Chapter Text
The ready room is silent all around him. The right side of his face, the brow where his Borg implant sat grafted onto his skin, itches, and there's a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. And a worse one in his mind, still. Murky and bitter, like dead mold.
In the still air of the ready room Captain Jean-Luc Picard is trying to work, while nursing an impressive bruise on his face and a dark cloud at the back of his mind. He was trained on Vulcan to resist telepathy, to resist his own mind, but sometimes there were bad days, where he was powerless against his recollections.
On a mission, he could stave them off almost indefinitely, but he knew from the very beginning, as told to him by his Vulcan teachers, that the price one’s body demands has to be paid eventually. All that matters is that it absolutely cannot be paid during a mission. But he’s not on one now, is he? At least not the one that would require such a rigorous control over his thoughts.
You see the lightning in his blue eyes as he raises his fist.
The PADD in his hands outlines the report of ship's activities for the past week. The stop on Risa, then summons to another starship in the vicinity. USS Zhukov. Starfleet command's orders.
-Murderer! -The young engineer wails. You see him raise his fist.
His temple itches. Carefully, Jean Luc scratches around the implant. The itch soothes, but the bitterness under his tongue grows heavier.
You are rubbing the place where the hit connected, impacting your implants deeper into the skin. You see him raise his fist.
Captain Gleason handed him a batch of sealed orders from Starfleet Intelligence, but more pressingly, directions to a humanitarian mission, and two industrial replicators meant to aid in relief efforts have been transported into Enterprise's cargo hold.
A young engineer turns the corner as you walk down the hallway with Zhukov's Captain. He freezes as he meets your gaze. You see him raise his fist.
His temple itches. Even worse, now. He refuses to scratch it this time, but his hands don't obey him – well-manicured nails dig into the soft skin around the ocular implant. If only he could peel it off, like an old scab… But he can’t. The only choice for him is to try and soothe that incessant itching with one hand, while still trying to get some work done.
Come on, it’s not hard. He’s been doing this for decades. A reverberating pang of annoyance twists in his mind, annoyance at his lackluster control. No matter. He will finish reviewing this stack of reports, dispense orders accordingly, then go to his quarters and take some sedatives. The itch is bound to pass eventually.
-Do you remember USS Constance… Locutus? -His voice trembles, but he looks you in the eye, defiantly. Captain Gleason opens his mouth, but you raise your hand, and nod. You see him raise his fist.
His temple itches. A shrill, hornet-nest-like buzzing under his skin, maddening. Trembling fingertips till offending patch of skin like impacted clay.
-I am Locutus of Borg. Resistance is futile. Your life, as it has been, is over. From this time forward, you will service us.
The PADD slips out of his fingers and thumps on the desk as the itch becomes so intense as to force him to bring both his hands to the side of his face to soothe it. He regrets cutting his nails short just yesterday, perhaps if they had been longer…
-Lieutenant Shaw, you are confined to your quarters until further notice! -Captain Gleason declares, loud and forceful.
The young engineer is restrained by two security officers, and is taken away.
-Neil, -you say, -Please make sure the lad won’t get into any serious trouble because of me? Consider it a favour owed. -You force an easy smile on your face.
After a brief pause, and with a disturbed look on his face, Captain Gleason nods.
His heartbeat picks up as a sense of panic encroaches on him, from somewhere deep inside his bones.
You see the young man raise his fist.
Scarlet iron under his fingernails. Blurred vision. A vice around his heart, even though it’s bionic, it’s not supposed to hurt like that. No matter how much he scratches the itch is getting worse. Part of him that isn’t yet drowning wants to call for help…
Targets: USS Firebrand, USS Chekhov, USS Melbourne - assimilated. Targets: USS Buran, USS Saratoga, USS Tolstoy - acquired. Proceed with assimilation.
…But it’s drowned out by the itch, the buzzing under his skin, and the voices – no, ghosts of voices, thousands upon thousands – not people, not people anymore, reduced to a single function, a single stream of data, but even then it was too much, too awful to endure. And there’s another thing. This shameful urge to avoid causing a fuss. It’s been a long time since he felt it in earnest. He’s the Captain of a flagship – one doesn’t get to such a station if they’re unable to ask for help. Whenever he feels it’s warranted, he seeks counsel, always.
Doesn’t he?
You lie on an operating table, ready to be fitted for your enhancements. You can’t move, even though your mind is thrashing, raging, like a thirst for oxygen in a drowning man. You can’t even look away from the sharp mechanical arm approaching your eye, ready to take it out and replace it with an ocular implant for the rest of your life.
A droplet of blood runs down his cheek like a tear. The metallic smell shocks him back to himself, if only for just a few moments. How long has he been sitting there, paralyzed?
-Jean-Luc, I removed most of them, but some things are just irreplaceable. You’re going to have to keep the ocular implant.
You touch the smooth plates, a row above your right brow, and a few on the temple, housing support hardware for the eye that looks just like the one they took, but isn’t. Beverly and Geordi managed to hack their way into disabling its ability to see anything outside of normal human visible light spectrum - he didn’t want to be reminded of his injury every time he opens his eyes in the morning - both warning him that this fix – a crutch, as Geordi called it, is very unstable, and he’d be wise to learn to control the eye’s full range of abilities. He politely refused.
-Furthermore, your brain came to rely psychologically on being a part of a commingling of minds. It now needs direct connection to another mind now and then. If you neglect this need there will be neurological consequences.
You suppress a shudder. Even the thought of being connected to the Collective fills his whole self with revulsion.
-Is this… “need” urgent?
Beverly purses her lips, like she always does when she’s tempted to lie for her patient’s benefit. After a moment of wrestling with herself she sighs.
-No. But the more you delay the more of a problem it will be.
He forces a smile onto his face.
-Then how about I’ll check in with you later?
In the four years since, the “later” never came.
No. He needs to do something. In a rushed impulse he all but jumps out of his chair. That was unwise. He’s light-headed, now. He takes a step towards the door.
You see him raise his fist and then there’s a sharp bursting pain at the side of your face, as the impact of the fist makes you stumble back.
A loud thump sounds at the Captain’s ready room as Jean-Luc Picard falls on the floor, out cold.
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The forcefield crackles on his bioplast skin as he walks through it, parting it like a thin satin curtain, approaching Captain's sickbed.
The Captain does not look well. His skin is nearing the pale shade it had back when he was assimilated into the Borg collective, and the right side of the Captain's face is covered by a regenerative dermal patch. He helped Dr. Crusher apply it over severe, self-inflicted, bleeding lacerations. And he knows they are self-inflicted, judging by the traces of blood under the Captain's fingernails.
The memory of finding Captain Picard indisposed in his ready room is bright in his mind. Well, technically all of his memories are equally vivid, but something about this one that he just cannot get it out of active recollection.
There was no logical reason for him to go to the ready room as often as he did, really, he could function in his duties to the ship from any of its decks, but… Over the years he found it occasionally pleasant to, as they say, “drop by” and visit the Captain in the middle of the day. Captain Picard's presence had always felt reassuring to him, and he could use some reassurance that day.
He only found a still body on the floor, prone and limp, and not reassuring at all. For a moment, just a moment, Data could remember, almost felt the fear and anger fed to him once through the emotion chip. He'd stop and ruminate on a curious sensation if the Captain didn't require his immediate attention.
Kneeling at his side, Data could see that Captain Picard was alive, blood oozing from the scratched out skin of his face in pulses visible only to Data's eye, and still he put two fingers over the artery on Picard's neck. He didn't know why, but feeling the beat against his skin was reassuring too.
He taps his comm badge.
-Data to the infirmary. The Captain requires medical attention. I will deliver him there right away.
His ping is answered almost immediately.
-Acknowledged.
If Dr. Crusher were worried about the Captain there was no indication of it in her voice, not even to Data’s ears.
Back at Picard's side he evaluates the situation. He knows that today the site to site transporters were undergoing scheduled maintenance and were inoperable. They could be made operable just to transport the Captain of course but it would take time, and Data is of the strong opinion that he needs to be delivered to Dr. Crusher's hands immediately.
There is an obvious solution, of course. It only takes him a fraction of a second to decide on the way to do it. The efficient “fireman” carry is best for most situations, utilizing the carrier's strength in the best way possible, but the blood pooling on the floor, leaking from Picard's face is… worrisome. The gravity would pull on it even more if Data were to carry him on his shoulder, upper body and the head hanging upside down.
He knows it would not cause a significant blood loss, but decides to avoid it anyway, maneuvering Picard's unconscious body closer to himself, holding him under the knees and supporting the back. Not the most efficient use of strength, but luckily, Soong androids had strength to spare. To him, all humans weighed like a feather.
Still, the Captain is so light in his arms. Less than a feather, more like lingering smoke, wavering on the edge of dissolving.
He sprints all the way to the infirmary, clutching the unconscious Captain close to his chest. Out of the ready room, through the bridge, to the turbolift. Deck 12, hallway. It is the shortest route. He notices people turning their heads, casting looks at him as he passes, but he has neither desire nor time to decipher them. Finally, sickbay.
A dry and weak groan snaps his attention back to the present moment, where Captain Picard frowns, eyes still closed, and slowly raises his arm to touch the obstruction on his face, the dermal patch, only to jolt as an intravenous drip needle lodged in Picard's elbow makes itself known.
A pained deep inhale, almond eyes crack open and close again. Picard sighs.
-I can hear a forcefield… -The usually smooth and commanding voice is scratchy and quiet, exhausted, -A sterile field?
It is very impressive for a human to be able to hear an active forcefield without agitating it by touching it. Not only do you need keen ears, you also have to know what to listen to. It is a skill humans can acquire, but it is more common in Vulcans. It is certainly not a part of standard Starfleet training.
Captain already knows that Data admires his vast array of eclectic skills though, so he simply confirms the, admittedly very astute, observation.
-Dr.Crusher had to give you the strongest immune suppressors available, since you are undergoing acute rejection syndrome. With your immune system “on pause” you also need the sterile field.
Picard's eyes are open enough now to look at Data, as if he's about to ask, “that bad?”, but then he reconsiders, wincing at the pain flare, and settles instead for another question:
-How long have I been out?
-Fourteen hours, thirty nine minutes. -Data answers, the matter-of-fact.
At some level he understood why organics always asked this after being incapacitated, he himself was once inactive for hundreds of years, and ever since then he could… empathize with the visceral fear, that one has missed a significant stretch of time in their existence.
Picard sizes him up in response, ever the leader even on his sickbed.
-How long have you been here?
Data feels like there is a catch to that question, but still offers nothing but the truth.
-...Fourteen hours, eleven minutes.
There's an apologetic smile on Picard's lips.
-You needn't have worried Data, I'm sure Beverly-
-I am not capable of worry, -Data interrupts, with an unusual harshness in his voice, -but I am capable of concern. And finding you unconscious in your ready room, with a lacerated face, was concerning. So was your subsequent state. -In a softer tone, he adds, -I stayed to offer Dr.Crusher my assistance.
-Which is very welcome, since I'm not sure my ability alone will be enough this time. -Beverly Crusher enters this section of the sickbay, with a thoroughly unimpressed look, clearly having heard some of the current conversation.
She looks down at Picard with exasperation cut with concern, which Data finds very curious. Concern he gets, but why exasperation?
The doctor folds her hands across her chest. The forcefield crackles as she approaches.
-I did warn you about this, Jean-Luc, but your body started to aggressively reject your Borg implants, I suspect because the need to connect to another mind has not been met in quite a while. We need to take care of this as soon as possible, or I can't guarantee that you'll survive.
Throughout the years, Data learned the emotional cues on the face of his Captain well, some by care, some by happenstance. And what he sees flashing on Picards in succession are: guilt, dread, and then, resignation.
-We need to get to the nearest starbase. There should be someone suitable there. -Picard says, as if without really meaning it, as if he knows the words about to escape Data's mouth:
-But the nearest starbase is weeks away, Captain.
-And you don't have weeks, Jean-Luc, you have days at best.-Beverly adds, side-glancing at Data carefully, then back at Picard, who shakes his head ever so slightly. Whatever their wordless communication entailed, Data has no idea what it's about, which he guesses is the point.
-We only have two Vulcans on the ship, Beverly, and you and I both know I won't subject them to this. It's too dangerous.
Data knew about the Captain's need to commingle with another mind directly for less than a day, but the fourteen hours is ample time for an android to think things through. Now, he believes, is the right time to voice his suggestion.
Hoping as always to be of help, he utters:
-Captain, if you excuse me, I believe that I might be able to interface with your Borg implants the way I did four years ago, and without the hive occupying the frequency, connect to your mind directly. Whatever the dangers of it are, I am confident in my capability to withstand them.
As it often is, the effect of his words is vastly off from what he predicted, a microexpressions of dread and fear instead of relief he hoped for.
-No. -Is all Picard says for a while, then adds, -No, I can't do this to you either.
Dr.Crusher throws her hands out, almost desperate.
-Jean-Luc, you are going to die unless we do something!
The resignation in his Captain's eyes is so vivid, it's apparent even to Data.
-Then I will die.
Another memory of emotion bobs to the surface, and Data wishes he could actually feel them right now, but the closest approximation he can muster is to hold a memory of soul-tearing sadness he once felt in Lore through the emotion chip, and act accordingly.
-I see, -Data says, takes off his commbadge, and puts it on the table nearby. -Then consider me on bereavement leave effective immediately, Captain.
Confusion crosses Picard's exhausted features.
-Data, what are you doing?
Data is “getting comfortable” on a chair near the Captain's bed.
-If you are currently in the final days of your life, Captain, I would not want to miss even a second of it, -he explains, -and if possible, I would like to convince you to reconsider.
Picard's knuckles get even whiter, if that's even possible, as he grips his sheets on the opposite side of Data, hoping he wouldn't see.
Dr.Crusher excuses herself, saying that she will be around if the Captain changes his mind, and she will be working on solutions meanwhile. Yet again there is something Data is missing in this interaction. Thankfully the explanation presents itself shortly.
The Captain raises slightly in his medibed, looking uncharacteristically weak and worn out, like a thread reused, stitched into cloth and pulled out too many times.
-Data, there's information in my mind you're not cleared to know. I shouldn't even be telling you about this, but I need you to understand, -Picard runs out of breath mid sentence, but forges on regardless, -I need you to understand that if you get exposed to it through my mind, the Starfleet Command… They might go as far as to decommission you, take you apart piece by piece, and I don't want this for you.
Data holds Picard's gaze, thinking on what he just heard.
First of all, he thought his willingness to give up his life for the Captains has been self-evident throughout the years. There's nothing logical about it, he has tried to rationalize this drive for quite some time, but in the end, he had to accept that he simply… Wants Jean-Luc Picard's existence to continue for as long as possible. Even if he is not there to see it.
Secondly, he knows only of one branch of Starfleet that would consider killing him to preserve secrecy. Intentionally or not, Captain Picard has just confirmed something Data has been long suspecting: at some point the current Captain of the Enterprise has been a part of Starfleet Intelligence.
Third, as a consequence of the second: if the information in the Captain's head is worth killing the only Soong Type android Starfleet has access to, then whatever Picard did for Starfleet Intelligence could not have been… “Clean.” In addition to the secrecy, there is probably shame involved.
And finally, fourth: had the Captain's decision been final he wouldn't divulge this information to Data at all. Therefore, Captain Picard is open to persuasion. Whether he knows it or not.
There is hope.
However, he has to tread carefully. He knows the Captain does not tolerate deception. So he leans slightly forward to convey closeness and lowers the tone of his voice when he makes his first move.
-Captain, I need you to know that I will not force the action that will save your life on you. However, I will stay here and do everything in my power to convince you to take it willingly.
Picard's lips thin into a line as he nods and lies back, exhausted. He wouldn't expect anything less of Data, and he won't ask him to leave.
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The saliva in his mouth tastes like bile, like a single drop could kill him ten times over, but doesn't, for the universe isn't done toying with him yet. A part of him is surprised Q hasn't shown up yet, to either gloat, or, more likely, to offer some sick Faustian bargain in exchange for him living to see another day. Which he wouldn't take. Besides, mere survival is within his grasp, but at what cost?
Someone switched the lighting above his medibed to be in warmer colors. Like sunset. Standard procedure for dying patients, to supposedly make them less depressed about their surroundings. It does nothing for Picard, but the lighting does look good on Data, who sits here by his bed and holding a PADD. He's not reading it - his eyes aren't moving at all like they do when the android is reading line after line. He's probably just holding it because it's what people do – isn't he?
The soft warm lighting makes Data's skin look almost peachy, a golden glint refracting in the particulates of the bioplast. It is caught in hair, too, deep chestnut now.
He's beautiful.
It's not something he'd admit so readily to himself, but it's likely he won't get the chance to again. Though he won't burden Data with his affections, especially not now. He can potentially live forever, and he doesn't want to introduce a possibility, only for the android to wonder what could have been for so long.
He sighs and decides to break the silence, since Data didn't do so for however many hours they have spent in it.
-So? I thought you said you'd attempt to persuade me.
Data immediately puts down the PADD and turns to him.
-I have been contemplating my approach, sir.
Honest to a fault, sometimes, as always. Picard smiles, then winces when his dry skin prickles from the stretch.
-And?
The android tilts his head with a pensive look on his face.
-I cannot seem to think of anything with predictable rates of success. -He sounds genuinely distraught. Or as distraught as he is capable of sounding. -Deceiving you would be pointless and immoral, but I am sure any rational argument I might present, you have already thought of, and chose your current course of action anyway… Though, if I may ask, sir, why are you so sure that saving your life in a way Dr. Crusher and I suggest, would end in my disassembly?
Of course he doesn't understand. He’s missing a whole lot of crucial information about how Starfleet Intelligence operates, and that's by design. Jean-Luc isn't proud of this, but such secrecy around their actions is, in part, to avoid tarnishing its reputation, and by extension, the rest of Starfleet.
-I’m not. But the risk is there and it’s a risk I can’t take.
Data shakes his head.
-I risk my life on your orders daily, sir. How would this risk be different than going with you into battle, encountering unknown hostiles, or even performing a routine maintenance of the ship?
The intensity in Data's eyes, that Picard didn't notice until it was gone, softens, the android probably realizing it's not a very fair question to ask. His voice too, softens, once he leans in to speak.
-Captain, I hope you know that nothing I could possibly see in your mind would tarnish the way I think of you. If it is guilt or shame of me specifically seeing it that causes you to prefer death, I… -Data pauses, rosegold lips open mid sentence, and then close. Then, having rephrased what he was about to say in his head, he inhales again. -I want you to understand that you have nothing to worry about in that regard. I am… Incapable of scorn.
Jean-Luc Picard hasn't cried at all for close to a year, ever since his capture by Gul Madred, and it takes every drop of effort left in him right now to keep it that way. He doesn't understand why. Data has said things of similar effect to him before, so why did it almost drive him to tears now?
The tears unwept are bitter in his throat as he shakes his head.
-I know. I know you’d never judge me for what I had- for what I did. But I still can’t let you risk your life blindly like this.
Data looks somewhere to the side, deep in thought for a brief moment. Then, it’s as if Picard could see an idea form in that positronic network of his.
-What if it was not blindly, sir? If it came to it, there are a number of arguments I could present during a court martial that would strongly incentivise… Starfleet to forgo disassembling me in favor of some other punishment.
The android’s willingness to accept any punishment as long as it saves his Captain’s life is known to both of them, and hangs thick in the air.
-Arguments… such as?
There is a bit of a snag in timing as Data answers, doubt holding him back if only a little.
-Such as that I can be reliably sworn to secrecy, sir. -There's an intense glint in those yellow eyes again, -Including keeping secrets from you. There is a piece of information I have been sworn to keep secret from you, by you. Do you recall what happened on stardate 44502.7?
Most people would have answered “no” to this query, but as it happens, information retention and recall are a part of Starfleet Intelligence training, far more rigorous than normal Starfleet courses. Although, the answer is still “no” in a way, because he doesn't remember anything notable happening that day. They got off early from Harrakis V, encountered an anomaly that knocked them out for a couple of hours, released hazard warning buoys as per protocol and went on their merry way. That's what happened. …Didn't it?
-I recall that the anomaly knocked us all unconscious, -Picard warily answers, and counters with a question of his own, -So what really happened?
Rosegold lips twitch slightly, a ghost of a smile.
-I cannot tell you that. I have been sworn to secrecy. The wording of your order allows me to mention the fact of you giving it, but until now, I considered it to be under my discretion not to, as well. -There's something almost playful in Data's eyes as he continues talking. -Although, the events that transpired that day are still in my memory, and if you do truly wish to know, the means to see what is in my mind are within your disposal, sir.
Jean-Luc would laugh if he weren't absolutely positive it would cause him a coughing fit. He smiles, however, painful stretching of the skin be damned. Data can be outstandingly funny and witty when he doesn't mean to be, but this very opaque attempt at playing on his curiosity is a very much intentional half-joke, something that he had such difficulty with only a few years ago. Death or no death, being present in Data's life for his journey and helping him along the way makes him as proud as his captaincy of the Enterprise.
-I see… Any other arguments? You will need several.
Data eagerly nods.
-Yes. sir. Another argument is, if you forgive my bluntness, my value. I am the only Soong-type android in Starfleet's employ, and I do not see this fact changing anytime soon. I am more useful alive, and… I hope that I have not given Starfleet a cause to doubt my loyalty.
Data looks almost sad when he finishes talking, and there it is again – an impulse! Temptation. Something shoved deep into recesses of Jean-Luc's mind burrowing to the surface, an urge to raise his hand and reach out, to touch, to comfort. The android of course would claim to have never felt such things as sadness, but everyone knows by now it's not exactly true. Not fully.
The only things preventing him from acting on said impulse are pain and distance. But he forces air into his lungs and speaks.
-Data, you are far more valuable than you give yourself credit for. And you have been… Loyal to a fault, almost. But I am afraid that some actors in Starfleet would still like to see you gone. There have been attempts before.
Surely Data understands what he means. He doesn't need to bring up Maddox, who is friendly with Data now, but the mentality he used to have towards the android is unfortunately alive and well. Data's daughter Lal, the light of his life, however brief her existence, has fallen victim to that same meddling.
-There have been, -Data agrees, -And while I concur that some of the Starfleet command would like to see me gone, I do not believe majority of them would. Would you like to hear my third argument?
After Picard nods, he continues, -I have installed a kind of black box feature into myself after the third time I was compromised as a mechanical being and used to threaten the safety of the ship. It detects tampering, and encrypts everything marked as sensitive information. It becomes inaccessible to me, and I would not be able to recall it even if I wanted to. The feature is disabled when my system returns to its normal parameters. I have… I have had a chance to test it yet again quite recently.
Data pauses, and Picard doesn't need to have joined minds with him to know what he's thinking about. Lore, mainlining anger and hate directly into his brain. After everything was over Data assured him that Lore didn't get access to any sensitive information, but declined to go into detail. He remembers it quite well, Data staring into the distance, even less animated than usual. If he could look haggard the way humans do at that moment he would. It is both impressive and heartbreaking that Data saw it coming, and took precautions to protect the Enterprise as best he could.
-So, what do you think, Captain? -Data queries, having pulled himself together.
What does he think? All of those are good arguments, and Jean-Luc himself can think of a few – exigent circumstances, preservation of life – but would it be enough for the admiralty?
He feels tired all of a sudden, like an engine inside him came to a stop. He looks up at Data – clad in honeyed light – his eyelids heavy, and is almost ready to say no, to remain steadfast in his decision, but one look in these bright eyes makes him unsure. That and the tiredness make it clear that he can't decide quite yet.
-I… I need to think about this, Data.
When the android doesn't move at all and just peers at him quizzically, he clarifies:
-Alone, if you please.
It pains him to send Data away like this, the sting of rejection showing up as a barely noticeable twitch on his features, but he truly can't make a decision like this.
Data solemnly nods, and immediately moves to leave the sickbay.
And thus, he is left alone with his hazy thoughts, and the dim pale orange lights, and the tiredness. He can feel himself falling asleep, slipping away through his own fingers.
He blinks.
An inordinate amount of time passes. Did he fall asleep? The lights have changed to pale moonlight colors, light blue, and silver and lavender. He can feel himself breathing, drawing in air into his lungs and then expelling it. But the air is still, the particles of dust hanging in the air, like the whole world came to a stop.
He can also feel a presence.
-You are an idiot, Jean-luc.
The voice is agonizing in its familiarity, having singed itself directly onto Picard's brain tissue, where he couldn't possibly forget who it belonged to, even if he really wanted to sometimes.
-What do you want, Q? -He exhales, somehow feeling even more exhausted than before.
There are footsteps, and then the trickster comes into his field of vision, for once having the decency not to sport a captain's uniform, instead being clad in science-medical blue, a lab coat draped on his shoulders, empty sleeves hanging down his sides. His arms are crossed over his chest, and the look on his face is uncharacteristically sullen. The lights make him look ghostly.
-Don't worry, I'm not here to offer you any more second chances. As much as I'd like to.
Picard's mouth is dry.
-Is that so. How come?
Q's gaze lands on the chair Data was using before he left. Silently, he picks it up with his hands and moves it closer to Picard's medibed. No snapping fingers, no flashing lights to summon a sofa. He simply spins it around so the back faces Picard’s bed, and straddles in in his overly casual manner.
-Believe me, Jean-Luc, this display is just sad to watch, and I would just snap my fingers and make you well again… If I could.
Sometimes Picard truly wonders whether Q can read his thoughts or not. Though perhaps the wording is just a coincidence. There's a strain to Q's face, something looking awfully similar to pity. But whom is he pitying…?
-What, did Continuum demote you to human again?
-Funny. -Q deadpans, sounding offended, -I am perfectly fine, thank you very much. You, on the other hand, are fast on your way to turn into a cadaver, and the powers that be demand that I sit this one out.
He sounds… frustrated, but not petulant like it usually is with him.
-Even though I do want to help you, now…
With this, Q carefully reaches for Jean-Luc's face, fingers hovering just above the dermal patch, Borg implants laying underneath, giving off a hellish heat, or at least, it feels that they do. He can't tell if Q touched him or not, but an almost shock-like sensation runs through his spine regardless. It's impossible to suppress a whole body twitch that follows, and a grimace of regret strikes Q's face.
-...I can't do much more than dull the pain.
Now he can feel it, a tender touch, fingers gliding from his temple to the jaw, like one would do when turning down the volume on a screen, and the pain subsides, and he can't contain the sigh of relief.
He's almost shaking. The absence of pain is like a palpable sensation in its own right. That, and he can't reconcile Q's actions with his usual ways. Dulling the pain? Q isn't about that, Q is about torturing him to beat some kinda sick lesson into him, or just for his own amusement. Q isn't about pity… Is he?
-Why won't you just say yes? -The voice with a clear undercurrent of frustration tears him out of his thoughts.
-What… are you talking about?
He's so lost. Say yes to what? To Q? He was never actually brazen enough to ask outright. Jean-Luc assumed it was self-evident why he never did.
Q looks at him with expression so unimpressed, it almost convinces him that the trickster does indeed read his thoughts.
-He can save you, Jean-Luc, why won't you just say yes?! What, out of loyalty to a bunch of war criminals who also made you commit war crimes?
His voice is mocking now, but also bitter.
If only it was about loyalty to Starfleet Intelligence. He smiles, amused that the façade he has built over the years managed to fool even Q.
-No. Not out of loyalty to them.
Q throws his hands in the air, exasperated:
-Then wh– -His expression shifts suddenly, eyes widening, and a smirk curving on his lips, and his whole posture changes, hands back down across his chest, -Oooh. Oh, I see. It's about him isn't it? …Does he know?
Now, Jean-Luc knows exactly what Q is talking about, and is not amused by it one bit.
-Why do you care? Are you that jealous? -He fires off, defensive, and too tired to keep himself contained as usual.
In response Q tilts his head, wistful.
-Perhaps, a little. You don't have to worry, however. I like him too. Not quite as much as you do, but enough to want to keep his friendship. He's the only person here who was ever nice to me, you know.
A small, barely even noticeable pang of guilt prickles on Jean-Luc’s biomechanical heart. He’s not a fan of the sensation at all, and his patience is wearing ever increasingly thin. He has nothing to feel guilty for. Nothing at all.
-Why are you here, Q? You didn’t care to show up the last few times I- the words ‘needed you’ hang at the tip of his tongue before he thinks better of it, -the last few times I was about to die. Why now?
Q all but jumps from his chair and grips the back of it, knuckles tight.
-Why now?! Why now, he asks. Well, Jean-Luc, I’m here now because you are actually killing yourself. You never tried to kill yourself before! You traipsing about the galaxy in your little ship and getting a few bruises sometimes is not anything unusual, and you have survived perfectly fine without my help, didn’t you? And now, well…
He trails off, looking somewhere to the side in the direction of the door leading out of the sickbay, distracted for just a moment, before turning back to face Picard again.
-So he doesn’t know, does he? And you of course think it’s going to be better this way? -When Jean-Luc remains silent, he scoffs and lets go of the chair. -And that’s why you’re an idiot, mon capitaine. And selfish. You may think you’re doing him a favor, protecting him even, but really you are just scared. Aren’t you? But fine, let’s forget your android for a moment. What about everyone else? You think they will go on just fine and dandy without you?
Picard’s body is painless, as per Q’s influence, but his spit tastes like bile again. The pressure on his molars suddenly becomes apparent and he realizes he’d been clenching his teeth. He forcefully relaxes his jaw.
-I am not irreplaceable. The Enterprise will be fine. -There. Nice and even tone.
Q’s lips thin into a line.
-That’s not what I asked and you know it. Do you yourself even believe what you’re saying?
It’s then, as if something burns out in Q’s gaze, ashen now, and he turns his back on Picard, taking a step away from his bed. He is silent for a few long moments, but when he speaks again his voice is weary.
-I’ve had enough of this. Say yes to Data when he asks again. Don’t be a coward, Jean-Luc, I happen to know that you can do better than that. I can do nothing more for you.
There is a painful urgency in Q's voice, and Picard doesn't think it's a coincidence that the trickster hid his face. The airs around them are silent, until Q lets out a sigh, and his posture shifts, shoulders relaxing.
-Your brave little tin soldier is right outside the door, by the way. Has been there for hours. If you're gonna make a decision make it soon, before time makes it for both of you.
The snap of the fingers rends the silent air and the lights are back to their peachy sunset color, dust particles dancing in the rays, and it's like a thick film has been lifted from the reality.
The analgesic effect still lingers, however, but Jean-Luc is feeling it slowly dissipating. There's also a weight of Hypnos's deceptively heavy hands knocking on the doors of his consciousness. He uses the last dregs of wakefulness to call out to the man who is, according to Q, standing at the door.
-Data?
Q might be a pain to deal with, but Jean-Luc has to admit that he never told him outright lies, and hasn't started now, either. He hears soft footsteps, too soft for a hundred kilogram man made of duranium, and then the android is by his side again.
-Yes sir? Have you reached a decision?
The alabaster features are stoic, as usual, but still there's something there that makes Picard feel sorry for making him wait at the door.
-No. Not yet. But… I changed my mind about wanting to make it alone.
Data tilts his head, now very visibly confused. Picard smiles.
-Stay, Data. I think… I'd rather you be here.
Citrine eyes light up with something akin to relief, and as Jean-Luc drifts away into hazy sleep, Data's presence steadies him.
══════════════════
The Captain's sleep was not a peaceful one, but Data thought it prudent to be still and silent so as not to wake him. He needed the sleep, however painful, in his state. Still, the heavy and hoarse breathing, the groans, the dew of sickly sweat on the brow not covered by the dermal patch, the miserable spasms and twitches of the face…
Data could only endure so much of it. He could not feel in a human sense of the word, but repeated exposure to someone else's pain made him uneasy, the potentials in his positronic matrix shifting into an ever increasing state of disarray. So six hours later and not a moment sooner Data puts his palm on Picard's and gently squeezes.
-Captain? Wake up.
His voice is reasonably quiet but Picard jolts as if he was being electrocuted. The gaze in blue eyes is unfocused, “far away”, for a few moments, before he realizes who is trying to rouse him.
-Data… - a small rueful smile, -I've been dreaming about you.
The Captain's words are quiet and mellow, and Data has never heard him speak in such cadence before. It was… disconcerting, even though he supposes most humans, had they been in his place, would have found such gentleness pleasant. He does not. It is unusual and in current circumstances unusual is cause for concern.
What is also a cause for concern is that they are running out of time. It is slipping through their fingers not like sand, even, but like water. Or perhaps even air. Data needs to know his Captain's decision.
-Captain, -he says, trying to measure the exact amount of urgency to put in his voice, -You need to decide whether to agree to Dr.Crusher and mine's proposition as soon as possible.
Picard gives him a long look, his expression blank. Data holds his gaze, and then something in his Captain's expression breaks. He closes his eyes.
-Yes.
It's all he says for the moment, which leaves Data quite confused.
-Sir?
Blue eyes open again, this time not absent, but resolute.
-Yes, Data. My answer to your proposal. You can do everything you deem fit to save my life… On one condition, however.
There is clarity to his words now, a resolve that is so familiar to him it immediately puts him at ease, far cry from the gentleness from a few moments before.
-What is it, sir?
-If Starfleet command decides to disassemble you after all, I want you to run. If the worst is to happen and we… If we lose, I don't want you to submit to disassembly. Promise me that you will do whatever it takes to avoid it.
Ah. That does not seem too unreasonable of a condition. Of course, Data doubts that it will come to that, but if it does…
His thoughts go to his brother once again. Ever since he infiltrated the Enterprise yet again and then escorted Lt. Barclay on a mission that Data was assigned to, Data thought of him often. He would never admit this to anyone, mostly because he thought he would be misunderstood, but… When he found out that his brother was alive and out there, it was a relieving experience, if he were to use human terms.
He supposes, that if it comes to it, there will simply be one more rogue Soong type android out there, living a life on the fringes. Lore proved it possible.
-I promise.
That is all it takes to dissolve the resolve behind Picard's eyes into a relief so obvious Data can plainly see it.
-Good. I'm ready to begin as soon as you are. If I know you at all, you have had everything ready for quite a while now, right?
Data nods.
-I do, sir. Though I will need a few minutes to summon Geordi. His presence will be required as well… Is that alright with you?
Picard hums affirmatively, and so Data starts on making the final preparations, along with sending the summons to Dr. Crusher and Geordi, both of whom were sleeping, since it's the middle of the night of the Enterprise. That is quite alright though, Data has enough faculties to compensate for his companions' drowsy state.
It takes about ten minutes for both Dr. Crusher and Geordi to arrive, the latter rubbing his eyes under the visor. The former, however, looks as if she just woke up after a full eight hour sleep, as she always does, which Data always found impressive. Doctor has two identical decks of what seems to be cards in her hands, and Geordi came with an advanced tricoder model and a very familiar cable, the one often used in Data's maintenance.
-Hey Data, -the Chief Engineer greets him, then, as if not sure what to say to Picard, he nods at him, -Captain. Listen Data, you might want to lie down for this, because we don’t know how the calibration will affect your motor function. Can you move that medibed over there closer to the Captain’s?
There’s a confused look on Picard’s face, but before Data or Geordi can elaborate, Crusher does, while she’s adjusting the intravenous drip delivering an immune suppressant to the Captain’s veins.
-Don’t worry, Jean-Luc, the connection between your minds will be remote, but for technical and security reasons you will need to be in a very close proximity to initiate the link. We don’t want you to start hearing the Collective again.
She started talking at her normal volume, but quickly toned it down once she saw a pained wince on the Captain’s face. When she stopped, Data realized that he has been standing there, staring, instead of moving the medibed like he’s supposed to, so he gets right on that.
Once the medibed is in place, Data sits down on it, then carefully removes his shoes before swinging his legs up on it as well, and lying down. He chances a side-glance at the Captain, and finds him looking at the android as well. Most humans in this situation would avert their gaze, but Picard holds it, as if trying to find something in Data’s expression. Whether he found it or not is unclear, as they are interrupted by Geordi.
-Data, I’ll need access to one of your positronic brain ports. Can you open one for me?
Yet another security precaution Data installed into his chassis that was not there “out of the box”. Unless he is in maintenance mode, no one but himself can open his access panels. No human or even Klingon would be able to – they lack the necessary strength. Only another Soong-type android can, and while it is a flaw in the design of this security feature, Lore is just one person, and one person being able to bypass it is better than anybody being able to.
He turns his head so he looks up at the ceiling, and opens the dataport access pannel on his left temple. A familiar sensation of careful, gentle intrusion and then connection pops into the foreground when Geordi plugs in the cable into the port, and then to the tricoder. In the corner of his vision there’s movement, and when he turns again to look, he sees Dr. Crusher do similar manipulations with the Captain, connecting at least three probes to his Borg implant, cables running from it and to her desk computer. Data remembers this – the computer and the tricoder will communicate wirelessly.
Thankfully they will not require such a cumbersome and unwieldy setup every time. All this is just for calibration. He looks at Picard again, and ponders his decision to tactfully omit that they will require several sessions of this. Was it wise? On one hand, the Captain has every piece of information to surmise this by his lonesome, and did not strictly need Data to tell him this… On the other hand it might be another factor in Picard’s decision to meld or not, if he had known about it.
Even discounting that point, the potentials in his brain are getting… Well, from his research it is the closest he can come to feeling trepidation. After all he does not know what the meld will feel like. Him and Dr. Crusher even hypothesized that perhaps doing this might even give him access to feeling emotion… And he would be extremely pleased by the prospect, if not for his experience with emotions just few months ago. It had been overwhelming.
Yet another thing he told no one about, is that hatred and anger were not the only things Lore chose to transmit to him. Sometimes it was pleasure or satisfaction. It was always after Data did something Lore approved of, and he cannot even begin to guess whether it was Lore’s own emotion, or his brother was trying to use the proverbial carrot and stick method, and the pleasure was a carrot. Regardless, the feeling has been intense, and after the fact Data found that remembering said pleasure did not feel pleasant at all, and even repulsive.
So he wonders, if on the off chance he feels pleasure during the link… Will it be just as repulsive? He does not want it to feel repulsive. Not with the Captain.
A feather-light touch grazing his fingers interrupts his thoughts, and when he turns to Picard he sees the sickly pale yet warm hand touching his own, knuckles brushing over knuckles, and a subtle look of compassion on the Captain’s face. Data should have known. Sometimes the Captain just knows what he’s thinking even without having to connect mind-to-mind directly. Perhaps the troubling thoughts reflected on his face, somehow.
It does not last long, however, a few seconds and the touch goes away, the Captain looking up at the ceiling again.
Eventually, the setup is complete, and know Geordi and Dr.Crusher stand in front of him and the Captain respectively, each holding a deck of cards.
-Alright. -Dr. Crusher says, and runs her fingers along the edge of the deck, the first sign of nervousness Data has seen from her all day. -Me and Geordi will show you and Data identical cards, and you will need to look at it and tell us what you see on them. This will help the software we devised to create an interface between the two of your brains specifically. Are you ready?
-Yes. -They both say in unison, and the Doctor nods.
-Then let’s begin.
Geordi shows him a card.
-Blue eye. -The captain’s voice sounds to his left, slurred and exhausted.
-Image of a human eye. -He describes, exactly as he sees it.
Geordi puts away his card, in sync with Beverly, and shows him another one.
-Stars.
-Corona Borealis.
He sounds so pained, even though he tries his best not to show it.
Inhale. Exhale. Another card.
-A seagull, eating.
-A seagull, eating small fish.
The air is cold in his lungs.
Another card. Bamboo grove. Amethyst Geode. A white cat playing with a ball of yarn. A dagger on a plate. Isolinear chip. Blood pulsing in his veins. Starfish. Brick house. Tingling of electricity at his fingertips.
Their minds are not connected, not quite yet, but with each card their descriptions became more and more similar, and Data was sure he could catch some stray sensations from the Captain.
Eventually, Beverly nodded at Geordi and they put away the cards.
-Are you ready, Data? -Geordi’s voice sounds so far away…
Right. He is supposed to be the one to initiate the connection. In time, the Captain will be able to as well, but he has not had enough practice with his Borg implant usage. Data of course understood why, even though he agrees with Geordi that it would be better long term if the Captain mastered his cybernetic parts, he also can certainly imagine the visceral discomfort it would cause… But now there is no choice.
-I am ready, Geordi. Captain?
-Yes, Data. -Not a question but a statement, expression of consent.
Data can almost feel the anticipation permeating the room.
It is now or never.
>START
PROGRAM DATPICRELAY0001
IMPLICIT LOGICAL (A-Z)
INTEGER MAXROW
INTEGER MAXCOL
INTEGER WROW
INTEGER WCOL
PARAMETER (MAXROW=5)
PARAMETER (MAXCOL=5)
PARAMETER (WROW=2)
PARAMETER (WCOL=3)
INTEGER X
DIMENSION X(MAXROW,MAXCOL)
INTEGER R
INTEGER C
C
C
C INITIALISE THE ARRAY TO
C 1 2 3
C 4 5 6
C LEAVE THE REST OF THE ARRAY ALONE
C
X(1,1) = 1
X(1,2) = 2
X(1,3) = 3
X(2,1) = 4
X(2,2) = 5
X(2,3) = 6
DO 10 R=1,WROW
10 CONTINUE
CALL SUB1(X,WROW,WCOL)
DO 20 R=1,MAXROW
20 CONTINUE
END
SUBROUTINE SUB1(X,WROW,W░░░)
░░░LICIT LO░ICAL (A-Z)
INTE░ER ░OW
INT░░░R WCOL
INTEGER ░░░
DI░E░S░N░░░░░░W,WC░L) ░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████