he added, there was something in Picard's demeanor, in his behavior and personal comportment that suggested that anything less would be, well... something less. It was not the first time Will had made this observation; he had come to understand, long ago, the respect and admiration the captain engendered in those around him - but it did leave him wondering if he would ever be worthy of such veneration - or, he admitted, if he would want it. Not that he didn't want the respect a captain was due, he admitted freely - but would he want his crew like this? Or would he prefer his ship, his crew, to be freer, more relaxed? After all, he thought, the formality that the captain demonstrated as part of his command style might well elicit the same formal behavior in his crew - but it also created a distance, a separation between them that kept the man alone and apart from the very people who cherished his presence. Or, rather, it had, he added; after all, how aloof could the captain appear after moving a lover into his quarters? Not a lover, he countered silently. Deanna had insisted time and again that their relationship was completely platonic, that neither the captain or Andile were emotionally ready to involve themselves with anyone; that their decision to share a living space was made from simply need. Of course, Will added, sex was a simple need... At least, he conceded, it is for me - but for the captain...? No, he thought, shaking his head. Nothing was simple for the captain: not sex, not pleasure - not even relationships. Especially not relationships, Will thought; despite knowing and working with the captain for over fifteen years, despite considering him both mentor and friend, there was still so little he knew about the man - but on the same hand, the captain knew so very little about him as well. Perhaps, though, it was different with Biji; perhaps in her he found someone with whom he could have a different, more intimate relationship; someone who could know all there was to know about him - and in turn, someone he could know equally well. God knew they both deserved something good in their lives. And as for Deanna's insistence that the relationship was not a sexual one, well... it didn't really matter what he thought - and, Will conceded, for the first time that he could remember, the captain seemed unconcerned - well, relatively unconcerned - about what anyone thought. He had made no effort to hide the relationship - but then again, he had made no effort to advertise it either, leaving the gossips among the crew to decide for themselves. And probably for the better, Will decided. There would be some who doubt the innocence of the relationship, attributing an unexpected and previously unknown passionate component to the man's personality, while those who believed in the innocence of the friendship, the simple fact that the captain had opened his life in order to aid one of his crew, one of his friends, revealed depths of compassion that they never suspected the man possessed. But whatever they decided, the captain's image would be changed forever in their minds - changed and enriched, whether the man liked it or not. For the first time in a long time, Will mused, the captain was no longer in total control of the image he wanted presented to his crew; for the first time, a glimpse of the real man threatened to peek out from behind the carefully constructed fa=E7ade he displayed to his crew. Too much work, Will decided; when I have a ship and a crew of my own... A crew of my own, he grinned to himself, laughingly chiding himself for worrying about details that might never matter; if and when he got a ship, the crew would decide for themselves how they would respond to him - and what he did or did not want would play only a very minor part in that decision. For now, he added, his main concern had to be the here and now - starting with the most basic and obvious question: What was the captain doing in his ready room at such an ungodly hour? The most obvious - that he was preparing for the day's negotiations - also seemed the most unlikely; of late, the captain had spent more and more time preparing for the negotiations in his quarters, discussing the issues at hand with Andile. Will nodded to himself, appreciating the idea, remembering how easy it had been to talk with the woman, to listen to her thoughts, opinions, and ideas - and to reevaluate one's own thoughts and intentions in the light of that reflection. But having Andile as a seemingly permanent resident in the captain's quarters - a fact that still rubbed uncomfortably at Will's ideas of what should - and should not - be, why would he have come here, now - unless, of course, something had gone wrong in that situation. Lover's spat? he wondered, then chased off the idea, remembering Deanna's insistence that neither passion nor sex lay at the base of that strange relationship. What then? Certainly not a dangerous turn in Andile's health he added; if Andile had become ill again, the captain would have been at her side in Sickbay, Will decided - then added, as would Data. And since they were both here, he added, glancing at Data who was situated at the science station... then what? he wondered. But a good first officer shouldn't waste his time guessing, he reminded himself after a few moments; it was his job to ferret out the facts as quickly and succinctly as possible, so that he would have options ready for his captain, if and when he needed them. And, he continued, if there were a better course for facts than Data, he could not imagine who it would be. Will turned to the android, observing the being for a moment before speaking. "Find anything, Data?" he asked at last. The android glanced up from his board, clearly surprised - and somewhat worried - by the question. "I beg your pardon, Commander?" "Your research," Will explained, gesturing at the personnel files displayed on the screen. "Your hunt for the saboteur," he added, dropping his voice enough so that only the android could hear him. "Have you found anything? Any one?" Data's face returned to its previously passive, unemotional expression - an expression, Will thought, that was chillingly reminiscent of those Data possessed when they had first met, before he had expanded his research into human emotion - and into his own. It was not an expression he cared for, Will thought to himself; disliking the fact that Data seemed to be regressing in his search for himself - but, he admitted, what he liked or disliked in the android's behaviors was his problem - not Data's. Still, it hurt Will to watch how quickly the man had reverted to his earlier ways - and how much of the fascinating individual he had become had been lost in the process. It had not, however, affected the android's superb work abilities; if there was a person aboard who could ferret out the identity of the saboteur - or saboteurs - it would be Data. But judging from Data's manner, it probably would not be him either. "There is no verifiable data that would suggest one feasible candidate," Data replied. "There are many individuals who fit the time profiles involved, but have no record of having the knowledge required, while others had access to the appropriate information and ways to execute it," he continued, "but have personnel profiles that would suggest such behavior to be antithetical to their innate personalities - or have verifiable alibis that exclude them from consideration," Data concluded blandly. Will nodded, and, despite himself, Data felt the tension in his body ease - a surprising sensation, for the android had not been aware of the anxiety he was carrying. Riker's question had caught the android by surprise; not that he had been unaware of the first officer's presence on the bridge, but rather by what he mistook - if only for an instant - as a question into the investigation of Andile's possible assassin - and inquiry, he knew, that only the captain and he were aware was being performed. Fortunately the question Will asked - and the one that Data was researching - happened to have very similar, if disappointing answers. Whoever the saboteur was, he was trained well enough to be able to cover his actions beyond even Data's abilities to trace, leaving him - or her - just as unknown, just as elusive, as when Data had begun this inquiry, almost one week before. "Have you considered the possibility of multiple operatives, working in tandem, one alibiing the other?" Will pressed. "I have considered that possibility - and discarded it. The greater the number of conspirators, the greater the chance of one being revealed - and in turn, reveling the others. This is the reason that Cmdr. James was murdered; she was the weakest link, the one most vulnerable to revealing the others. Ambassador Tillerman was also removed from the scene for what, I believe, were similar circumstances; he was not of sufficient character to have withstood interrogation for long, given the possible outcomes he faced. Whoever the originator of this plan was, he - or she - must have understood the nature of the people involved, and provided methods to ensure their removal, one way or the other. To not have removed this last individual bespeaks the plan's creator inherent faith in the ability of this person to remain inviolate. "To have such reliance in one person is credible, but there must be a strong foundation of prior knowledge and history sustaining the confidence; to have such faith in two or more individuals would statistically unlikely. "No, Commander, I believe that there is only one saboteur left aboard - and unless he makes an egregious error in his future actions, I do not believe we will be able to determine his presence," Data concluded. Will frowned at the pronouncement, not just because of the unexpected disappointing answer, but equally so by Data's countenance; if Data hadn't stated that he had turned off his emotion chip, then Will would have sworn the android was, unbelievable as it seemed, angry. Indeed, the being seemed absolutely furious. Understandingly, Will clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Data; if you couldn't find him, then we have to consider the possibility that our saboteur has had special training in avoiding detection." Data looked at the commander knowingly. "I, too, have reached the same conclusion, sir; the saboteur was trained and implanted by Section 31." Will nodded solemnly. "We need to tell the captain," he said. "The captain is meeting with Jemat," Data informed the first officer. "Jemat?" Will echoed. "At this hour? I thought they usually met in the afternoons and evenings." "You are correct, sir. However, of late the negotiations have been taking more time as the captain and the Cardassian and Romulan ambassadors attempt to finalize certain key points - and of late, the captain has declined to conduct any meetings in the evening," Data informed him. "No meetings at night?" Will murmured in disbelief. "He has stated that his evenings would now be reserved for his personal use," Data informed him. Will shook his head. "I didn't hear anything about this." "Indeed? It is in the Federation code of conduct, Commander," Data replied. " 'Maintaining proper mental and physical health is a requirement of all Starfleet officers and crew. Proper observation and utilization of non-duty hours for personal enjoyment, in conformity with the Starfleet's standards of behavior, is expected of all Starfleet members.' Technically, the captain has been out of compliance with this requirement for many years," Data added. "Yes, but..." Will began to object - then stopped. What am I complaining about? He asked himself. I've told the captain time and again that he needed to take more of his time - but... But it was time to be with Andile, he thought - and that, he added, was something with which he was not comfortable. Not yet. Maybe never, he added. Not that I don't like Beej, he protested; I do! She's smart, and witty, and charming and bright... but there is so much about her that we don't know. So much mystery, so much danger that could do harm to the captain, his reputation, his career... The captain would be better off spending his time with someone who was not only his intellectual equal, but who wouldn't pose a threat to him... Someone like Beverly. He sighed. But that decision isn't mine to make, Will admitted; the ways of our hearts aren't always subject to the will of our minds - and never to the wills of those around us. Still... "She is a good person, Commander," Data said softly. Startled, Will looked at Data - and realized that his face must have shown his disapproval of the situation. "I'm sorry?" he asked. "Andile," Data clarified. "She is a good person. Her relationship with the captain, will, I believe, prove beneficial for them both, as it was for me," he added softly. "Data, how can you say that?" Will gaped. "She hurt you so badly you've opted to turn off your emotions altogether!" "Commander," Data answered quietly, "I chose to turn off my emotions not because I was injured, but because I realized that I have experienced those feelings to the 'height and breadth my soul can reach'. I saw no point in continuing the pursuit of those feelings, as they can never transcend what I felt with her. I am... satisfied," he concluded. "My only desire now is that Andile find the same level of emotional satiety that I have." And, he added with a grim determination that belied his denial of emotions, I will not permit anyone to deny her the opportunity to find it. To that end, Data touched his commbadge. "Data to Captain Picard," he said quietly. Picard answered a moment later. "Picard here. What is it, Mr. Data?" "Sir, Cmdr. Riker and I have been reviewing my findings concerning the assignment you gave me; we may have derived some data that would interest you." "Cmdr. Riker is with you?" Picard echoed, obviously surprised - and, if Will could be certain of the inflection in his tone, pleased. "Yes, sir." "Then would you please both join me in my ready room?" he asked. "Yes, sir," Data said, then touched his commbadge to break the connection. "Commander?" he said, gesturing for the senior officer to lead the way. The ready room door opened as they approached, and, entering the room, they watched as Picard rose from the couch where he and Jemat had been seated, two partially emptied tea cups arranged on the table, a small container of the spicy salt mixture that the Breen enjoyed set between the cups. No Earl Grey? Will thought, surprised for the second time that morning by the changes in the captain. Jemat followed the man's gaze, then smiled at the first officer. "Worry not, Commander," he said, rising to his feet, extending a hand in the ritual human greeting. "I have not corrupted your captain. Earl Grey will always be his first choice; he drinks _ehr'laq_ and _vors_ out of courtesy to politeness to a visitor." Will took the proferred hand, shaking it perfunctorily. "Of course, sir," he said - then looked at Picard. "Good morning, captain." "Good morning, Will. Data said you had information?" Will's eyes widened slightly at the question, then darted to where Jemat sat before returning to Picard. "Perhaps you would prefer to receive this information in private?" Picard followed Will's eyes, then shook his head. "Jemat - and the Breen - have a vested interest in this as well as we do, Will. While the original plans to capture the Enterprise were prepared with the Breen's cooperation, we have good reason to believe that they, too, have been manipulated. We have discussed the issue, and I believe that only an open and completely honest approach will allow both parties to move toward a peaceful settlement." "In return," Jemat volunteered, "we are prepared to open our records to your people, so that the identities of those involved from your side will become a matter of record - though how you choose to proceed will be up to you," he added. Will gave the Breen a puzzled look. "I don't understand," he admitted. Picard spoke before the first officer could say anything. "Politics, Will," he said - then gestured at the other chairs arranged around the table. "Please, sit down, gentlemen." The two took the indicated seats, Will pitching forward, elbows on knees in rapt interest while Data sat in perfect, mechanical attention. For a moment, pity filled Picard's heart at the choice his friend had made - but command often had no place for such emotions, he reminded himself. Hardening his heart against Data's pain, he took his own place back on the couch. "Jemat has explained to me that the internal policies and practices of his people are such that he can not - and will not - act to punish Ambassador Tillerman for his actions in the events leading to our current situation, nor will he permit the ambassador to return to Federation space, lest he become subject to criminal charges." "He is a treasoner and responsible for the murders of four officers - no to mention what he did to Beej!" Will protested. "Will," Picard sighed, "he acted on behalf of at least one member of the Admiralty; that dismisses the charge of treason. As for the murders, there is only hearsay evidence to connect the actions of Sandra James to those of Ambassador Tillerman. It wouldn't stand up in court. And what happened to the lieutenant was accidental," he added grimly. "The only charge that is supportable is the Jay attempted to kill me - and a charge of attempted murder is not sufficient to risk the negotiations between our two people," he informed the others. "You said Tillerman was acting on behalf of the Admiralty," Will said. "If that was the case, why all this?" he asked. "Not the Admiralty as a whole, Will," Picard said. "Ambassador Tillerman approached us on behalf of one member of the Admiralty, Commander," Jemat explained. "The plan that was developed was, in essence, an offer of your ship, your people, as a gift to the Breen, to study and utilize as we chose." "As you chose," Will growled. "Vivisection, torture..." "Commander," Jemat countered tolerantly, "our practices and policies are abhorrent to you - but in many ways, yours are abhorrent to us. Your Prime Directive prohibits you from acting to save the lives of cultures less developed than yours; your inaction has cost the lives of millions - perhaps billions - of people when in fact, you had the ability to save many of them. We, on the other hand, have used our research - which we freely admit cost the lives of thousands of beings throughout the last three hundred thousand years - to expand the numbers of cultures on worlds throughout the galaxy, to populate planets that were otherwise uninhabited. Millions, perhaps billions, now live that would not have otherwise. Which one of us then is the greater villain?" he asked. Will opened his mouth to argue - then fell silent. As much as he disapproved the Breen's actions, he was, in many ways, no more fond of those of his own government. Jemat seemed to appreciate the difficulty the man was facing; he nodded at the man sympathetically. "We each try to find the best answers, Commander - but no one answer is ever completely correct, not when confronting the complexity of existence. We accept that we are inadequate to the task, Commander - but we also accept that we must continue to try." "I don't believe that that is a sufficient response, _outo_," Will answered at last. "Which is," Jemat countered, "why we are out here, rather than on our home worlds, doing nothing. We must continue to try, Commander; it is in the very nature of both our species. "Nonetheless, I believe that our presence here, at this place and in this time - for both your people and mine - was manipulated, not for the peaceful benefit of both our peoples, but rather for the gain of specific individual within your society." Will gave Jemat a troubled look. "Will," Picard interjected, "I think - and Jemat agrees - that Admiral Czymszczak is behind what's happened here. He was the one person who was in position to ensure that the Enterprise - with the new prototype engines - was the ship assigned to this mission." "And," Will added glancing at Data, "to oversee the who was recalled to the ship - and who was not." "If the captain's conjecture is correct, it would explain what we have found - but the implications are profound." "Number One?" Picard interrupted, confused by the remarks of the two. "Captain," Will said, "Data believes the reason we have not been able to identify the saboteur is because he - or she - has been trained to avoid such detection." Picard raised a brow. "You're thinking Section 31?" he asked. Will nodded. "Section 31?" Jemat interrupted. "A branch - a secret branch - of the Federation developed to train and implant individuals to implement covert - and in many cases, unsanctioned - operations," Picard explained. "And you believe this Section 31 is responsible for placing a saboteur on your ship?" the _outo_ pressed. Data spoke. "Our knowledge of Section 31 is limited, sir. But this operation had been poorly run - a characteristic unlike those Section 31 operations of which we have learned. No, sir, it is far more likely that while the operative was trained by Section 31, he or she was then co-opted by Admiral Czymszczak and instructed to act only as need be should the situation arise. This has been borne out by the limited number of occasions on which the individual has acted since Ambassador Tillerman had left the ship," Data added. "Occasions?" Jemat asked, perplexed. "The continuing issues with the computer recording systems, sir," Data said, Will nodding in agreement. "They have been determined to be directly linked to a number of devices that have been monitoring internal ship's communications." "You believe your saboteur is monitoring your internal communications?" Jemat said. Picard nodded. "Trying to learn what we know - or think we know," he said. "And you have disabled these devices?" "At first, yes," Picard said. "But as we found them, we also found the hiding places were more and more difficult to locate. Rather than force him to place them in such a location where we could not find them, we have opted to announce the system repaired, so he will not attempt to resort to more sophisticated hiding locations - and so that we can know what is being overheard. Negotiations and other important meetings are being held in areas that we have secured - such as this room - and the records maintained outside the main database." Jemat nodded. "Quite wise; never let the hunter know he had become the hunted," he murmured. "Something like that," Will agreed. "You said 'occasions'," Jemat continued. "Have there been other similar events?" Picard hesitated, drawing in a sharp breath before looking at the others - then nodded. "Yes. There have been several attempts on Lt. Andile's life since the accident..." Will's mouth dropped in horrified astonishment, but it was the Breen who responded first. "What?!" Jemat exploded, jumping to his feet. "Captain Picard, this is completely unacceptable! She can not remain aboard this ship! I insist that you make arrangements for her immediate transportation to our mothership where she can be adequately protected!" Picard raised a hand, trying to calm the normally implacable alien. "Jemat..." "Her life can not be placed at such risk, Captain! She is too important, too critical to the survival of my people..." "Jemat!" Picard snapped. "Calm down. She is not currently at risk - and now that we are aware of the potential risk, we have taken all precautions possible for her safety." "It is nonetheless completely unacceptable!" "I'm sorry, Jemat, but she is a Starfleet officer, and, as long as I am her superior officer, it is my responsibility to see to her safety. I can not do that if she is on your ship; indeed, if she were to leave the ship at this point, I would be negligent in my duties, as neither your ship nor your people have the technology needed to perform the medical procedures she will need during the next few weeks." "Then you will send you Chief Medical Officer..." "Jemat," Picard replied as calmly as he could, "Beverly is staying here; the lieutenant is staying here - for now," he added. "I will see to it that she is safe." "How?" the _outo_ grumbled. "The operative has to move cautiously; he can not move openly without revealing himself - and his orders on this must be clear, as each attempt on the lieutenant's life had been done with great subtlety and tremendous care. Those events in the lieutenant's life that are planned - her therapies, her treatments, are being performed by officers I can trust; the other events in her life are being kept random, so that no planning can take place. We hope that in doing so, we can keep the saboteur off guard - and unable to act." "And if you are wrong?" Jemat pressed. "Risk is an inherent part of life in Starfleet, Jemat," Picard said quietly. "The lieutenant knew that when she joined - and has maintained an understanding of that necessity throughout her career." _But she is no longer just a member of Starfleet_, Jemat reminded him wordlessly. _She is the savior of my people_. _So you believe - but your belief precludes telling her_, Picard reminded the _outo_. _She can not change the life path she has chosen for us,_ Jemat conceded wearily, then spoke aloud. "Care for her, Captain; watch over her." "As I watch over all my people, Jemat," Picard agreed - then glanced at Data, who nodded solemnly. "We will protect her, Jemat," the android agreed. "That having been said, Mr. Data, would you please make arrangements for the lieutenant to be escorted to Sickbay for her physical therapy this morning?" he asked. "Please extend my apologies to her, and let her know that I will join her this evening as arranged." "Yes, sir," Data said. "Captain, may I have your permission to join Cmdr. Data? It has been some time since I have seen the lieutenant - and I would like to see the extent of her progress," he added, ever the physician. Will gave Picard a wary look, but the captain ignored it. "Of course, Jemat." The alien _outo_ rose to his feet, moving to Data's side and exiting the room with the android, leaving Picard to face his first officer. "You trust him?" Will asking disbelievingly. "Will, Jemat would do anything to protect the lieutenant," Picard replied calmly. "So that he can get her back to his ship, it sounds like," Will growled. "What the hell was that nonsense about her being critical to the survival of the Breen people?" "A superstition, Will," he obfuscated quickly. "Jemat believes the lieutenant meets certain criteria from an old story - but that belief ensures that neither he nor any of his people would act against her." Will studied the man for a moment, understanding at once that he was not hearing the full story - but knowing that there were things he was not always able to tell his first officer. Including the fact that there had been attempts on Andile's life. A year - or maybe five years - ago, the realization would have struck at Will's heart, leaving him with a vague feeling of not being fully trusted by his superior officer. Time and experience, however, had taught him otherwise; that trust and faith had only a small amount to do with the harsh realities of command. A captain did what a captain had to do, he knew. It had been a hard lesson, Will remembered - but an important - as had they all. Picard studied the man standing before him, thinking thoughts along the same line - then rose to his feet, moved to his desk and retrieved a padd. "It's odd," he continued, "that a race so technologically advanced would also have such strong religious and superstitious beliefs. It would be interesting for a Starfleet officer to spend time aboard one of their vessels, coming to understand their ways," he said. Will grinned. "You should suggest to Jemat that the Breen host an officer exchange program. I wouldn't say our exchange with the Klingons was entirely successful - but we did manage to learn quite a bit from one another, albeit painfully" he added, rubbing his jaw. Picard grinned. "I was thinking something along the same lines - though I hope it doesn't come to blows this time around." Will's eyes widened in excitement. "You mean there is another exchange program in the works?" Picard nodded. "I received official approval yesterday; Jemat agreed to meet with me this morning so that I could relate Starfleet's concerns and requirements - but in general, both the Breen and the Federation feel that an exchange would be an essential step in the negotiation process. After the program concludes, then both sides can operate with at least a fundamental understanding of the other side." "Captain," Will interjected, "this may be premature, but..." "You'd like to volunteer for the program - correct?" Riker nodded. "Yes, sir." "I thought you'd say that - and in fact, it's one of the reasons I was in contact with Starfleet so quickly; you were my first choice for the program." Will smiled - then felt the smile fade as Picard's use of the past tense sank in. " "Were", Captain?" "Yes, 'were', Will. Despite my recommendations, Starfleet Command has turned down my request to send you on the mission," Picard responded, though without much regret in his voice. "I don't understand," Will said. "It would not be appropriate, Will," Picard continued. "Appropriate?" "Yes," Picard replied, trying hard not to smile. "As a rule, Will, Starfleet Command does not send captains on exchange missions." Will stared at the man, confused - then shook his head. "I don't understand," he repeated. "The communications packet included Starfleet's approval of the mission, Will - but it also included this." He handed Will the padd in his hand. Will stared at the document as Picard continued to speak. "Captain Gahan of the Titan has tendered his resignation, Will - and Starfleet is offering you the center seat." Jean-Luc Picard smiled openly at the stunned man standing before him - and extended a hand. "I say this with far more pride than I have a right to, Will - but, congratulations, Captain Riker." NewMessage: Path: newsspool1.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newscon02.news.prodigy.com!prodigy.net!news.glorb.com!postnews.google.com!z14g2000cwz.googlegroups.com!not-for-mail From: keroth1701@sbcglobal.net Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW TNG: Echoes, P/C, D/f (R) Pt 167/? Date: 16 Jan 2005 11:00:15 -0800 Organization: http://groups.google.com Lines: 1116 Message-ID: <1105902015.463450.256520@z14g2000cwz.googlegroups.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 68.248.253.221 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" X-Trace: posting.google.com 1105902020 15699 127.0.0.1 (16 Jan 2005 19:00:20 GMT) X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 16 Jan 2005 19:00:20 +0000 (UTC) User-Agent: G2/0.2 Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com Injection-Info: z14g2000cwz.googlegroups.com; posting-host=68.248.253.221; posting-account=9kmkYQwAAADvLaOMFrDa9R8QBO-VtHOe Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative:161951 X-Received-Date: Sun, 16 Jan 2005 11:00:20 PST (newsspool1.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 167/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except Andile and a few of the others you're about to meet. I promise I won't make any money from writing this. FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 167 Dixon Hill grabbed the petite archaeologist's hand, pulling her behind him as he ran through the dark and foggy backstreets of a chilly San Francisco, the glint of the streetlights barely able to penetrate the murky air to reach the rain-slicked sidewalk beneath them. "Down here," Dixon whispered, suddenly turning into the narrow alleyway. "This alley goes through to the other side of the building," he began to explain - then stopped short as the solid brick wall loomed before the two. "I must have miscounted when we were running," he confessed, chagrined. "Explain later," the archaeologist, Elin Solderholm, gasped. "For now, let's just get the hell out of here before they catch up with us!" She turned, this time pulling Hill behind her as she started back toward the street - then stopped as the clatter of running feet hurried by the alley entrance - then slowed, stopped - and began to return. "Fuck!" the archaeologist muttered, then looked at Hill. "Any ideas?" she asked him. "Hope they pass us by," he whispered back. She gave him a look of pure astonishment. "How much am I paying you?" "Not enough, honey," he countered in a rough whisper. "Remind me to raise my rates. Now quiet; whoever was chasing us might go back to the street if they decide were not down here." "That's your best suggestion?" she asked incredulously. "For the moment, I don't see that we have much choice," he replied, then turned his attention from the woman to the surrounding environment. Damn! he cursed to himself. Of all the alleys in San Francisco, he had managed to get himself trapped in one with no other outlet, no fire escapes - not even a recessed doorway in which they could hide themselves! There were a few garbage cans scattered about the far end of the passage - but to hide there would be almost as obvious as remaining where they were, Dixon thought, their forms outlined in the fog by the harsh glare of the single bulb that shone from over one of the doors in the alleyway. As if reading his thought, the woman muttered, "At least we can do something about that. Give me your gun," she ordered. Dixon raised a brow. "I beg your pardon?" "Your gun!" she hissed. "Hand it over!" Startled, Dixon started to open his overcoat, but apparently he moved too slowly for the archaeologist's needs; she turned, ripped open his coat, slid a delicate hand under his suit coat and pulled the gun from his shoulder holster. Crouching slightly to brace herself, she aimed the gun... "Don't!" Dixon snarled. "They'll hear it." She nodded. "Yes - but it's an alleyway, Mr. Hill - and it's foggy. The sound is going to ricochet off every surface for a half block - and with all the fog, they won't be able to focus on a location for the sound." "Unless they're standing at the alley's entrance, or see the light go out," he countered. "You pays your money, Mr. Hill; you takes your chances," she replied, crouching to target the light once again - then gave a grunt of disgust. "Damned skirt," she muttered, then grabbing the fabric, hiked up the silver-grey pencil-slim skirt to mid thigh, sank into the crouch and sighted the light once again. Damned good shot, Dixon thought as the light went out, followed by the faint tinkling of broken glass hitting the pavement as absolute blackness surrounded them. Damned good legs, too, he added, the memory of the slim but well-curved and well-muscled limbs frozen in his mind as the last thing he had seen before darkness had surrounded them - that, he conceded, and a flash of the top of the silk stocking and the lacy garter belt that held the stocking. "Keep your eyes where they belong, Mr. Hill," she whispered coldly. "There are five bullets left in this gun, and I would hate to waste one on you when we may need them later." Startled, unaware that he had been caught staring at her legs, he looked up hurriedly, grateful that the sudden darkness hid the flush of embarrassment that reddened his face - but he was not about to let her know she had left him flustered. "Shh," he hissed sharply. "After that shot, they're going to know we're still close." He held out his hand. "Give me my gun," he ordered. She expertly flipped the gun around, then held it out, proffering it to him butt first. A smooth maneuver, Hill thought; she had handled her share of weapons, he realized, taking the weapon back. Holding it before him, her reached back, took her hand, and cautiously began to lead her toward the entrance to the alley. If we're lucky, he thought, we might just be able to sneak past whoever was searching for the archaeologist. Luck, however, was not Dixon Hill's string suit; if it was, he admitted, he wouldn't be squeaking by, barely managing to make ends meet from case to case... and sometimes not even managing that. It had been months since his last case; Madeline, his secretary, had been forced to find another position, what few meals he had had of late had been through the generous invitations of his friend, Detective Bell and his wife - and he was months behind in his rent on both his apartment and his office; if it hadn't been for Erin Solderholm with her ridiculous story of someone trying to kill her - and her very healthy retainer - he would have been out on the streets days ago. If he could just stretch this case over a few weeks, he might well be able to get back on his feet again; hell, Dix thought, I might even be able to pay off my bar bill at Mike's. He glanced at the tiny woman trailing behind him - and sighed. There was no doubt in his mind that he could stretch this out, collecting week upon week of retainers from the woman, slowly reestablishing his financial backing while playing her along, pretending he believed her story... but desperate or not, there were some things he could not, would not, do. And slowly taking her money under false pretenses was one of them. No, he decided; as soon as we're out of this alley, I'm taking her back to my office and getting the real story. He looked back at her again, making out her shapely figure even in the gloom of the misty night, and shook his head. Probably a former lover, he decided, someone who couldn't accept that the relationship was over. Dixon decided he could understand that; Elin Solderholm was not only damned good looking, but she was intelligent and witty as well. Hard for any man to give that up, he thought; hard to give up what probably went along with it, he added, remembering the feel of her hand reaching under his suit coat, brushing against his chest as she retrieved his gun. For a moment, he regretted that he didn't keep his gun tucked in the front waistband of his trousers. It was a stupid place to keep one's gun, of course, rife with danger - but then again... "In your dreams, Mr. Hill," she whispered, glaring. "Quiet," he whispered sharply - then stopped short. Caught by surprise, the archaeologist slammed into the detective, giving an involuntary exhalation as she fell to the ground. "Hill!" a voice barked from the dark murk of the street, alerted by the unexpected noise. There was a patter of hurried footsteps as people raced to the alley entrance. "I know you're in there! Send the broad out, and you can go, scot free. I've got nothing against you; send her out and we're gone. Deal?" Erin tugged on Hill's trouser leg, causing him to look down. "He's lying, Mr. Hill. He can't let you live; you'll talk to the cops - and he won't be able to get out of the country!" she hissed. Hill looked down at the woman, considering - then called out, "What guarantee do I have that I can trust you?" he asked - though the question was directed at the woman as well as at the unknown voice. For a moment, there was silence, then the voice answered, "None - but I don't see that you have much choice, now do you, Hill?" "Not really," Dixon agreed, still looking down at the woman. "Don't trust him!" Erin hissed once again. "I don't - but there's three of them - and I'm betting they're armed," Hill whispered back. "So are we," she pointed out. "One gun, five bullets," he countered. "That was a hell of a shot you made, taking out the light - but can you guarantee you can get all three - in this muck, in the dark - and with them moving?" She glanced at the opening to the alley, now completely lost in the fog - and shook her head. "No. Not from here," she admitted. "Then we have three options," he informed her quietly. "One, we do as he says..." "He'll kill you - and once he gets what he wants from me, he'll kill me, too," she objected. Hill raised a skeptical brow, but said nothing. "Two, we try to bluff our way out of here..." He let his voice trail off. "And three?" she asked. "You tell me the truth, and I try to negotiate out way out of this," he said. She glared at him indignantly. "I did tell you the truth." "Yes," Hill replied sarcastically. "That your uncle found a treasure, and these people are after you because you have the clue as to where's it's hidden." "He did - and I do!" she snapped back. "And Big Tony is after that clue." "Yes! But..." A shot rang out, echoing noisily down the narrow passage. "Time's up, Hill! Send the dame out..." "Gods, I hate that word!" she snapped, jumping to her feet, grabbing the gun from Hill's hand and striding furiously down the alley. "You want this 'dame', Big Tony? You got me!" she called out angrily, the gun held before her - and began to fire as she walked. "Damn it!" Dixon swore. She was going to get herself killed - and me along with her, he thought. She was firing blindly, he thought - but as the sound of additional gunshots filled the alley, he realized that Big Tony was also firing into the dark, as uncertain of their location as they were of his. But three of his men shooting meant three times the chances of hitting one of them - and they were shooting into an enclosed passage, meaning there was every chance that those bullets would ricochet off the walls, increasing the chances that one - or both - of them would be hit. Damn it, he thought, you hired me to protect you; how was I to guess I'd end up protecting you from yourself?! But he had accepted her money, he reminded himself - and he had accepted the job. "Damn it," he muttered - then leapt after her, tackling her to the ground even as shots echoed around them. "Stay down!" he hissed. "He called me a dame!" "You're going to get yourself killed for a word?" "I'm a fucking professor!" "You're about to be a dead professor!" "Not quite yet, Mr. Hill," the voice boomed from behind them, the bulk of Big Tony Maggiano pushing aside the wisps of fog as he carefully approached the two, his gun at the ready - and closely followed by two goons, equally well armed. "There's some information that the lady... excuse me, the professor," he corrected himself, "owes me. Now get up," he said. Dixon looked over his shoulder at the man and his weapon, then looked back at Elin, then glanced down at the where their bodies pressed together, the gun still clutched in her hand - and hidden from Big Tony's sight. She smiled - then mouthed the word, 'three'. Damn it! he swore; she planned this! Well, he amended, not planned, per se - but she had certainly had manipulated the circumstances to her advantage, using Big Tony - and me! he realized with a flash of anger - to get her into position where she could take out all three of their attackers with reasonable certainty of success. Whether she had realized that she might have gotten killed - or gotten him killed - he didn't know - but for the first time, he began to realize how seriously she considered the situation. It also, he added, told him of precisely how intelligent and capable she was. Maybe, Hill conceded, her story, ridiculous as it sounded, was true. And maybe, he added, if they managed to get out of here alive, she would tell him the rest of the tale. He decided he was looking forward to that - and perhaps more. "Hands up," Tony said. Providing, of course, that they made it out of the alley alive, Dixon moved his hands slowly to either side of Elin's body, opening them to show that they were empty. "Now get on your knees," Tony ordered, adding, "slowly." Dixon placed his hands on either side of the woman, then gently pulled back to his knees, keeping the woman - and the gun - concealed from the gangster. "Now stand up," the gangster ordered. Dixon looked at Elin; the moment he stood, the gun would be revealed - and he would be dead. Perhaps they would both die, he added, suspecting that might be a better result for the archaeologist than being captured by the big man. He had no idea what Big Tony would do to a woman to get information he wanted - though, considering the woman's good looks, he could hazard a few guesses - but he had seen what was left of the few men Big Tony had questioned. That was, he thought, if they had been men, he added; there hadn't been much left to identify when Big Tony had finished with them. She must have had a similar thought, for he saw her grip tighten around the gun. "Get up, Hill!" Tony repeated. Dixon looked at Elin - then rolled to one side as three shots rang out in the alley. He continued his roll until he was back on his feet - and stared at the three fallen bodies. "Good shooting," he gulped. Being a hard-boiled detective was one thing - but seeing three men shot down in relatively cold blood was still a little hard to take - especially when the shooter was a tiny, fragile-looking woman. A very surprised, fragile-looking woman, he added, seeing the stunned expression on her face. She looked down at the gun, still leveled at where Big Tony had been standing - then looked back at him. "But... I didn't fire!" she managed. Dixon stared at her - then looked back at the three fallen men, and saw the neat bullet holes in their backs, even as the sound of car tires squealed off in the distance. "Seems like you've got a guardian angel," he muttered, still slightly stunned by the realization they were both alive. "Guardian devil is more like it," she countered, pushing herself to her feet as the sound of police sirens began to draw close. "Come on, I'll tell you about it while we're getting the hell out of here." She grabbed his hand, pulled him past the dead bodies, and back into the mist of the San Francisco night. Twenty minutes later, they reached Hill's office in the ramshackle building - all that he could afford on the income of a private detective who still possessed some semblance of professional scruples. Dixon led the archaeologist up the staircase, then, reaching the second floor, unlocked the door, led her past the unused secretary's desk, hoping that in the dim light that filtered in from the hall that she didn't notice the dust that lay thickly settled over most of the furniture I should get someone in to clean the place, he reminded himself - as though I had money to hire a cleaning lady, he added. Opening the door to his office, he flipped on the light switch, gestured her into the room, removed his overcoat - then turned as he heard her sharp inhalation. "By the gods! You've been shot!" she gasped. Startled, he looked down - and for the first time saw the dark stain that had spread over the left sleeve, neatly framing the dark hole at its center. Damn, he thought. That was my only suit jacket! he grumbled to himself as he realized a burning pain was searing through his upper arm. He shook his head; when one thing fell apart, it seemed to take everything with it! But he was not about to let this woman's opinion of him sink even further than it already was, he decided. "It's nothing," he demurred. "Must have nicked me while we were in the alley. You're not in much better shape," he added. Elin looked down at herself, studying what had been, a few hours before, a perfectly fitted, closely tailored silver grey suit that brought out the best in her coloring - and her in her figure, Dixon thought - but that now was badly torn and adorned with the remnants of dirt, rain and garbage from the alley. "Eh. Just clothes," she said with a nonchalance that seemed far less forced than his was. "Truth be told, I'd rather be in trousers and a work shirt anyway. But that's a lot of blood for a nick," she replied. "Let me take a look at it. First aid kit?" she added. He gestured at one of the file cabinets. "In there." She followed his motion, opened the drawer, pulled out the box - then sighed as she studied the contents. "First aid kits work better if they have supplies," she said, pulling out the last of the supplies, studying them. "It's on my list," he admitted. "I've been a little short on funds lately." "I never would have guessed," she countered acerbically. "Not much of a private detective, are you?" "I do as well as I can," he countered defensively, then added, "but cases have been few and far between of late." "Which is why you took me on - even though you don't believe me," she said. Dixon smiled. "Let's just say that I believed your five hundred dollar retainer, Miss... excuse me, Professor Solderholm." That earned him an embarrassed smile. "Err... that's actually a bit of an exaggeration - not that I haven't earned it," she added hastily, "but the university felt that a woman had no business holding a tenured position when there were equally qualified men who could take the position. They thought I should be at home, having babies, not researching the Aztecs and the Toltecs." "So why aren't you?" Hill answered. "Having babies? I can't," she answered bluntly, her voice icily cold. "I can't have children." "I meant," Dixon responded, ignoring the pain in her voice, "why aren't you researching the Aztecs and the Toltecs? What are you doing here in San Francisco?" She reddened again. "Sorry. I thought you meant..." She let the thought trail off, thought for a moment, then gestured at his arm once again and the still-growing stain. "You're still bleeding, Mr. Hill. Come on; take off your shirt," she ordered. He raised his brows in concerned question. "Four years doing field work in Guatemala means I know basic first aid," she answered. "I've treated gunshot wounds - and as long as the bullet isn't buried in the flesh, I can clean you up as well as any doctor. Got some antiseptic?" she added, looking back into the first aid box. Dixon stepped to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a bottle of Scotch. Elin raised a brow, then took the bottle, pulled out the cork, raised it to her lips and took a generous swallow. "Gods!" she gasped as the raw alcohol flowed down her throat. "Well, if that won't kill bacteria, nothing will." She held the bottle out to Hill. "Painkiller," she explained. "Take a hit." Dixon studied her for a moment - then took the bottle. A bottle of decent Scotch was also going to be on that list, he added a moment later, choking as the alcohol burned a neat path to his empty stomach - then started to peel off his suit coat. A few moments later he sat bare-chested on the edge of his desk, gritting his teeth as Elin cleaned the wound with the alcohol, then deftly wrapped it with the last of gauze from the first aid kit. "It's deep - but it's clean. The bullet tore through the muscle, but the bleeding is slowing. I should stitch it up," she added, "but I'm guessing you don't have a sewing kit, do you?" He raised a brow in horror. "Sewing kit?" She smiled. "You learn to use what you have when you have to," she explained. "Sewing is sewing - whether flesh or fabric." He grimaced at the thought. "No. No sewing kit." "Oh, well. Try not to use it for a day or two, then. Don't want you to bleed to death while you're on my dollar." By God, she's a cold one, he thought - then changed the topic. "So what brings you out of the field and in to San Francisco?" "My uncle," she replied, returning the few supplies to the kit and returning it to the drawer. "He raised me after my parents died, taught me that I could be anything I wanted, took me on digs all over the world - got me hooked on archaeology when I was just eight. I took my first degrees in general archaeology - but when I went to Tikal, I knew I found my calling. "By the gods, Mr. Hill," she said, her enthusiasm mounting as she spoke, her voice growing soft, deep, intense, startling him with the unexpected passion it contained, "to be there, standing in those forests of such intense green, absolutely lost in plants and trees so thick that it's impossible to accept that any other sentient being has ever stood there before - then realize that the hills, the mounds, the uprisings that surround you are actually the remains of buildings, of an entire civilization! You're not only not the first person to stand there - but instead an entire race of people preceded you, and have created a magnificent world beyond your comprehension in the very place you're standing! Gods, it thrills the heart - and the soul, Mr. Hill." She looked at him, her eyes afire with passion. Passion for her work, he thought - and perhaps, he added, much more. "Call me Dixon," he replied, his voice growing equally low, equally intense. She looked up at him, startled - and enticed by the strength in his voice. "Dixon," she agreed, her eyes drifting down to his bare chest, studying the lean muscles and soft grey curls appreciatively - then stepped back, slid a finger through the hole in the shirt, then handed it back to him. "Seems like you're going to need that sewing kit after all." "It's going to take more than a few stitches to fix this," he countered. "Cold water and salt," she informed him. "It'll take the blood right out." "Something else you learned in the jungle?" he asked, making no effort to put on the ruined shirt. "Basic chemistry, Mr. Hill," she explained. "No one cares about blood stains on a dig, Mr. Hill; hell, they don't care much about blood there either - though judging by that guy in the alley, maybe this jungle isn't too different from the one I come from," she added. "Which leads me to the obvious question: why was Big Tony chasing you?" he asked. She studied him for a long time, as if trying to decide whether she could trust him or not - then slid one hand beneath her lace camisole - and, as Dixon watched, pulled out a small gold amulet. She stepped forward, holding out the necklace, but not taking it off. Dixon took the proffered necklace, studied it indifferently - the pendant was roughly made, slightly irregular in shape - hardly noteworthy, he added. "Very nice," he said, "but hardly worth killing for - or dying for," he remarked. Elin smiled. "On the contrary; it's enough to pay your fee - and then some. But you're right, it's not what Big Tony is after. You see, Mr. Hill, this piece isn't the only one. At Tikal - and many other sites in central and south America - there were incredible goldsmiths who made exquisite pieces of jewelry." "Wasn't that what the conquistadors were after when they conquered the area?" Hill asked. Elin gave him a surprised smile. "I'm impressed! You're better educated than you appear, Mr. Hill," she replied. He frowned at the veiled insult, but she continued speaking before he could protest. "However, Tikal fell long before the Spanish arrived. That's why my uncle was there: trying to verify his theory that disease - malaria, specifically - and the gradual decrease in arable land was the reason that Tikal fell; it wasn't a conquest by a foreign power, but rather a period of decline and eventual abandonment. Sort of like this place," she added, looking at the decrepit office. "There are other private detectives in San Francisco, Miss Solderholm," he retorted. She looked up, surprised at the anger in his voice - then smiled and shook her head, "I didn't mean _this_ place," she replied. "I meant San Francisco - and the so-called civilized world in general." She looked around the office, then stepped to the window. "It's dirty, Mr. Hill; it's dangerous. The people here look tired and angry and sick and unhappy..." "If it was so much better back in Guatemala, what are you doing here?" he countered. "I didn't say it was better," she protested. "The people there have their problems as well; what I wouldn't give for them to have access to a better education, medicine... But that is, in part why I'm back," she continued. "If my uncle is correct - if Tikal was abandoned slowly, over a period of time, then there is reason to believe that the site maintained a degree of veneration for the people lived - and still live - there." "Meaning...?" "Meaning that you don't loot the graves of those you revere, Mr. Hill; meaning that the gold and gems that adorned the bodies and the tombs of the nobles might well still be intact," she explained. "And ripe for you to plunder them?" he objected. "Somehow, it doesn't seem appropriate for the people of Tikal to deny themselves the wealth their ancestors left them just so you and your uncle can take it for yourselves - no matter how philanthropic your intentions," he replied. She gave him a cold smile. "Life's obviously left you a bitter and cold man, Mr. Hill - but please don't drag us all down with you. My uncle and I have no intention of plundering the graves, Mr. Hill. Our expedition is being done with the cooperation of the Guatemalan government; everything - everything! - we find becomes the property of the state; we get the rights to publish our finding and take the intellectual credit, the publicity and acclaim - and," she added without a trace of false modesty, "the lucrative publishing rights and honorary degrees that will follow. We'll get what we want and need Mr. Hill; in return, the state gets the archaeologic treasures and concomitant public interest that will follow - and the people of Tikal will get the education and medical care they need... providing we get to the sites first." He hesitated, hating how quickly she countered down his protests, refusing to allow himself to be impressed by the petite woman - no matter how impressive she was. "So what's stopping you?" he asked. "Unfortunately, we've run through our funding; the government refuses to allow us to proceed unless we can pay for the officials who are accompanying us - and for the troops we'll need to defend the dig from looters and gangs once we begin. The hell of it is that Uncle Anders believes he found the location of the nobles' burial sites - this pendant is just one of the pieces he's found so far! It was my job to come back to the States, present our preliminary findings to the University board and secure additional funding." "But they said no?" She smiled - but anger filled her eyes. "They most definitely said 'no'. They said that they had no reason to believe that Uncle Anders so-called 'find' was anything more than a fluke - a single piece of jewelry that could have been as easily left from a hundred years ago as a thousand years ago. They said that without further substantiation - substantiation from a qualified professor - meaning a male professor - they would not provide another penny - let alone the thousands that I need to get back and help him complete the dig!" Hill nodded, considering her words - then raised a brow. "Which still leaves the question of how do you expect me to help you?" She sighed, then stepped to the front of his desk, lifting herself onto it and crossing her legs before she continued, oblivious to - or uncaring of - the tear in the skirt that once again revealed a length of well-turned leg. "Mr. Hill," she continued, "the reason the board didn't believe me wasn't just because I'm a woman - and not tenured - but because they had been given reason not to believe me. The problem in Guatemala - and in so many of the developing countries that are the focal points of archaeologic studies - is that they are so desperately poor. A few well placed dollars here and there..." "Bribes," Hill offered. She nodded. "...and they look the other way. In Uncle Anders case, word of his research - and his theory - reached the heads of the state antiquities department - and through them, to a certain man - a man who would not hesitate to discredit my uncle's work so that he could plunder Tikal for his own benefit. Jorge Menosoro. He's a bad man, Mr. Hill," she said softly. "He tried to kill Uncle Anders in Tikal - and if it hadn't been for some friends who helped us escape, he might well have succeeded." "How do you know he hasn't?" Hill asked. She glared at him, worry and anger filling her eyes. "You're a real ray of sunshine, aren't you?" "Just realistic," Hill countered. "If Menosoro killed Uncle Anders, he would have found his research, found the location - and he'd be busy digging up the place. Instead, he's after me, trying to keep me from returning - permanently - so that he and his people will have the luxury of unlimited time to dig up everything in sight at their leisure." "Won't your uncle protest?" She gave a wan smile. "He would - and Menosoro would kill him in seconds. Uncle Anders is a brilliant scientist - and as trusting as the day is long. Menosoro would lie - and Uncle Anders would never even suspect it - even after Menosoro shot him." She shook her head. "I have nightmares about that, Mr. Hill; of Uncle Anders lying there, bleeding to death, a look of pure astonishment on his face and Menosoro stands over him, laughing. "No; you wouldn't know it to look at me, but I'm the muscle in our team. Uncle Anders was smart enough to leave the weapons and defenses to me - and his friends aren't going to let him out of their sight until I return. Unfortunately, Menosoro knows that too; if I'm dead, the site will be his for the taking." "And it was Menosoro who killed Big Tony is the alley?" "More likely one of his men - Menosoro wouldn't dirty his hands on something like a routine killing," she said. "So why didn't they stay to finish us off?" "Because occasionally, Mr. Hill, the gods smile upon me," she said with a smile. "Menosoro isn't going to kill me until he knows everything I know. I suspect his goons were under orders to kidnap me and bring me back to Menosoro after they killed Big Tony - and you - but those police sirens were getting close - and fast - and the last thing Menosoro needed was to have the police capture his goons - and confiscate his passport and exit visa. The treasure isn't going to do him a fuck of a lot of good if he's here and it's there." Hill cringed slightly at the vulgarity, finding it painfully incongruous to hear the crass obscenity coming from someone who was otherwise so deliciously feminine. She must have seen the reaction, for she glared at him. "You don't think women should swear, do you?" she asked angrily. "I find it somewhat... indelicate," he admitted. "Grow up, Mr. Hill; it's 1939, not 1839 - and the times are changing. If you don't like the way I act - or speak - then you can kiss my ass," she retorted. He met her gaze. "In _your_ dreams, Miss Solderholm." To his surprise, however, she didn't back down; her gaze stayed on him, studying him intently, her eyes focusing on his face, then slowly traveling down, studying his body with unabashed interest. "Indeed, Mr. Hill," she murmured softly. "And fine dreams they would be, too," she added, her eyes slowly rising to his face once again. "Or is a woman who's aware of her own sexuality too 'indelicate' for you as well, Mr. Hill?" she asked in a sultry tone. He stepped to the desk, moving close to her, so close that he could smell the scent of her body, the fragrance of her hair... He raised his hand to the upswept black locks that framed her delicate features, the heel of his hand coming to rest on the beautifully carved angle of her high cheekbones, the flesh soft and delicate beneath it, watching as she closed her eyes at the touch, a soft sound escaping her lips as she yielded to the embrace... He moved closer to her, lowering his face to hers... A crack of glass breaking shattered the still of the air, and in one lightning-fast move, Hill swept the woman from the desk, pushing her to the floor, covering her with his body as shattering glass rained down upon them, the sound of a machine gun echoing through the deserted street that ran before his office building, the noise of dozens of bullets puncturing the far wall filling the office with a cacophony of noise and the air with plaster dust. Then, as suddenly as it started, the noise ended - and Hill, his hands braced on both sides of his client, slowly raised himself to look at the shattered remains of his office before looking down at the beautiful woman sprawled beneath him. There was a witty remark he knew he should make now; an acknowledgement that, with the destruction of his office, his few reasons for declining her offer were no longer valid, and that he would accept her offer to escort her back to Guatemala - and collect his share of the earnings she and her uncle would earn there - but, at that moment, words were the last thing on Dixon Hill's mind. He stared at the woman beneath him, her body, delicate yet strong, thin yet deliciously curvaceous lying beneath his - and once again lowered his head to hers. The kiss was delicious, deep and satisfying as his lips met hers, soft, firm, warm, yielding... Jean-Luc pulled back, staring down at Andile in amazement, in stunned astonishment - then lowered himself back to the kiss once more. She met the kiss with equal ardor, her lips pressing to his hungrily, needfully, a soft moan of satisfaction and need slipping from her lips even as her hands begin to explore his body, his chest, his arms, his hands reaching to caress her face, to slide to her neck, her shoulder, her arm... He reached for the front of her suit, unbuttoning the fasteners, pulling it back, then lifting his head from her lips, preparing to move to flesh of her neck - only to feel her fingers pressing against his lips, stopping him. "This is a really bad idea, Jean-Luc," she whispered. He stared at her, taken aback - then sighed, closed his eyes, and slowly rolled off her, then slowly sat up. "I know," he sighed. "I'm sorry," he added. She pushed herself up, then settled in beside him. "No you're not," she chided him softly.. He stared at her, surprised by the objection - then managed a smile. "Yes, I am," he argued, "but only about the fact that it took me fifty years to finally kiss you," he confessed honestly. "In that case," she replied, "I'm sorry too - though I don't think you would have been nearly so charming at eighteen as you are now. Certainly you wouldn't have been as good a kisser," she added with a disarming smile. He coughed uncomfortably, not used to being appraised so openly - then raised a brow. "Wine?" he asked, changing the topic, posing the same question he had asked her after they had completed each chapter of their on-going holodeck fantasy, rising to his feet in anticipation of the equally routine answer. To his surprise, however, she hesitated, staring emptily at the tattered remnants of the room for a long moment before looking back at him. "A short one," she informed him. Picard smiled. "A short one it is," he smiled, enjoying her terminology almost as much as her presence. "Computer," he called out as he pulled the torn and blood-stained shirt on once again, "save program Hill Three and end; run program Picard omega one: Cool Down," he instructed the machine, waiting a moment for the office to change, regaining the appearance it had the first time Picard had seen it - still slightly run down, but without the air of destitution that had become the foundation of their latest holodeck adventure. A couch, over-stuffed and overworn appeared, a low table before it adorned with two wine glasses - but the bottle that he now retrieved from the desk drawer was anything but replicated. He opened it deftly, neatly pouring two glasses, then settled in on the couch, placing his feet on the table - then looked up at the woman who was watching him. Two months, he reminded himself; two months she's been sharing my quarters, my bed... my life. If it hadn't been for her health, for all the dire warning he had been given about the possible disastrous outcomes, we may have started sharing more, he added. He looked up at the woman watching him, then gestured at the couch, urging her to join him, watching her, studying her as she moved across the room, a flash of exquisite flesh showing as the torn skirt revealed legs that were as magnificent to the starship captain as they had been to the San Francisco detective, the low-cut camisole that lay beneath her open suit jacket that suggested interesting curves that lay beneath the silver metal shirt that breathed for her. Strange, he thought, how erotic a woman could appear in full dress, even when one already knew what lay beneath. "Or perhaps especially when one knows what lies beneath," Andile added, reaching for the wine glass, easing herself into the couch. "Dee..." he began to protest. "I'm not complaining!" she countered. "You've helped me get dressed and undressed enough times in the last two months to know what I look like underneath all this," she reminded him, "even though you've been gentlemanly enough to always look the other way when possible. But still, there's no disguising the fact that I have only one breast, that I have no ribs on one side, that what little flesh I do have left is almost all scar tissue - and still, you were seriously thinking about copping a feel tonight." "Dee..." "Jean-Luc," she interrupted, smiling at him, "don't you dare deny it - and by the gods, please don't apologize for it! I'm flattered. Hell, I think I'm more than flattered; I'm thrilled. Do you know that no one - no one, ever! - tried to feel me up before all this; to think you would want to now, considering everything..." She hesitated, took a small sip of the wine, then set the glass down - and reached for his hand. "Thank you," she said softly, squeezing his hand gently. "I really needed that, especially..." Her voice trailed off as she suddenly looked away. "Especially what?" Picard repeated worriedly - then felt a sudden wash of terror flood over him. "What's wrong, Dee?" he pressed. For a moment she hesitated, then managed a wan smile. "I'm going to have the transplant... tomorrow." "Tomorrow? But..." he gaped at her, stunned. "Beverly said she couldn't perform the transplant for months!" "We've run into some problems. The lung tissue is growing faster than anticipated," Andile explained. "I don't understand," Picard admitted. "Isn't that what Beverly's been hoping for?" "It is... and it isn't," she countered. "The lungs are growing - but the accelerated growing has been by stealing nutrients from other tissues, Jean-Luc. It's not an optimum situation - but Beverly was willing to let things progress as they were as long as I was able to continue to gain weight..." "And you have!" he protested, remembering all too well how she was beginning to fill out her clothes - and how soft her body had become as she pressed against him during the night. "I was," she countered. "But last week I lost half a kilo, Jean-Luc. In the last three days, I've lost four more," she added grimly. "Beverly's concerned that if she doesn't perform the surgery in the next few days, I'll have lost so much ground that I won't have the strength to recover from the surgery." "But the tissue isn't mature enough..." he protested, remembering Beverly's graphic depictions of everything that could go wrong during the process. "No - but every day the tissue gains, I weaken," she informed him. "It's a gamble no matter how we go - but at this point, every day we wait, the odds of my making it drop. If we go tomorrow, Beverly can put me back on the ECMO while the tissue continues to mature - and force nutrients into my system so that, with a little luck, I can, in a week or so, make it on my own. But if we wait two or three days - and who knows if even the ECMO can pull me through," she said bluntly. He stared at her for a long time - then finally nodded, accepting the decision. "All right," he said. "What do I do?" "Nothing," she said. "We've made all the arrangements. Surgery starts at nine tomorrow; I'll be in Sickbay for about two weeks after that. And after..." He looked at her. "After?" "After, if everything turns out all right, I won't need a caretaker, Jean-Luc," she told him softly. "I can return to my own quarters," she said softly. "You're going to need to find someone else to warm your bed." He met her eyes - then looked down, searching out her hand, then taking it in his. "We need to talk about that, Dee," he said softly. "No we don't," she said bluntly, then shook her head and smiled. "Not now. >We can talk after... if there is an after," she added, smiling - but with a sobriety that stung at him. "There will be an 'after', Dee," he countered instantly. "Yes... but..." She hesitated, lowering her eyes until they were locked on the fabric of her torn and filthy skirt, then raised her eyes to his once more, her gaze utterly serious. "If there isn't; if something goes wrong... Jean-Luc, would you promise me something - two things?" "Yes. Of course," he agreed. "Thank you," she said. "First, if I die... that is, if Beverly thinks I'm not going to make it... would you pray for me? Not for my ascension; I'm damned, and I accept that - but at death, an andile should speak the names of every soul she released so that they will be remembered into eternity; I won't be able to do that if things go bad - but maybe, if you ask, the gods forgive me this last sin, this last weakness, and will grant them all exemption, give them eternity if I can't," she begged. "Dee," he began to argue. "Please!" she whispered back. "It has to be when death is certain - but when Beverly knows that, I won't be able to start the final prayer. I can't go into tomorrow knowing without trying to earn that absolution, that forgiveness for them." Picard sighed - then set down his wine glass, the liquid suddenly souring in his mouth and his stomach. "I'm not a religious man," he protested. "It doesn't matter, Jean-Luc; you don't have to believe in the gods; they believe in you. Please?" she tried again. "I need to know that I'm forgiven." He sighed unhappily, finding the idea not only offensive - as thought this woman could somehow be damned by a quirk of genetics and birth and horrendous religious practice - but duplicitous as well, as though be promising her this act in which he did not believe, he was somehow giving her false hope. But his belief was not important, he reminded himself; all that mattered for her was the knowledge that she had done what she had to do for the sake of her people; how, then could he, her captain, do any less for her? "I promise," he answered solemnly. "Before Beverly pronounces me dead," she insisted. "She's not going to pronounce you anything!" he objected angrily - then added, "but if the situation does arise, I will do as I promised before Beverly does anything." Infinitely relieved, Andile gave a great exhalation then leaned forward resting her head on his shoulder. "Thank you. Thank you." "And the other promise?" She hesitated again - then raised her hand to his face, caressing it once. "If things don't work out, don't blame her." He gave her a puzzled look. "Beverly," she said - as though either of them truly had any doubt of whom she spoke. "She has done more to pull me through this you could have asked; if this doesn't work, it wasn't for her lack of trying or her lack of care. Don't blame her." "I don't," he said. "I wouldn't." She ran her hand along the length of his face once again, then pulled it away. "Then tell her," she said softly. Andile hesitated a moment, then gave him a compassionate look. "I know that feelings aren't your strong suit, Jean-Luc; I know that what we've been going through in counseling - facing up to our feelings - has been as difficult for you as it has for me. But in a way, it's been easier for us both - because we didn't need to say the words to each other to share what we were feeling, what we were experiencing. "Beverly doesn't have that privilege; you're going to have to say the words - all of them. Especially the most important ones: that you love her. That you have always loved her. She needs to know it - and you need to say it. So promise me that: promise me that you will tell her," she insisted. He hesitated again - then gave a slow nod of consent. "I promise." "Thank you," she said, then sighed, relieved. "And now, I suppose we should call it a night," she said. "I'm supposed to be in Sickbay in nine hours, and I should try to get some rest. And I think that now I can sleep," she added, rising to her feet, extending a hand to help him up. He thought for a long time - then took the proffered hand and stood - but made no attempt to move toward the door. "Dee, there's something I'd like you to do - for me - before tomorrow." She gave him a puzzled look - then nodded. "Of course." "Go see him," he said. Andile frowned, shaking her head. "No. I can't. You know I can't." "You have to," he countered. "You don't understand. I hurt him so badly..." "I know," he countered. "And I know how heavy that weight has been on your shoulders. If you're going to rest well - tonight and tomorrow - then you need to apologize, to clear your conscience," he informed her. "But what if he won't forgive me?" she cried softly. "That doesn't matter - any more than whether the gods forgive you or not. All that matters is that you tried." He hesitated, the added, "I'll go with you, if you'd like..." "No," she protested. "Thank you... but no. If I'm going to grovel, I'd rather do it where only one person needs to be witness to my humiliation," she said. "You don't need to grovel, Dee," he countered. "And you don't need to humiliate yourself. And... " She looked at him questioningly. "Yes, Jean-Luc?" He looked at her tenderly. "If he can't find it in himself to forgive you, Dee," he said softly, "know that you will always be... others... who will forgive you. And care for you. And love you," he added softly. She stared at him for a long time - then leaned forward, her hand reaching up to caress one cheek even as she kissed the other one. "Thank you, Jean-Luc," she murmured in his ear, "but your heart belongs to her. It always has. I think it always will be," she added. "But if that ever changes..." He pressed his lips to her cheek - then felt her pull away, rise from the couch and walk to the office door. It closed behind her a moment later, followed by the faint whush of sound that marked the opening and closing of the holodeck doors. He watched the closed door for a long time, the glass in his hand growing warm - then set it down on the table and made his way to the office door himself. He looked back, studying the room, suspecting he would never see it this way again - then murmured, "Computer, end program," then strode through the holodeck doors. NewMessage: ath: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newscon02.news.prodigy.com!newscon06.news.prodigy.com!prodigy.net!border1.nntp.dca.giganews.com!nntp.giganews.com!newsread.com!newsstand.newsread.com!postnews.google.com!c13g2000cwb.googlegroups.com!not-for-mail From: keroth1701@sbcglobal.net Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW TNG: Echoes, P/C, D/f (R), Pt 168/? Date: 23 Jan 2005 19:07:36 -0800 Organization: http://groups.google.com Lines: 630 Message-ID: <1106536056.937814.308720@c13g2000cwb.googlegroups.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 68.248.253.221 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" X-Trace: posting.google.com 1106536062 21150 127.0.0.1 (24 Jan 2005 03:07:42 GMT) X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 24 Jan 2005 03:07:42 +0000 (UTC) User-Agent: G2/0.2 Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com Injection-Info: c13g2000cwb.googlegroups.com; posting-host=68.248.253.221; posting-account=9kmkYQwAAADvLaOMFrDa9R8QBO-VtHOe Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative:162052 X-Received-Date: Sun, 23 Jan 2005 19:07:42 PST (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 168/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except Andile and a few of the others you're about to meet. I promise I won't make any money from writing this. FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 168 For a moment there was silence in the corridor of the ship, then an upraised hand moved to knock at the door. Moved - then stopped. No. No hesitancy now; no avoiding the truth this time; no obfuscation, no denial; this time, of no other, I have to face the truth. Face it, say the words - and accept the consequences once and for all. A touch of the annuciator - and the door opened a moment later, a face, so long missed, so long ached for, appeared. "Hello." Data stared at his visitor for a moment, then answered, "Are you injured?" It took the woman a moment to understand the question; following Data's gaze, she looked down at herself, realizing she was still in the torn and filthy suit she ahd been wearing and gave an embarrassed smile. "Oh. No, no, I'm fine. Sorry about this; I must look a sight. No, we were playing on the holodeck and I guess I got too involved in the scene..." "One of the captain's Dixon Hill stories, I presume?" Data asked curiously. " 'Treasure Hunt'," she answered. "It's a new one - about Dixon and this archaeologist..." Her voice trailed off. "I'm sorry; I'm sure you don't really want to hear all this. You probably were in the middle of something..." "I was," he agreed. "Then I can come back..." she said, starting to turn away - but a soft mewling and a delicate brush of soft and warm fur stopped her. "Spot!" she cried delightedly, reaching down to scoop up the cat and pull her against her chest. "It's so good to see you! I've missed you," she added, raising the cat to face level, nuzzling her soft fur with her face. Spot replied with a soft bat of her paw - then allowed Andile to nuzzle her again. "I know," Andile murmured, "I've been a bad mommy; I haven't come to see you in a long time. Forgive me," she begged the feline. "Spot does not hold a grudge," Data replied. "Perhaps... perhaps you would care to come in and visit with Spot?" he asked. She hesitated for a moment, knowing the invitation was less for the cat's sake than the android's - then nodded. There was something Data wanted, she realized... and there's something I need. "Thank you," she said - then looked at the cat resting contentedly in her arms. "That is," she added, "if it's alright with you, Spot." Spot gave a long thrill of a purr, then nestled against Andile's chest. "I think that means 'yes'," she told Data, then glanced past the android, into the quarters they had once shared. Nodding, Data stepped back, gesturing her into the room. It's changed, Andile thought as she followed him, idling stroking Spot's soft fur as she walked, looking at the surroundings that had, for so short a time, been hers: the easel holding the painting Data had been working on was gone - finished? she wondered; abandoned? - the sculptures rearranged, the computer desk enlarged... all so different than it had been the last time she was here. The realization startled her - then she reminded herself, it's been eight months since I was here last. Why wouldn't it have changed? He may not be human - but he's an evolving creature, growing and changing - why wouldn't his quarters have changed as well? She glanced at the computer desk - then looked back at the android, smiling. "Taking up a new hobby?" she asked. He raised a questioning brow. Andile moved to the desk, fingering the mound of folded fabric she had spied there. Settling Spot into the crook of one arm, she lifted the piece, then smiled back at Data. "I hadn't taken you for a seamstress," she said, displaying the garment - a loosely constructed tunic of a thick soft fabric in shimmering sapphire blue, delicate embroidery decorating the neck, narrow ribbons forming fasteners at the neck and sleeve. "Not exactly butch," she added, then glanced at the android, comparing the size of the garment to the size of the android. "And a bit of a tight fit," she added. "The garments are not for me," Data replied. "No," Andile scoffed. "Let me write that down," she added - then set the garment back down. For someone else then, she realized - and judging by the style and decoration, for a woman. Another woman, she added, the pain surging through her heart once more - then she forced it away. I came to apologize - not to rekindle old flames. He's moved on; time for me to do the same. Still, though, her mouth failed to form the words she had intended to say. "Spot seems well," she murmured. "Gained a little weight, I think," she added, running her fingers along the cat's long golden stripes. "She has been less active of late," Data confirmed. "She is beginning to feel her age, I believe." Andile looked up, startled by the hint of pain in the android's voice. "She's not that old, Data; she's got a lot of years ahead of her..." "She is almost fifteen years, Ginger," he countered. "That means she is approaching the end of her expected lifespan," he replied. Andile looked at the tabby - and for the first time saw the hints of fading color in the cat's face, then faint thinning of fur on her tail. She was aging, Andile realized - and Data was facing the fact that someday - perhaps someday soon - this creature who was so dear to him would die. "I'm sorry," she whispered back. "That must be hard for you. You love Spot very much; realizing that her time with you is limited must be difficult." "No," Data countered. "It would be difficult if my emotion chip was engaged - but I chose to terminate that portion of my exploration of humanity. But the absence of the familiar stimuli of Spot's presence in my life will be troublesome; I will miss her," he stated flatly. Andile's head shot up. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Back up there, Data: what do you mean, 'you terminated your exploration into emotions'?" she gaped. "I felt I had learned as much as I was capable of processing - for the time being," he added. "Once I have finished my cognitive 'digestion' of these emotions, I may opt to resume my studies," he explained. She stared at him, dumbstruck - then shook her head. "Data, I don't believe you," she replied. "Learning what it is to be human -becoming human! - has been your goal ever since you went on-line! To abandon that now, when you're finally beginning to experience those emotions..." She stopped, then closed her eyes, her head sinking in pure grief. "Oh, gods, Data; it's because of me, isn't it? Because of what I did to you," she said miserably. "No," he countered. "Data..." she began. "_You_ did nothing to me," he explained. "I lied to you; I lied to you and hurt you... That's why you broke up with me," she said flatly, almost as unemotional as her lover was - then looked at him, her eyes bright with feeling once again. "I deserved that, Data - but you shouldn't punish yourself for what I did! Gods, you're not to blame, Data!" Data gave the woman a puzzled look. "Andile, you did nothing to me," he objected. "I lied to you! I kept the truth of who I was, what I had done from you! Data, that's not something lovers do! They're honest, they're open with one another... I didn't do that!" The android shook his head. "I did not terminate our relationship for those reasons," he protested. "But... you said that you were breaking up with me because the relationship was based on false premises! And it was; I lied to you..." "Andile... Ginger," he interrupted her gently. "There are certain inherent realities in relationships that develop among Starfleet personnel - and one of those realities is that there may be certain facts, certain events, that can not be revealed. That you could not divulge some aspects of your personal history did not distress me; indeed, I respected - even admired - you for your discretion in the light of your personal struggle between your professional obligations - and your own desires." "Data, there was more - so much more! Things I've done..." "Ginger," he continued gently, "no relationship begins with complete honesty; to do would most likely terminate the relationship immediately. To establish mutual trust requires time - and in that time, I believe we might both have come to trust one another sufficiently to be as open as the limitations of our positions permit. No, your reticence - of which I was cognizant - was not the cause of my decision to end our relationship," he replied. "Then what?" she asked. "What 'false premise' was there?" "Andile, there are certain expectation of human relationships; that while they are mutually beneficial, ultimately, they must also be beneficial to human society at large," he explained. "Ultimately, our relationship could not be beneficial - and thus I chose to end it." She stared at him, perplexed. "What are you talking about, Data?" "It is something that Tar Zumell told me..." "At the reception?" Andile interrupted. "Gods, Data, you're not going to blame her for our break up, are you?" she gasped, appalled. "No - but our discussion forced me to confront the basic rationale of all relationships. Tar Zumell informed me that it is the ultimate goal of all relationships to sustain and further the species as a whole; that it was our responsibility, as a couple, to participate in that end by adding to the population of our species..." "She told you to break up with me because you couldn't father a child?!" Andile raged. "Gods, Data, I can't have children! I never could! And even if I could have once, I'm too old now! You knew that!" The android nodded. "I presumed as much - but Tar Zumell's words caused me to think about other topics, about the role of relationships in a society - and I came to realize that, as I am not human, I could not assist you in fulfilling those societal imperatives. To continue our affair, knowing what I did, was to perpetuate a false premise - and I could not do that. "Ginger, the fault was not yours; it was mine," he informed her quietly, "and I would ask your forgiveness for having harmed you," he added softly. "You... want me to forgive you?" she stammered. He gave a nod. Andile gave a short, painful laugh. "Gods, oh gods! You're asking me to forgive you - and I came here to do the same!" Gently disengaging the now sleeping cat from her arm, she lowered her to the couch, then sank her head into her hand, shaking it slowly. "You wished me to forgive you?" Data echoed, cocking his head to one side. "For what reason?" "For hurting you! For lying to you! For betraying your trust!" she raged, turning away, balling her fists as she stared at the ceiling in fury - then whipped around to face him once again. "You're a right bastard, you know? A bastard and a coward! You let me go through six kinds of hell thinking I had wronged you - when all along you thought you were to blame. Gods, Data, why didn't you just say something? You had to know what I was putting myself through - but you couldn't summon up the courage to say it was your fault all along? By the gods, Data, how could I have been so wrong?!" she cried out. "How could I have missed all the signs? You know, I thought I was pretty fucking good at reading the signs about people," she reminded him, "about assessing their character, learning about them, who they are, what makes them tick... How could I have been so wrong about you?! How could I have fallen in love with someone who was such a jerk?!" She spun on her heel, and raced toward the door. But the hand was on her arm long before she reached it, the steel vise of the android's grip unyielding. "Andile..." "Let me go!" she roared. "No!" he roared back, equally angry. The intensity of his words stunned her, hitting her almost as hard as a physical blow. She stared at him, then began to smile caustically. "I thought your emotion chip was disengaged. Another lie, I see," she sneered. "I did not lie," he replied. "Ah, yes, I forgot; you are the master of the thesaurus, king of the prevarication by clinging to the precise meaning of words. What then? Your chip was... what? disabled? Disconnected? Turned off? How are you going to dance around this one, Data?" she asked contemptuously. "I am not 'dancing', Ginger. My emotion chip is not functioning," he replied, his voice calm and steady now. "Then..." Her voice trailed off as understanding sudden registered. "Oh, gods, Data... you're feeling, aren't you? I mean really feeling! The emotions... they're yours!" she gasped. "That's why you broke up with me, isn't it?" He nodded unhappily. "When Tar Zumell spoke to me of the need for children, I began to contemplate ways in which I could fulfill that societal obligation with you. It was not rational, I knew - and yet it consumed me for milliseconds on end." Despite her tumultuous emotions, Andile smiled, empathizing with the relatively vast period of time the android had suffered. "And...? Did you find a solution?" "We would adopt," he answered bluntly. "I would have liked that," she replied. "My parents died when I was young - and I would not wish the life I had on anyone. But Data, if you found a solution, why did you break up with me?" "It occurred to me that though the solution was both reasonable and logical, it might not suit you; indeed, you might not even wish to pursue the relationship to the extent where we would be contemplating life altering decision. It occurred to me that, thought I loved you, you might not love me in return - or if you did, perhaps not to the extent of my emotional commitment. In time, you might even choose to terminate the relationship... and I realized, I could not bear that hurt. Indeed, with each passing nanosecond, I came to understand that my feelings for you were taxing my emotional control; I realized I could not withstand the additional emotional burden should you be the one to terminate the relationship." He glanced back at the cat sleeping on the couch. "As I have realized that Spot is aging, I have come to believe I may not be able to endure her loss. To lose you would have been equally unbearable." He looked back to her once again. "But in coming to that realization, I also realized that I would not be able to fulfill my promise to you; I realized I would never be able to willingly erase the memories of how I felt. To allow our relationship to continue with you assuming that I would be able top honor my original promise was inappropriate - and should you come to recognize that truth, you, too would have been injured. I could not tolerate that possibility." "But to allow yourself to be hurt?" Andile whispered. "That was not my intention," he conceded. "Having loved you, having experienced love in its greatest glory..." "Data..." Andile said, trying to interrupt him. "... I was content to disengage my emotion chip, and subsist on the memory of what once was." "That's not much of a life, dearest," she offered. "Without you, nothing is much of a life," he answered. Andile closed her eyes against the gentle wretchedness of his answer - and knew it to be true. Without him... She shook her head - then looked at Data once again. "But... if your chip is off, how can you still feel?" she asked curiously. "I have discussed this with Geordi, and he agrees with my conjecture..." "It's your learning program, isn't it?" she interrupted, amazed. "You do something long enough, and the ancillary program becomes integrated into your basic functions! You had emotions for years - and now they are part of you!" He looked at her, sadness and joy mixing in his expression. "I believe I have missed your perspicacity as well as your presence, Ginger; yes, we reached the same conclusion. The residual emotions are neither as diverse nor as subtle as before - anger, sadness... fear," he added quietly. "And love?" "Yes," he whispered. "Above all, love." She stepped toward him, reaching up to his face, running her thumb along his jawline, then cradled his face in her hand. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry you couldn't come to me in the first place, to let me help you work through everything that was hurting you." "I could not allow that, Andile; you would have been injured in the process," he countered. "But that's what love's about, dear heart," she replied. "Not just for the good times - but for the bad as well. Love divided is love multiplied; but fear divided is just that: divided, lessened geometrically, until it approaches nothingness. I wish I could have been there for you, dear... as you were there for me," she added, pulling back, one hand moving to finger the silvery shirt that lay beneath her lace camisole. "You created this, didn't you? You tried to give me back my life - and never said a word." "I felt it inappropriate; I did not want a false sense of obligation to exist between us, Ginger," he explained. "Love gives and receives openly, dear, without thought of reciprocity. But I do thank you," she added. "You gave me hope when I was running out of it," she explained. Data studied her for a long time - then reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. "For what did you hope, Ginger?" he asked softly. "Data..." she began, then shook her head. "Oh, Data, if I tell you, I'll just hurt you." "Tell me," he insisted. She raised her eyes to his. "I wanted to die, Data; it all hurt too much and I just wanted it to end." "Because I terminated our relationship?" he asked. "No!" she roared. "Ginger..." "Yes," she conceded softly. "It wasn't just that - but when we were together everything was so much better. Without you... without you, everything was empty..." "As was my existence," Data agreed softly. "I love you, Ginger," he said, then kissed her. "Oh, Fred," she murmured as she returned the kiss, feeling herself melt into his embrace - then pulled back. "We can't do this, Fred. We can't start this up again - not now," she begged. "You do not love me?" he asked. "You know I do; I've always loved you - even when I denied it, I loved you. But... we can't start this again. Not tonight," she added hastily. "Because you are facing surgery tomorrow?" he asked. Andile paled. "How... how did you know?! Even Jean-Luc... even the captain didn't know! Beverly swore she'd keep it a secret!" "Dr. Crusher did not reveal her intentions directly, Ginger - but as Chief Operations Officer, it is my responsibility to oversee the allocation of resources. Utilization of power for the surgical bay must be given priority over other ship's operations; as COO, it falls to me to ensure that the prioritization is correctly enforced. And as you are the only patient that Dr. Crusher is treating who might be subject to such a complex procedure, the conclusion was obvious. But is it not premature?" he added worriedly. "Dr. Crusher's research indicated that the tissue would not be ready for at least several weeks - perhaps even two months?" Andile smiled. "You can add worry to your list of emotions, Data," she informed him. "I placed worry in a subcategory under 'fear'," he informed her. "But you are avoiding the question." "I'm not... or maybe I am," she conceded. "I'm worried, too. The lung tissue is developing much faster than the doc anticipated; she says it's a good thing - a sign that my innate healing abilities have recovered - but that healing is doing so by robbing nutrients from the rest of my body. I can't eat enough to compensate - and I've begun to lose weight. The doc's worried that if we don't go now, I won't be able to recover. "And technically, the tissue will have a better chance of engrafting because it is immature... but it also means I'll be on life support while Beverly tries to force the tissue into completing the maturation - or at least bring it to a point where I can survive off the machines. But it's going to be hard; the lungs might not engraft - and even if they do, the pressure of forcing the healing process could damage the rest of my organs..." She turned away, her voice fading as she did so, growing so faint that even he could barely hear it. "I'm scared." "Ginger," Data began softly. "I've never been scared before," she continued, ignoring his gentle protest. "It's never mattered to me - whether I made it through the surgeries, the procedures, all the treatments and the therapies... I didn't care whether I lived or died... because there was nothing to live for." She stopped - then looked back at him. "Until now," she added quietly. He reached for her once again, pulling her close. "But now there is something to live for?" She stared at him, a response on her lips - then pulled back again. "Gods, Data, that's so unfair of me! To burden you with my fears..." " 'But that is what love is about'," he repeated, drawing her close once again. " 'Not just for the good times - but for the bad as well. Love divided is love multiplied; but fear divided is just that: divided, lessened geometrically, until it approaches nothingness'." He looked at her, their eyes meeting. "If it is true for me, then it must be true for you as well," he said. "But... dealing with fear and pain - and perhaps grief and loss - are new for you," she protested. "I will learn to deal with them," he assured her. "I must - for these emotions are mine forever. But I would ask your assistance in leaning how to do so - and to that end, I must ask you to promise that you will recovery from your surgery." Andile smiled. "Ah. The psychological approach. Emotional blackmail - so I feel obliged to recover." Data considered the idea for a moment, then nodded. "It is a proven technique," he replied. "Give the patient a reason to survive - and more often they do." He thought a moment longer - then kissed her once again - then breaking the embrace, reached for her hand and began to lead her toward the alcove where his bed stood. "Data, I can't..." she started to protest - but again, he silenced her with a kiss, then pushed her back to the bed, his hands reaching for the front of her jacket, unfastening the antique buttons. "I am aware of the limitations of your physical condition, Ginger. I do not intend to cause you injury," he added, slipping the jacket from her arms, dropped it on the floor beside the bed, then eased her back until she was lying on the bed. "Then what are you doing?" she asked as his hands to her skirt, deftly unzipping it. "I love you," he said, "but I am aware that emotional love is not always a sufficient motivator to stimulate actions," he continued, coaxing the narrow skirt from her slim hips. "Indeed, we both used our affection for one another as an excuse to avoid doing what we wished to do. I thought..." he began - then stopped as he finished easing the skirt from her hips, and stared at what he found. "Andile? These garments...?" She glanced down at herself - and smiled. "A garter belt and stockings. Appropriate for the time period - if a little sedate. They'd be a lot more interesting if the were black lace." "Black lace?" "Classic naughty underwear," she replied. "Undergarments can have inappropriate behavior?" the android queried. "Underwear is underwear, Fred - but when one wears it, it can elicit the most delicious, inappropriate behavior in others. Someday - if the gods will it - I'll show you," she promised. "But.. I can't do this," she added, her hand reaching down to still his as it began to unfasten one of the garters. "Not 'I don't want this'," she clarified. "I _can't_." "Ginger, I stated I was cognizant of your condition - and your limitations. However, I am equally aware that your recovery will be affected by your attitude and outlook. I therefore intend to affect those variables," he informed her. "Affect them... how?" He stopped, his hands halfway down her leg, her stocking neatly bundled in his fingers. "I had intended to affect them by providing you with those," he gestured at the folded shirts she had seen when she entered the room. "They're for me?" she said. "Yes. I was aware of your abnormally sensitivity to the cold and sought to provide you - and Dr. Crusher - with an adequate solution. The gowns are for your stay in Sickbay, made from a fabric that will provide a constant temperature and positive skin contact..." "You mean they are soft and warm," she said with a smile. "I attempted to find colors and designs that would complement you coloration," he added. "Soft and warm... and pretty," she summarized. "I felt these factors would be welcome during your recovery," the android agreed. "Thank you, dear. It's very sweet of you," she murmured. "And I know I will feel better wearing them - if only because I know they are from you. Thank you." "You are welcome," he said - then returned to his earlier efforts. "Data?" she said. He removed the first stocking, then started to repeat his efforts on the second stocking. "There are, however, other factors that can affect one's attitude - and one's subsequent recovery," he murmured as he freed the stocking, dropping it to the floor. "Beyond the knowledge that one is safe, and warm... and loved. The knowledge that there is joy - and pleasure - awaiting one's return, has been shown to positively affect the outcome of any hazardous event. I wish for you to be fully cognizant of that fact, Ginger," he said, unfastening the garter belt. "Data, what are you doing?" "Your surgery is not scheduled for eight hours and thirty-six minutes. That should allow an ample margin of time for you to dress and report to Sickbay." "Margin of time?" He smiled at her, his eyes bright with genuine emotion. "I once informed you that I required eight hours to proper assess your needs and responses. If, in that time, I can not provide you with the added re-affirmation of the physical pleasures of life, then I will know it was not for lack of trying." He slid his hands beneath the waistband of the lace panties, then slid them over her hips and, with a rather mechanical abandon, tossed them over his shoulder. "Fred?" she said as he lowered himself to her. "Fred?! Oh, Fred." NewMessage: Path: newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net!stamper.news.atl.earthlink.net!elnk-atl-nf1!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newscon02.news.prodigy.com!prodigy.net!news.glorb.com!postnews.google.com!c13g2000cwb.googlegroups.com!not-for-mail From: keroth1701@sbcglobal.net Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW TNG: "Echoes" P/C. D/f (R) PT 169/? Date: 30 Jan 2005 19:29:44 -0800 Organization: http://groups.google.com Lines: 406 Message-ID: <1107142184.391159.81590@c13g2000cwb.googlegroups.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 68.77.156.195 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" X-Trace: posting.google.com 1107142188 32269 127.0.0.1 (31 Jan 2005 03:29:48 GMT) X-Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 31 Jan 2005 03:29:48 +0000 (UTC) User-Agent: G2/0.2 Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com Injection-Info: c13g2000cwb.googlegroups.com; posting-host=68.77.156.195; posting-account=9kmkYQwAAADvLaOMFrDa9R8QBO-VtHOe Xref: news.earthlink.net alt.startrek.creative:162180 X-Received-Date: Sun, 30 Jan 2005 19:29:49 PST (newsspool2.news.atl.earthlink.net) Title: Echoes Author: Ke Roth (keeroth@startrek.net) Series: TNG Part: 169/? Rating: R (violence and language) Codes: P/C, D/f Summary: Lt. Andile, Starfleet's oldest and shortest engineer, comes Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything in the universe of TNG except Andile and a few of the others you're about to meet. I promise I won't make any money from writing this. FYI: This story takes place approximately 2 years post "Insurrection", but pre-"Nemesis". Feedback is welcome. Chapter 169 For a moment there was silence in the corridor of the ship, then an upraised hand moved to knock at the door. Moved - then stopped. No. No hesitancy now; no avoiding the truth this time; no obfuscation, no denial; this time, of no other, I have to face the truth. Face it, say the words - and accept the consequences once and for all. A touch of the annuciator - and the door opened a moment later, a face, so long missed, so long ached for, appeared. For a moment, Beverly stared at Picard, startled by the unexpected appearance - then leaned against the door jamb, effectively barring the man's entrance to the room. "Jean-Luc," she sighed wearily. "I'm sorry, but I really don't have time for a..." she began - then stopped and, frowning, leaned forward and gave an audible sniff. Pulling back, she looked at him, aghast. "Have you been drinking?!" she gaped. Taken aback by the questions, Picard shook his head. "Half a glass of wine," he said - then gave a sniff as the scent of cheap Scotch reached his nose. "Damn," he muttered to himself - then looked at Beverly in apology. "The bottle must have broken when Menosoro shot out the window," he explained. "Menosoro?" Beverly repeated. He nodded. "Dee and I were playing on the holodeck..." "Dixon Hill again?" she asked. Picard nodded again. "A new story. You see, there's a Central American gang leader named Jorge Menosore, who is pursuing an archaeologist..." "Biji," Beverly said. "Yes - and when we were in my office, he shot out the window," he continued. "Dee had left the bottle of Scotch on my desk after she bandaged my arm..." "Your arm? What happened to your arm?" she interrupted, suddenly concerned. "Nothing. I got shot, but I'm..." "Shot?" she replied, horrified, then grabbed his arm and pulled him into her quarters. "Where?" she continued, then saw the dark stain on his suit coat. "Take that off," she ordered, then spun away, quickly retrieving her medkit and returning to his side, frowning at the dried blood on the white shirt. "Come on; your shirt too," she ordered, give a disappointed shake of her head. "You and your holodeck games. Whatever happened to the safeties?" she added as she watched him gingerly slide his arm out of the stained shirt. "The safeties were engaged - but they only prevent life-threatening injuries," he reminded her. "And Dee treated the wound," he added watching as Beverly began to unwrap the bandage Andile had applied. "I'm really fine." "I'll be the judge of that, Jean-Luc. The last time I looked, I was the CMO around here," she reminded him sharply. The bandage removed, she studied the wound for a moment, gently prodding the surrounding flesh, then took out her scanner. "The bullet took out a slice across the muscle," she murmured. "Fortunately, it's fairly shallow; it'll heal - in time; the scar won't be too bad. Just don't use it for a few weeks," she informed him - then, at his startled look, added, "That is, if you prefer twentieth century medicine. If you want it healed instantly, check in with Greg in Sickbay; five minutes of regen and you'll be fine: it'll be tender for a day or two - but the muscle will be intact, and no scar. Your choice." "I'll take modern medicine, thank you," he replied, reaching for the bloody and torn shirt. "But I'd rather wait until you or Alyssa is on duty, if you don't mind," he added. "Actually, I do mind," Beverly countered testily. Startled, Picard replied, "I didn't mean to impugn Dr. Matthew's abilities..." "I didn't say you were," she interrupted. "I just meant that Alyssa and I will have our hands full the next few days." She hesitated. "Have you read your status reports yet tonight?" He shook his head. "No... but Dee told me," he answered quietly. She nodded back. "I see. And that's why you're here? To tell me... what? That if something goes wrong that you'll bring me up on charges?" she asked bitterly. He gaped, stunned - then sighed. "I deserve that, Beverly. What I said that day - in all the days that followed that disaster - was inappropriate. And yes, that is why I'm here - not to threaten you, but rather to apologize for being an ass. I was wrong; what I did was wrong. I've damaged our relationship in ways that I can't begin to imagine," he added repentantly. "Yes, you have," she replied, her voice low, tense, the anger and hurt barely concealed. "I know," Picard answered. "But..." "But what?" she snapped back, the pain beginning to seep past her controls. "It wasn't your fault? It was that... merge, that melding of minds that Jemat did on the Breen ship? You were under control by Andile's personality? 'But' what?" she raged. "But," he replied calmly, gently, "but this isn't the time for this conversation," he told her - then gestured around the room at all the padds littering the area. "You're busy - and it was inappropriate for me to bother you right now - at least about this. Right now, my apology would only appease my conscience and not ease the pain I caused you; given the circumstances, I think it may only serve to distract you from... all this," he said, he said gesturing at the mounds of her work. "I owe you a proper apology, Beverly - but I'll give it to you at your convenience, not mine," he said - then, looked around the room once more and frowned. "Not to change the topic, Bev - but what _is_ all this?" he added. She looked back at the room, then back at him, the anger still visible in her eyes. "References, review of surgical approaches, adjutant chemotherapies... Lung transplantation isn't a new surgery - but a simultaneous autologous/allogeneic tissue graft is new. In theory, this should be pretty straightforward - after all, she's not rejecting the tissue in situ - but due to the immaturity of the tissue, I'm not entirely sure that the lungs are going to be functional. Hell, I'm not even sure they are going to engraft at all. "You need to understand, Jean-Luc, I'm going to remove what's left of her lung - and from that point, there's no going back. If the new tissue doesn't engraft, she's going to be back on ECMO. If the new lungs engraft, but fail to mature, I'll have to remove them as well - and she's back on ECMO. If the lungs engraft and mature, her diaphragm could still fail - and that's assuming the muscle enervation of the diaphragm wasn't too severe during her first surgeries - and she's back on ECMO." Beverly shook her head, her anger and frustration growing evident. "There are a thousand things that could go wrong, Jean-Luc - and only a few result in Andile walking out of Sickbay, alive and getting well. Most of them end with her being confined to a bed the rest of her life - or worse, if there is such a thing for someone like her," she added dourly. "Couldn't she just resume using the lung Data created?" he asked, confused. "She could go back to the way she is now..." "No. For one thing, she needs a least some lung tissue to serve as donor material for the lung. Once we excise the remaining tissue, we lose out current source. For a time we could rely on Jemat and his cloning techniques, but in time, even that would fail. And it won't allow her to speak. Data's lung - or any extracorporeal membrane oxygenator - will keep her tissues properly perfused, but you need to move air past the vocal chords to speak. There are devices, of course, that can replace her vocal chords, that can speak for her - but it's just one more step depriving her of her humanity, Jean-Luc, isolating her even further from her own people," she continued, her voice gentling, growing sympathetic. "Artificial heart, artificial lungs, artificial bones, artificial voice..." "She'd still be human, Beverly," he replied gently. "To us - but she wouldn't be with us, Jean-Luc," she protested. "If this surgery doesn't go exactly right, if everything that is to follow doesn't work exactly as it has to, Starfleet will have no choice but to remove her from the duty roster. Depending on her abilities, they may even discharge her entirely. Oh, they'll take care of her," she added, "in a hospital, or a care facility - but she won't be in space Jean-Luc. She won't be with those of us who care for her. And that's not what I - or you, or anyone who cares for her - wants, either." "And that's why you're going through all this?" he asked, glancing at padds once again. "Of course. What - do you think I know everything there is to know about transplant surgery off the top of my head?" she asked caustically. Picard studied the red-haired surgeon for a moment, glanced at the disorganized office - then looked back at her and nodded somewhat sheepishly. "Honestly? Yes," he admitted. "You are one of the most intelligent and talented people I know, Beverly; your knowledge and abilities have never failed to astound me - and yet do everything so easily, so matter-of-factly, and with such grace and ease... " He shook his head. "Realistically, I know you couldn't know everything about medicine - and yet, somehow I've always assumed that you did. If that sounds belittling, please accept my apology," he added. She stared at him for a moment - then allowed herself a smile. "If you don't mind, I'll accept the compliment instead. But no, I probably spend as many lonely evenings studying my work as you do yours." She gave a soft laugh. "My God, we're a pair, aren't we?" He smiled in agreement. "I suppose that if either of us were able to draw the line between work and our lives, we wouldn't be in Starfleet." "Certainly not as captain and CMO," she agreed. The two stared at each other for a few moments, uncertainly - then Picard said, "I should be going." Beverly nodded. "A good idea. It's not a good idea for Biji to be alone too long tonight; I don't want her dwelling on tomorrow..." She stopped in mid-sentence at Picard's frown. "What?" "She's not waiting for me," he said. "She... had an errand she needed to fulfill before tomorrow." "And that would be...? He hesitated, wondering if telling Beverly would be a breach of Andile's trust - but of things went badly for her tonight, Beverly would need to know. "She went to see Data - to apologize," he explained. "To apologize? To Data?! For what?!" she gaped, astounded. "For what happened," Picard replied. "For what happened?" Beverly gasped. "Jean-Luc, if there is any apologizing to do, it's on Data's part!" she growled. "He dumped her!" "Yes - but Dee believes that she was the cause of the breakup. There were things she didn't tell him..." "Data knows that part of life in Starfleet," Beverly protested. "I think Dee does as well," Picard replied. "Nonetheless..." His voice trailed off. Beverly stared at him for a long moment - then she sighed, nodding sympathetically. "I think I understand; Andile's just coming to terms with what happened on Cardassia. Until she does, she's not going to allow herself to accept the fact that she is worthy of being loved as Data loved her." Picard nodded, then hesitated, uncertain. "Bev... I believe he still does... love her," he said, the words unfamiliar, uncomfortable on his lips. "Indeed, I don't think he ever stopped." She gave him a puzzled and confused look. "Then why did he do it? Why did he break up with her?" she asked. "If her really loved her..." Picard hesitated again, his mind running over the question once more, just as it had for the last several months. Perhaps Dee wasn't beautiful, he thought; time and tragedy had changed the stunning physical beauty she had once possessed into something average, even unattractive - but there was so much more to her - indeed, to most women - than their mere outward appearance, things that a being... no, he corrected himself, a man... like Data could and should appreciate. Dee was brilliant, she was compassionate, she was witty, she was bold... she was everything that a man could want - and yet Data had sent her away. He paused for a moment - then looked at Beverly, their eyes meeting, searching deeply into each other as they had not done in so long. "Love is a powerful emotion, Beverly," he answered her, his voice, low, intense, rich... and she knew at once that he was not speaking solely of the android and the engineer. "Powerful, and compelling, and so utterly, utterly fulfilling that the thought of losing that love can be terrifying," he told her. "Jean-Luc..." she began softly. "But out of fear," he continued quietly, "out of the dread that that love, that wonderful, exquisite feeling that transcends all other emotions, that makes one's very life worth living, might someday be taken from them... men do foolish things. They turn away from the very thing they have always sought, trying to protect themselves against the pain they fear by pushing away the very love they could have," he told her. Beverly drew a deep breath, stepping closer to the man. "But why would he think that?" she asked huskily. "Why would he think he would lose her?" "Maybe..." He hesitated again, his hazel eyes locked on her sapphire ones, "Maybe he knew that the requirements of command might force him to put her in danger - and the knowledge that he might be responsible for her being harmed - or killed - was more than he could bear." "Or maybe," Beverly offered, "he knew that death was never that far away for any of us. He's lost friends before," she reminded him. "Tasha..." "Or maybe," he answered, "he was no different than Dee, afraid that he was not worthy of her love; maybe he was afraid that she might find someone else, someone who was better than he was, someone she could truly love..." "How could he think that?" she replied, her eyes glinting brightly as the tears began to well up in them. "Doesn't he know what a kind and gentle and generous man he is? How worthy he is of being loved - truly loved - and how much she cares for him? How important he is to her? Doesn't he know that?" "Perhaps..." Picard countered gently, "Perhaps he thinks she is too good for him. That he doesn't deserve her." She studied him for a moment. "Then he's a fool. But then," she added softly, "maybe he's not alone. Maybe she was a fool as well," she said. "She did something foolish?" he echoed. "Maybe," Beverly said. "Maybe she was scared. Maybe she had been hurt before - maybe she lost someone... many someones... who she loved dearly. Maybe she was too afraid to lose another person she loved to face being hurt once again," she offered. "And so she rejected love when it was offered." Picard considered, nodding slowly. "And now?" "And now... Now, she's still scared," she said softly. "But maybe she's beginning to realize a life spent hiding in fear is no life. Maybe she's beginning to realize a chance at love is worth the risks," she said. Picard stared at her for a long time, then reached for her hand. "I hope they find a way to work out their problems." "I hope so, too," she replied, squeezing his hand in response. "Maybe... maybe we could talk about their situation tomorrow... over dinner?" he suggested. "And I would like a chance to apologize properly for my behavior," he added. Beverly's smile faded. "I'd like that - but I'll be in intensive care with Andile until she's out of danger, Jean-Luc. It'll be several days at least." "Then, when she has recovered," he insisted. Beverly shook her head. "If she recovers," she reminded him. "She will," he objected. "She has everything to live for now," he said - then stepped forward, his hand reaching up to cup the angle of her jaw, tilting it up just enough so her eyes met his once again. "I'd like to think she's not alone," he added softly. Beverly stared at him for a long time - then smiled. "I'd like to think so as well." Her eyes stayed locked on his for a moment, then released his hands and stepped back. "Duty calls, Jean-Luc - and your faith in me notwithstanding, I have a lot of papers I want to review one last time before tomorrow." "Of course," he said, pulling on the war-torn shirt and jacket, not bothering to fasten either, soft curls of grey hair escaping from unfastened front. "I'll leave you to your work, then." "Thank you," she answered. "And thank you for stopping by." He nodded, smiling, then stepped to the door. Before it could open however, Beverly called out to him. "Jean-Luc?" He turned, a brow upraised in question. "You can... 'hear' her, can't you?" she asked. "Telepathically. I mean." He considered, then nodded. "Sometimes. After a fashion." "Then tomorrow... for the next few days... listen for her. I'm not certain how present she'll be telepathically, but if she is... be there. Give her someone, something to hold on to... just in case love isn't quite enough," she asked. He nodded. "I will," he agreed - then added, "But it will be. Of that, I no longer have any doubts." NewMessage: