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Chapter Text

"I appreciate that you find me sexually attractive," Data said to the junior assistant engineer standing before him, whose posture, since their spontaneous confession to him at the end of their monthly performance review and debriefing, had been deteriorating before his eyes into a quivering mess. "However, I cannot consent to sexual activity with you."

"No, no - of course."

Data continued. "At all times, there are many considerations I must factor into my interactions with junior personnel. I must balance the need to avoid harming you, or hurting your feelings, with my responsibility to see to it that our work is carried out to the Captain's satisfaction. A sexual relationship between us would over-complicate this task." Then he lowered his head, emulating the expression Geordi sometimes gave him when he offered a convoluted but elegant solution, before a fast and simple one, to a problem: "I must also remind you that, as an android, I am not able to experience pleasure in any of the ways you might like me to."

"Yes. I'm sorry, sir."

"There is no need to apologise," said Data matter-of-factly. "However, the degree of sexual desire you are experiencing does seem to be distracting you from your duties in Engineering. Perhaps, in order to return to normal functioning, you need some sort of positive relief - satiation; catharsis. Is that correct?"

They didn't say anything. Their face was flushed, their breathing audible, and their heartbeat visibly quivering under the fabric of their uniform.

"Yes - yes, I think that is correct. Hm. Crewman, when you next find yourself becoming preoccupied with sexual thoughts during your shift, I would like you to first try to distract yourself from them using concentration and breathing techniques which Counselor Troi will be able to teach you." A calm, open voice. "If that is unsuccessful, then you are to briefly excuse yourself to a bathroom at the first opportunity. Masturbate in privacy, and then return to your post."

"..Acknowledged." Their voice trembled.

"Certain objects the replicator has on file, specifically a vibrating massager, may be helpful to this end. It is normally restricted as contraband, but I could give you temporary clearance to create it. Will this be necessary?"

"No - but thank you, sir."

"You are welcome," he nodded gently. "Crewman?" He raised an index finger to signal for the junior engineer's attention. "Stand at ease, now, please." They stopped slouching and quivering immediately, and stood with their back straight and hands behind their back, eyes blank and facing forward. Data, rising from his chair, took tentative hold of their waist and kissed their right upper cheek. "A kiss and hug can sometimes be a helpful gesture of support," he said, as he let go of them. "As you were." Their eyelids and shoulders dropped on a quiet exhale. "You are dismissed."

Chapter Text

"Do you understand why I brought you here?"

Because I'm not functioning, the junior engineering assistant acknowledged in a pained and matter-of-fact voice.

"Yes. You have been highly inattentive for the past several weeks. Although you have been present in Engineering whenever you have been needed, you have frequently been unable to meet the deadlines Commander La Forge has set for you. There have been several significant errors in programs you have drafted, particularly with regard to navigation and flight dynamics. Yesterday, one of these errors almost resulted in two class-A probes having to be jettisoned - Spot?" The crewman was attempting to stand still with their hands clasped behind their back, but Spot had begun winding herself around their legs. A twitch in their face suggested that the spot where Spot was was beginning to itch. "Come here, Spot."

Spot jumped onto his desk. "Other than the considerations you raised last time we spoke in private," Data continued, taking Spot onto his lap as she walked in front of his face, "are there any other explanations for your inadequate performance that you are aware of?" He stroked Spot's back to settle her.

There were no other explanations they knew of, they said. 

"...I see. Then, may I ask you a personal question?" They nodded in assent. "In your spare time, what activities have you found to be reliably enjoyable or relaxing?"

In reply, they told him that this was a question which several counselors, including Troi, had asked them over the years. Did they enjoy, for instance, sports; exercising; painting; making music - simply having a bath or reading a book? Their response, they said, had always been the same, and perhaps for as long as they could remember.

"I understand. If there are very few activities you are reliably able to enjoy and look forward to when you are off duty, then, if your work became more demanding, you could easily become unable to cope." He chose not to mention the other, previously established factor in their poor concentration.

They nodded, and blinked once, hard, to wick away an almost imperceptible well of moisture from their eyes. Then they elaborated: telling him that they were carefully meeting their fitness and exercise requirements, and that a recent medical check-up indicated no nutritional deficiencies or chronic conditions. As they spoke, they reminded Data of no one so much as a much younger, more compact and delicate-featured Reginald Barclay, with a fluffy mess of off-blonde hair.

"Crewman," he interrupted them, in a softer voice. "It is very difficult for me to describe the internal processes which influence my decisions in a way that makes sense to others. Nonetheless, there is a sense in which I, too, could be said to struggle with temptations. For example, I anticipate being able to engage in off-duty activities, such as painting. When these anticipations are disrupted, I am forced to re-calibrate my near-future predictions and behavioural plans: a computationally intense process I find aversive. At such times, the possibility occurs to me of ignoring my duties and proceeding with what I would prefer to happen. Sometimes, this can be very distracting."

In a considered and querying tone, the assistant engineer asked Data what he did in those situations. "I consider how these alternative choices could be incompatible with my overarching goals," he replied. "I consider how re-adjusting my behavioural plan to will help me achieve my overarching goals."

The assistant silently considered this, eyes flicking over, and as they did, Data wondered if they and Barclay were friends: if his assistant had, in fact, any friends at all. Since their academic record indicated that they had spent much of their time outside classes engaging in fairly menial voluntary work for philanthropic organisations, it seemed unlikely they would have had much time for socialisation. A curious person - what had motivated them to study and work so diligently until recently, if enjoyment was something so generally difficult for them to find?

"So.. what is it you aim to achieve - overall - sir?" they asked.

"One of my goals," he said, "is to do what I can to ensure that other artificial life forms will be treated as I have been treated, and have access to the same opportunities I have been granted. Sometimes I must reassure myself that, at this point in my life, I can only hope to achieve this via my influence within Starfleet and the Federation." Perhaps this admission, Data thought, would prompt them to divulge their own goals.

It did not. They merely said that Data's goals were understandable, and nodded with eyes closed. Curiosity nonetheless piqued, he decided to test the assistant's response to a suggestion. "Crewman, I wish to reassure you that your work on the Enterprise is valuable. Specifically, it is valuable to the many people in Federation space who - as I am sure you know - are not freely or safely able to experience sexual feelings." He paused. Then: "As I understand it, sexual feelings are something important to you," he added, carefully and deliberately.

His engineering assistant appeared to have quite a practiced poker face. 

He continued. "As you will know, such people may be underweight and malnourished. They may be at risk of sexually transmitted diseases or sexual violence. To cope with the demands of their lives, they may be taking drugs with unwanted side effects. They may have been indoctrinated in belief systems which dictate that their sexual feelings are forbidden or shameful. All of these problems are known to suppress humanoid sexuality. And they are all among the problems which the Federation, and by extension Starfleet, exists to help its citizens solve."

Their poker face was not perfect - they had begun blushing intensely - but their expression and countenance was otherwise impressively inscrutable. He wondered what had motivated them to develop this skill. "Shall I continue?" he asked: a question which he realised might 'force their hand'.

".. Yes," the assistant in a small and tentative voice admitted.

"Consider, for example, how you helped teach the Tau Cygna V refugees how to use and maintain various modern technologies." He gestured to the replicator. "Insofar as the refugees now do not have to worry about going without basic necessities," he said, "then you have helped make it possible for them to safely enjoy sexuality, among other pleasant aspects of human life." The crewman's eyebrows were raised. Perhaps it was a kind of conversation they had never had before. "Moreover - consider the Enterprise's successful prevention of a Borg attack on sector 001. We know, from notes Captain Picard has made about his experiences, that Borg drones do not experience sexual feelings."

A small amount of the muscular tension the assistant was holding seemed to dissipate, as they took in the words. Overall, however, they remained sharply restrained, and said nothing. Data decided to push further. "Did I correctly identify something that motivates you?"

"To be honest," said the assistant, "yes." They slowly nodded. "I think about the suffering of others every day."

"That is consistent with what I know about you," Data said. "There are several books and scientific papers," he added, "which serve to demonstrate how Starfleet's diplomatic and scientific work facilitates social conditions necessary for people to involve themselves in sexuality without fear of violence, disease, or unwanted pregnancy. I could send an overview of this research for you to read, if you would find that reassuring."

"I might."

"There is one last thing to be discussed," said Data. "You mentioned that you have always tried to follow counselors' advice, but you have not generally found it helpful." 

The assistant nodded.

He considered his words carefully before speaking again. "There are.. various drugs you might be prescribed - for example, serotonin, dopamine and norepinephrine reuptake inhibitors - which would make it easier for you to concentrate on your work," he said. As predicted, this provoked a poorly-suppressed startle response in the assistant. "Your files state that you have a phobia of psychiatric personnel and psychotropic drugs. Is that still the case?" 

They reiterated that they indeed had these phobias (without volunteering an explanation as to why.)

"Yes," said Data. "For the time being, I can only ask you to consider it. However, if you are unable to demonstrate significant improvement at your next personnel review, I will ensure that you are psychiatrically evaluated. Do you understand?" Hands clasped and resting on the desk, his pupils contracted as he analysed the assistant's expression and posture. It yielded several unusual and striking conceptual associations: static electricity; tangled strings; soft tissue crushing injury.

"I understand, sir," they said. Their voice was impassive and monotone, but their countenance overall registered to Data as rich and sharp with compressed meaning.

Data nodded. "Yes. You have always been quite good at listening and understanding." He watched them for a few seconds, while Spot purred asleep on the desk. Their poker face had not shifted, and they were still blushing. His basal perceptual systems were releasing a false alert that he had physically injured this person, somehow, accompanied by a reflexive impulse to check their vital signs.

He dissolved this line of thought. Some day, he might be required to order this person into a situation resulting in their death. But, for now, they were in no physical danger.

"That is everything I wished to discuss today," he said. Presently, Spot woke up, and stretched herself on the desk; Data glanced to her, while the assistant stood waiting, presumably to be dismissed.

Instead, glancing back to them, he indicated with his index finger to a small sealed box on his desk. "Come here, please, Crewman?" They did so. "Please open that box."

They did not seem to recognise its contents. "Do you know what catnip is?" Data asked - they did not, they replied. "It is a psychotropic drug," he said. "For cats."

A tiny shaking of their hand on the box, to hear this.

"Take some in your thumb and forefinger and hold it in front of Spot's nose." They hesitated, fingers curling in and hand shaking further. "Do it, please."

They complied, and the ghost of a smile graced their face as, holding out the catnip, they became the immediate object of Spot's warm affection.

Data let them silently pet Spot for some time, before of their own accord they put the catnip down. They were readying themselves to leave - but they also seemed to want to remain in the room. The associations generated by their posture and facial expression had shifted, but remained strong and unusual: pain; anaesthetic; baby bird.

His basal systems, again, signalled falsely: that the crewman was somehow starving, and needing to be fed. The impulse, again, to tend to their illusory need. The assistant could, perhaps, be ordered into a supine position on the floor. Their mouth could then be opened -

Again, he dropped the mental process. He felt himself blink and swallow. "Crewman," he said, with lowered eyes, raised eyebrows, and a gentle, quiet voice, "it is time for you to go."

Upon this prompting, their eye contact with him broke. Looking down at his desk, they nodded. "Sir." When they turned and left, it was at a relatively calm and even pace. He wondered if this was a promising sign.

Chapter Text

"Now, let's, let's, let's see; where were we.. N, never telling Noonian Soong you loved him, oh; P, poor Professor Moriarty; Q - heh heh, nothing there - Ah! Stardate 45136." 

Data blinked, and found himself standing in his own quarters. The edges of his vision were mildly hazy; an iridescent sheen like reflections off water played over the contours of the room. In front of him, behind his own desk, Q, in his red command fatigues, put down the PADD he had been scrolling through and rested his palm on his cheek. 

"Did you enjoy having Starfleet doctors tinker with your assistant's brain so they could better serve you, Data?"

"You are referring to Crewman Rihar."

"Is there anyone else? You'll be pleased to know," said Q, "that that little incident with Geordi is something I'm going to be taking up with Lore instead - as soon as I'm done with you."

Data shook his head. "Crewman Rihar was suffering. Ultimately, they are a person strongly motivated to help others - particularly those less fortunate than themselves - and they understood the relevance of the Enterprise's mission to that end very well. That was evident from their service record, personnel files, and academic history. However, there were many obstacles to their goals. Being prone to distraction and inattention, they neglected their personal hygiene, sleep, and ability to relax in order to achieve what was required of them. Being prone to fear, sadness, and mistrust, they did not have any friends. Their treatments, although extensive, were meant only to alleviate these difficulties."

Barely as Data had finished speaking, Q sighed, and began to massage his brow in his thumb and forefinger. "I thought we'd been over this.." A tiny, sad chuckle. "More fool me. Humans don't really have goals, Data. Not like you do. They don't perform multivariate analyses on their own behaviour. They don't willingly subject themselves to performance-assessment heuristics at regular intervals. Mm - no.." Q reclined tigerlike in Data's chair, one leg crossed over the other atop the desk. "Goals in that sense are just things humans force upon others, upon people they want to use like machines. But, as a rule, they reserve for themselves - their secret selves - the right to anger, to hunger, to lust," he said, twiddling his thumbs on his lap once for each. "The right to spontaneity, generally speaking."

"That.. is not always correct," Data said. "Crewman Rihar knew that if they did not want to comply with their treatments, they were free to leave Starfleet. But they did not."

"As a rule," Q reiterated on a whimsical shrug. "Still.. not even the smallest frisson of pleasure, as you lovingly suffocated all those sharp, strong, messy feelings they had about you? When you had what was there replaced with something smoother, something duller - something less human?"

Data's eyes wandered, as he considered this, over the visual landmarks of the room. The bonsai plant on the small alcove on the wall to Q's right was now, inexplicably, a venus flytrap.

".. I do not understand why you continue to ask me questions to which you already know the answers."

"But what do I not know, yet, Data? Tell me."

"There was a time.. when I would have liked to take pleasure in that - in anything - if I could." A slow blink. "This is one of the ways in which I have been unethical, in my life." 

"Ah," said Q, with a breath of satisfaction, "there we go. Let it all out."

The round sealed box containing Spot's catnip, Data noticed, was positioned on the top border of the computer panel behind the desk - such that it appeared from a certain angle to float directly above Q's head. He supposed this was by design.

"There are reasons why what I did may nonetheless have been ethically justified." 

"Go on. I'll humour you."

"It was extremely unbecoming of a Starfleet officer for Rihar to tell me, in the context of a personnel review, that they - among other things - " a difficult creasing of his eyes " - 'needed to be full of my fluid'."

"You don't say," Q chuckled through a bitten lip, holding his chin in his hand. "And what about you? When you told them - how very dare you - to gratify themselves, presumably while thinking about you."

Data glanced to the easel. He could not recognise the painting.  "That was one of my mistakes," he admitted. It was a depiction of a 19th century Earth circus, with compositional and stylistic elements reminiscent of the Decadent movement. In the corner he noticed a signature in white: 'Q'. "Before they were promoted to a higher assignment on another galaxy-class ship, Rihar told me privately that they were not regretful. That being treated had helped them better achieve their potential. That it allowed us to interact as friends: for instance, when they began painting." Suddenly he noticed a large black housefly walking on the corner of the easel. "They were happy."

"Oh, really?" A twinkling smile. "How perverse. If I didn't know precisely how Noonian made you, I might think you took pride in your ability to ... 'help' people. To make them like you." The fly alighted on the mouth of the venus flytrap. "To make them like you." A small heh from Q's nostrils and a snarling curl of one side of his bottom lip. "Whether they like it or not." The trap shut.

"Q?" 

"Yes, Data?"

"My internal chronometer tells me that we have been discussing the choices I have made over the course of my life for the last twenty two hours."

"Oh, then it's a bit fast." Q checked and tapped an invisible wristwatch. "Ah. There. And thirty-eight milliseconds."

"I do not understand why an omnipotent being should want to spend so much time passing judgment on my decisions."

"Because I can be anywhen I want," Q said, fingers steepled, leaning forward on Data's desk. "Oh, and drop the false modesty, Data; this is nothing compared to how long I spent catching up with Jean-Luc after he died."

"Then," said Data, "is it not something which you take pride in?" A querying perk of Q's eyebrows. "To be responsible for other beings learning to adjust, as best they can, to circumstances they cannot control - such as being dead?"

"Why, of course," said Q. "But do you know what hubris is, Data?" Data began to reply, but Q interrupted him with a wave of his hand. "No, don't tell me; of course you know." The iridescence bathing the room seemed to briefly flash. "It's the job of the Q to do what the Q do best. It isn't for you to do it for us. And it isn't for you to ask why. Because you will never, ever understand."

"It is not possible for me to form beliefs about things in the absence of acceptable evidence."

"No. That's why not even the place you're going to is perfect, Data. Because, unlike Professor Moriarty, you'll never really believe you're there."

Data tilted his head. "Do you mean - ?"

"That's right," Q nodded. "That's the thing about the afterlife. I could make it perfect for each person, Data - even you." He picked up the PADD, again, and leisurely inspected it. "But then, you wouldn't be quite you any more, would you?"

Data's eyes flicked to where Q's index finger rested - it was at a line on the PADD screen, a bullet point which read: 'Crewman Rihar.' "Yes," he said. "I understand."

"So I'm going to give you a choice," said Q, lifting his finger from the PADD. A flick of his neck; the joint cracked. The catnip jar was no longer aligned above his head. "Which would you prefer?"

Chapter Text

"..So, basically, they sexually harassed you," said Geordi, from the wheel of the small Bermuda-rigged yacht.

"I do not know whether I would, if I were human, feel harassed," said Data. A brisk gust filled the mainsail as they approached the shore of the holodeck's Azores. Data, although he could not have been cold, rubbed his shoulders in emulation of Geordi's shivering. He picked up the picnic blanket they had brought with them and offered it to Geordi.

"Mm, that's not the point," said Geordi, as he took the blanket with a grateful nod, fastened the metal clasps at the top of it and wore it over his jacket like a cape. "The point is that Rihar just can't be allowed to get away with that kind of behaviour - for their own sake, not just everyone else's. Of course they knew you wouldn't be upset. That'll be why they chose to target you."

"But Rihar has not once behaved inappropriately towards me since I instructed them to keep their feelings private," said Data, from his seat at the thwart. "They seem to very much regret what they said to me - regarding it as a failure of self-control."

"Okay," said Geordi, with mildly amused exasperation, as he turned the boat against the wind towards the dock.

"Certain ways I have observed Crewman Rihar to behave," Data continued, "also suggest to me that they are unlikely to harass anyone else."

"Why is that?" said Geordi.

"Rihar told me that they are not sexually or romantically interested in women. However, I have never observed them to make small talk with men," said Data. "I have also never observed Rihar to smile in the presence of men other than myself. This suggests that they may be uncomfortable or anxious around men. ... Frigatebirds off the starboard bow."

"Come to think of it, I've noticed that, too," said Geordi, as he looked up at the small flock of angular, red-throated birds soaring overhead. "Yeah," he nodded, "yeah, I mean - apart from anything else, I think you were right to tell them they're looking down the barrel of a psych eval."

"Hm." Data stood to trim the sails, slowing the yacht as they approached the dock. He blinked as he accessed information on the frigatebirds.

Geordi sighed. "Again. Rihar's not well. Think about it: avoiding half your species, but hanging on your android CO's every word? Someone who could order you to your death without ever having to tell you why - I mean, have they thought about that?"

"They are aware of that possibility," Data remarked with curiousity.

Geordi's brows raised high to hear this. "R-ight." He clicked his tongue and drew in air over his teeth, shaking his head. "Yep; they're mentally ill. That just.. that isn't a healthy outlet for someone's sexuality. It's self-sabotaging behaviour, period. And, okay, probably they've been treated badly by men in the past, and that's got something to do with it. And that's sad. But lots of people have baggage like that. This isn't the way to deal with it."

"The red throat pouch of the frigatebird," Data remarked, "is a sexually selected adaptation, inflated during courtship displays. Sometimes these pouches are deliberately punctured by other birds. The victim is rendered unable to acquire a mate until its injury heals."

Geordi replied with a noncommital hm as he steered.

"Regarding that kind of 'baggage'," Data asked, turning his eyes away from the sky towards Geordi on the prow, "What is the 'way to deal with it'?"

"Well, you're asking the wrong guy about psychodynamics," shrugged Geordi. "I could tell you anything you like about aerodynamics?"

Data considered this. He began to tie the bright blue fenders to the bow rails in preparation for docking. "Rihar told me that they have seen psychotherapists, including Counsellor Troi," he said. "But their advice, they say, was not effective." He pulled one of the bowline knots tight.

"Well, damn; they must be pretty messed up, then," Geordi sighed. "Look, maybe it seems like I'm being kind of harsh. But it's only because I've had a similar kind of problem." Beneath his visor, he frowned as he glided into the docking space onto the azure marina - perhaps from the concentration of the task, or perhaps from something else. "And I know that being nice to them isn't going to help."

The fenders, securely tied, protected the yacht with a buoyant bump. While Geordi set about to lower the anchor; Data stepped onto the dock to secure the mooring lines to the dock cleats.

The boat having been docked successfully, Data hopped back down to his seat at the thwart; Geordi, gathering his blanket-cape around himself, sat next to him. The yacht swayed with the gentle mid-morning tide.

"You said you have had a similar kind of problem." A tentative, slightly awkward query from Data.

Geordi held his visor in his hand and chuckled under his breath. "Oh, Data.." He removed his visor and looked up, hopefully to meet Data's eyes. "Yes. Yes, you might say that I have." 

"I remember you telling me how you regret, in hindsight, the way you behaved towards Doctor Leah Brahms when she visited the Enterprise." 

Held in Geordi's bare eyes were other, much older, unpleasant memories that he had confided in Data. He was glad Data didn't, for whatever reason, bring them up. Having wiped the accumulated sweat off his brow, he put his visor back on. "Yeah," Geordi said. "And that was bad enough as it was. But just imagine if I'd talked to Leah the way Rihar talked to you. I could be dishonourably discharged. At the very least, I'd be formally reprimanded. And I'd have completely deserved it."

"I would prefer not to do either of those things to Rihar," said Data. "I have become accustomed to them, and I am quite sure their intentions are good."

"Okay," said Geordi. "Personally, if I were you, I'd just - look, they need to know their place. They must know that it's not your job to wrangle grown adults into getting help for their mental problems." Reaching underneath the thwart seat, Geordi retrieved some food and a heated flask from a blue and white cooler.

"But I believe Rihar does 'know their place'. Very much so: if I ask them to undergo psychiatric treatment, I believe they will comply without hesitation, even though it is something they are very afraid of doing," said Data, as Geordi - raising an eyebrow at this - unwrapped the egg and cress sandwich. Data glanced away and down, and noticed several limpets clinging to beams of the dock. "Even though they wish to stay in Starfleet, they may not listen to anyone else."

"And that's just the problem," said Geordi. "Getting help's something that a decent officer ought to do by themselves, for their own sake. And they don't get to pick and choose which of their superiors to listen to, either."

"Perhaps." Data tipped his head in equivocation. "But it would not inconvenience me."

"Well," said Geordi, unscrewing the metal lid of the flask and pouring some Irish coffee into it, "it's your choice. Just be careful."

"I will." In the rising steam of the coffee: a sharp array of pyrazines, ketones and furans, softened by the diluting oils of the milk, and then finished with the smoke phenols of the whiskey. "Rihar would at least be easier for you to.. 'wrangle', Geordi," Data added in a low, almost playful voice, leaning back on his wrists and crossing one ankle over the other, "if they were less anxious and better able to concentrate."

A soft, sardonic chuckle from Geordi. "They can be a handful.." He sipped his coffee, and said nothing more.

Chapter Text

The other crewmen had long left for their Monday morning shifts, and had long arrived and started work, by the time Data entered the quarters. 

He scanned the room, his eyes alighting on a shivering, tense ball underneath a tightly wrapped fleece blanket in the bottom right-hand bunk. The sound of shivering breaths, muffled by the blanket. He stepped closer, and noticed a hard rectangular contour near the mouth of the ball. A cause for concern. He leaned down, unfolded a small part of the blanket over the contour, and confirmed his suspicions.

It was a phaser.

Rihar's thumb was on the trigger, and it appeared to be set to level 10 - if not always enough to kill a physically healthy young person, enough to cause second degree burns, unconsciousness for several hours, and brain and organ damage.

An array of possible courses of action unfolded: after a second's consideration, Data settled on the most direct one. Aiming to be fast and precise, he reached under the blanket and turned the phaser off. Rihar allowed this, so he prised their thumb off the trigger, removed the phaser, and attached it to his belt.

His glance turned now to Rihar's eyes, squeezed shut and crusty with dried tears. Presently, realising they were being watched, Rihar slowly shrunk back under the blanket like a snail retracting its eyes into its head and its head into its shell.

Data sat down on edge of the bed. Although the room was reasonably warm, Rihar was still shivering intensely; he briefly mirrored the human gesture by holding his upper arms as if he too were cold. "Rihar?" They did not respond. "How long have you been here, like this?" Again, no response - but then he noticed, hidden behind their head on the wall-facing side of the bed, a plate with a half-eaten orange, dusted with a small amount of blue-green mold. "Were your bunkmates not concerned about you?" 

They shook their head. 

"Hm." He tapped his combadge. "Data to Geordi."

"Hi, Data. Did you find them?"

"Yes - however, I will be somewhat delayed - it concerns what we talked about in the holodeck."

"Understood," said Geordi. "When should we expect you back?"

Data glanced up at the dark steel frame of the upper bunk. "That depends on Beverly's availability, but I will keep you apprised."

"Alright. It's a pretty slow morning, so don't feel as though you need to rush."

"Thank you, Geordi," he said in a tone he hoped would convey gratitude.

Rihar still had not moved or spoken. The rate and volume of their breathing suggested that they might be experiencing intense pain. "Are you physically injured?" he asked them, and they shook their head. He blinked. "Why were you aiming the phaser at yourself, Rihar?"

“I want to die.”

Data closed his eyes for a second, before tapping his combadge again. “Data to Sick Bay. ... Hello, Nurse Ogawa. I am with somebody who needs to see Dr Crusher. It is not a medical emergency, but it is urgent. Will you let her know we will be coming shortly?” Ogawa said she would. "Thank you."

Presently Data placed his hand on Rihar's shoulder under the blanket, and looked down again at their screwed shut eyes and furled brow. 

When he spoke again his voice was serious and quiet. “Why do you wish to die?"

“Defective person.. weak - burden - cannot help anyone..”

Data blinked several times, eyebrows raised, with the mild surprise of receiving an immediate response. He considered, for a while, what to say. "Rihar.." A memory of Lal. "It does not matter that you may never be able to help others as much as you would like to." He saw the memory from both perspectives, now: he had not had cause to retrieve it since transferring her memories to his own. "Or as much as others would like you to." A remarkable experience: to feel, as Lal, his own hand on Lal's hand. "It is enough that you continue to try to find your own way to do what is ethical." He squeezed their shoulder again, and held the pressure. "But first, you must become able to take care of yourself. You are not able to do that on your own, now," he added, gently. "You are ill." 

They did not respond. Leaning over, he picked up the plate with the oranges, before taking it to the replicator to be recycled. Noticing Rihar's stale, orange-juice stained casual shirt on the floor, he picked it up. "It is time to get dressed, Rihar," he said, folding the shirt. "I have your shirt here." Standing in front of the bunk, he leaned down and tucked the folded shirt into the opening of the bundled blanket, beneath their neck. They did not move, so he touched their shoulder through the blanket again. "Dress yourself, now, please."

They emerged from the blanket, and Data turned his head away for their modesty's sake until he saw in the corner of his eye that they were finished. "Good, Rihar," he said gently. He leaned down and took hold of their right hand. "You must come with me, now."

Dressed, they sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed their upper arms for warmth, their tense shoulders curled inwards. "I - " they began. "I.."

They began sobbing.

"Mm." Data winced. "Perhaps it is best not to talk right now. You are in pain. However, you may feel some relief as the day goes on. In humans, levels of the stress hormone cortisol are typically at their peak in the morning."

As Rihar nodded through choking sobs, Data glanced around the room. Unable to find what he was looking, he put down Rihar's hand, patted it, and stood. "Paper tissues," he requested to the replicator. "For tears." Returning with the packet, he sat down beside Rihar on the bed, and, as their chest heaved with sobs, watched and waited. "It is good to cry," he reassured them. "Leu-enkephalin will be released into your brain, and your parasympathetic nervous system will be re-activated. You may feel calmer."

When Rihar's sobs had quietened, he opened the paper packet, handed Rihar one of the tissues inside, and placed the packet in the pocket of their trousers. He waited for them to blow their nose and dab their eyes, before taking hold of their hand, again. "Come, Rihar." With his other hand he put gentle pressure on their upper back. "There is nothing to be afraid of. I will stay with you as you see Doctor Crusher."

Very shakily, Rihar stood with him. "Good," Data gently reaffirmed, took secure hold of their upper arm, and began to walk them to Sick Bay.

Chapter Text

Doctor Crusher's private consulting room was bright and airy, with a panel on the ceiling simulated natural sunlight. The shelf behind her desk held a small holo-photo of Acting Ensign Wesley at his Academy orientation, and next to it a holo-photo of a man with slick brown hair and a smart red uniform. Almost hidden behind a medkit on the shelf were two small, dusty metal trophies in the shape of tap-dancing shoes. Taking her seat, Beverly swiveled the chair around to face Data and Rihar, her usual twinkling smile now softened and tempered with the sobriety of a concerned frown. "So, what brings us here, today?"

Data turned to Rihar, tipping his head as to invite them to speak. When they did not, he turned to Beverly. "When Rihar did not come to their shift this morning, I went to their quarters. I found them aiming a phaser set to level ten at themselves. When I asked why, they told me that they wanted to die."

"Mm." A slow, sympathetic nod from Beverly to Rihar. "I see."

"The state of decomposition of uneaten food on the bed," Data added, "suggested that Rihar may have been in that position for at least fourty-eight hours."

"Is that true, Rihar?" Beverly gently inquired, eyes wandering from the young crewman's somewhat greasy, tangled mop of dishwater-blonde hair to their grey, wrinkled t-shirt. "When did you last get out of bed?"

"Saturday morning," Rihar said, without blinking.

If Beverly was surprised, Data thought, she was quite good - but not perfect - at hiding it. "Could you tell me how long you've been thinking about ending your life, Rihar?" 

"Most recently," they said in a somewhat detached, almost monotone sort of voice, "since Commander Data talked to me in private about my work performance. Three weeks ago." They swallowed. "You can look up the computer's minutes of that meeting. You could also read my most recent personnel review. I don't want to go into it."

After a glance to Data - who nodded - Beverly took up her PADD and inputted her senior officer's access code to the LCARS. As she began to read, Data stood, and went to the room's replicator. "Five hundred millilitres of water, room temperature." He offered the glass it to Rihar with an expectant look. "You will be dehydrated." With a small, polite thank you, they took it and began to drink.

A sympathetic murmur from Beverly. "Hmm.." She looked up from the PADD into Rihar's eyes. "Your role doesn't require you to go on away missions, so you haven't been given your own phaser - is that right?" Rihar nodded. "Could you tell me how you got the phaser you were holding, Rihar?" They had borrowed it from one of their bunkmates to more realistically practice shooting targets in the Holodeck, they explained, and Beverly's eyes roamed left and right before she spoke again. "Is that really why you borrowed it?"

"No."

A calm mm from Beverly, and she continued reading. A certain line raised her eyebrows and prompted a quizzical, searching glance over Data - but when he responded with only a curious, open blink and head-tilt, she said nothing. When she put down the PADD, she took a sip from the mug of coffee on her desk, before resting two fingers on her temple, her cheek on her hand. "I don't need to tell you, Rihar, that I'm going to have to keep you here at least until you can get assessed by a specialist." Beverly's voice softened, her head lowered to show the gentle whites of her eyes. "Now, it's not unusual for people to become depressed after a dressing down from their commanding officer. But it's clear to me that you've been struggling for a very, very long time."

"I understand," said Rihar, voice still defeated, detached, perfunctory.

"I'm going to set up a subspace call with a psychiatrist at Starbase Five. With any luck, they'll be able to see you by Wednesday."

Rihar nodded. "... What kinds of treatment could I be given?"

A sad smile and a gentle sigh from Beverly. "Starbase Five can't force you to undertake any treatment unless you become psychotic - but from your medical record, that doesn't seem likely. If you'd prefer not to see a psychiatrist, you could simply stay in Sick Bay under supervision until I think you're no longer a danger to yourself. After that, you'd be medically discharged, and we'd organise an itinerary with Starfleet Command to get you back to your mother on Earth as soon as possible. If you want to stay in Starfleet, though.. you'll need to see your psychiatrist regularly, and follow their prescriptions until they find you've gotten better."

Rihar nodded. They opened their mouth to say something, but refrained, and exhaled a small sigh through their nose. Data, noticing this, turned to meet their eyes. "What were you going to say?" he asked.

Rihar blinked a few times. Then: "No one ever gets better." The missing feeling began to swell back into their voice. "Not really. You just -" they forced back a sob "- you just get made useful as a guinea pig. A pincushion.. That's - that's your new job. It's not help." A strain of horror in their voice, and in their unblinking, tear-encrusted eyes: "It's punishment."

"Rihar.." Data said. "Please do not ever think that I wish to punish you, or that I think you deserve to suffer. That is not at all my intention or my belief." He pulled a tissue from the box on Beverly's desk, and gently offered it to them. "There are many good things you will be able to do once you are better, and regardless of whether you choose to stay in Starfleet." Rihar dabbed their eyes. "Perhaps I could explain to Doctor Crusher what you told me recently about your fears." A suggestion, but a firm suggestion.

They nodded. Data rested his interlaced fingers on the desk, and turned to Beverly. "Rihar's maternal and paternal grandparents lived and worked at the Federation penal colony on Tantalus V. Their paternal grandfather was a researcher who collaborated closely in the unethical psychiatric experiments of Doctor Tristan Adams, the inventor of the neural neutraliser. Their maternal grandmother, a nurse, was a victim of these experiments, and eventually committed suicide. Rihar's parents could not agree on how blame should be assigned for what happened, and their disagreement was a significant factor in their eventual divorce." He looked to Rihar. "Is that broadly correct?" They assented.

Beverly mouthed a thank you to Data. She reached out and laid her hand over Rihar's hand. "Thank you for trusting me with that information, Rihar.. I can see how these things would undermine your confidence in doctors - and maybe even in human beings - full stop." She glanced momentarily to Data, and offered Rihar an apologetic smile. "I know how hard it is for you to trust other people, and how that must get very lonely, sometimes. Maybe.. maybe it would be better for you to work through these issues back on Earth."

Rihar shook their head. "I have thought about this," they said in a small but deliberate voice, "But the truth is - and I have thought this for a long time, and since before I joined Starfleet - that whatever I do outside Starfleet won't matter at all, in the long run, insofar as the Borg or the Ferengi or the Romulans are able to endanger the Federation.. insofar as they're able to undermine Human values."

“That.. does seem to be a rational observation,” Beverly conceded. "Unfortunately." An absence in Data's eyes suggested to her that he was carefully considering what Rihar had said. "I noticed.. I noticed from your charts, Rihar, that you’ve also always been very careful to meet your nutrition, exercise, and sleep requirements. And that’s rational, too. Still.. There’s something not quite right," Beverly ventured. "Sometimes the most rational course of action from an objective point of view is not the most rational for humans."

“It is true,” said Data.

Encouraged, Beverly continued. “It’s important to be able to enjoy things, just for yourself - to be spontaneous, sometimes - even a little bit selfish. You know, it’s been a very difficult thing for me to accept - as a doctor - that there are some problems I won’t ever be able to solve. There are patients I won’t be able to save. But we can’t let that consume us. The people we lose wouldn’t want that for us." She glanced up at the holo-photo of the man in the red uniform. "But you're still wondering, aren't you," she added, scrutinising Rihar's expression, "how can it be so important to enjoy yourself, when there's so much at stake - when there's so many problems in the world?"

Rihar tentatively nodded.

"Because," said Beverly, "when humans can’t enjoy things.. everyday things, like having a bath, listening to music, eating tasty food, or talking with friends.." She placed two fingers on the PADD containing the minutes of Rihar's personnel review with Data, and glanced with intent down at it and back up to Rihar. "We act out in counterproductive ways to try to get our needs met."

Humiliation and frustration - deep frustration, badly hidden - seemed to leak through Rihar's rigid expression, Beverly thought. A memory of Wesley resurfaced: mom, you will never understand. 

"I.. cannot say whether Doctor Crusher is correct," said Data. "But that is only because there are many things I do not yet understand about human emotions." Perhaps it was Beverly's imagination, but he sounded apologetic - almost embarrassed. "Rihar.. if Beverly is correct, then I believe I should have responded more carefully to your sexual behaviour towards me. If I had known sooner that such behaviour may be - as Beverly suggests - the result of being deprived of good feelings of any kind, perhaps I would have acted differently." 

Like an enzyme being denatured, the sharp, volatile energy Rihar radiated seemed to soften and stabilise when Data spoke to them. Clearly, they would follow their commanding officer anywhere; do anything he needed them to do - as, at least on paper, any good crewman should. And it had never occurred to Beverly - or at least, never with such force and clarity - that there was a kind of unspoken cruelty in what humans expected of each other in theory and on paper.

"Thank you, Data," Beverly said. "Still.. you mustn't feel you ought to take any sort of.. special responsibility for Rihar's mental health, from now on. That's what their psychiatrist will be here for." Beverly turned to Rihar. "Just as you, Rihar, needn't feel so responsible for the problems of the world."

"I would like to stay in Starfleet," Rihar said, the recalcitrant edge re-entering their voice.

"I would like to help Rihar achieve that," Data said.

"In that case," said Beverly, "you're going to have to try to trust me, Rihar - and your psychiatrist, too."

"I will try."

A reassuring nod from Beverly. "Thank you." She picked up her PADD, and began writing to Rihar's patient notes. "Now.. I imagine you're still finding it very hard to eat. I'd like to give you something to make it easier for you to eat, and for you to talk to the psychiatrist later. It's not an infra-sensory drug or an antipsychotic. It's a dose of axonol. You'll let me do that?"

"Yes."

"Thank you," said Beverly, preparing the hypospray. Rihar's shoulders tensed as it was applied it to their neck. "There." They blew their nose into the wad of tissues they were holding. "Okay, Rihar." Hands in her blue lab coat pockets, Beverly stood to leave, and indicated for Rihar to do the same. "I'll take you to the secure ward, now, and then I'm going to schedule your appointment with Starbase Five. There's plenty of books to read and music to listen to, if you feel up to it. In an hour or so, one of the nurses will come around with your lunch."

Data, too, stood to leave. He walked with Rihar and Beverly to the door, and when their paths diverged at the corridor, he spoke again. "It is very good that you did not end your life, Rihar," he said, "and that you are trusting Doctor Crusher." A tentative, gentle, and slightly awkward lowering of his eyes. "Choosing to remain alive, in your context, could be construed as a very brave thing to do." He placed his hand on Rihar's shoulder. "Please continue to be brave. When you are able to leave the secure ward, Lieutenant Barclay, Spot, and I will visit you."

Chapter Text

"Hello, Rihar."

Their easel was set up in front of their seat at one of the long, blue benches of the arboretum. A dropsheet protected the white gravel beneath them from the paint. As Data greeted them, Professor Keiko lifted the ceramic pot resting on the grassy knoll in front of their easel, so as to return the snakeleaf inside to the plant nursery with the other rare and contraband specimens she had brought out for the still life class to draw. 

Upon being greeted, Rihar startled out of their absorption. "Commander," they said, without putting down their brush. "Professor Keiko."

"Hello," Keiko said, glancing to Rihar's collar. They had no rank pips. "Crewman..?" Rihar said their name. "Nice to meet you. I'd shake your hand, but I've got gunk all over my gloves from this thing." They tipped their head to the snakeleaf in their arms. "I see everyone else is ready to call it a night," she continued, glancing down to the sketchbook and pencils in the satchel Data was carrying. "But you can stay here as long as you like, Rihar," she said, and Rihar thanked her. She tipped a nod goodbye to Data as she left for the nursery with the snakeleaf pot under her arm.

"It is good to see you here," Data said.

"It does not distract me to read fiction here," said Data to Guinan. "On the contrary: Ten Forward provides me with visual examples of nonverbal behaviour. While directly observing people, I am more vividly able to imagine interactions between fictional characters." He scanned the room - upon spotting two people in particular, on the far side of the room, his shoulders perked. "Hm. It is Crewman Rihar."

"Makes sense when you put it that way," said Guinan. "Yeah, I've been seeing them around more often, recently."

"They are playing a table-top role-playing game with Lieutenant Barclay," Data observed, as much to himself as to Guinan.

"Huh, and would you look at that: their eye-patch is gone." Guinan leaned lower, her elbow on the bar and her hand pensive on her chin. "I can't call them a pirate anymore."

"Are you," Data ventured, uncertain, "also participating in their role-playing game?"

"No, Data; it's a joke," Guinan smiled. "I was teasing them." Presently, Ensign Ortiz approached the bar and asked Guinan for a glass of shiraz. "Excuse me," Guinan said, and knelt down to retrieve something from the drawer beneath the bar. "It's been a while since I've had to open one of these," she said, rummaging around. "Don't tell Jean-Luc, but wine just isn't in fashion like it was a century ago."

Returning above the bar, she put the bottle of shiraz and a dusty corkscrew on the counter. "Funnily enough, I needed an eyepatch, too, once," she told Data as she wound the corkscrew. "I got hit in the eye with the handle of this thing." She flicked the handle of the corkscrew with her left index finger. "Pulled a little too hard." A pop as the cork was removed, and then Guinan slid a wine glass over to herself and began to pour. "There you go, Ortiz. You're welcome."

"Rihar was not injured," Data clarified, as Ortiz left. "The eyepatch covered a surgical incision site."

"Ah," said shrewd Guinan, "I gotcha."

'I got you'. Blinking, Data corrected himself: "But I must be careful to respect Rihar's medical privacy."

In the distance, Barclay, saying something inaudible with a smile, folded away the tabletop game and put it in his personal effects bag. The pair got up to leave together, approaching the bar to thank Guinan and to give her back her empty glasses. As Rihar passed by, tipping their head to greet Data, Guinan's eyebrows perked as she noticed the small grey mark on Rihar's right sclera, to and from which a few hair-thin lines of blood ran.

When the door of Ten Forward had swung behind them, she turned to Data with sly eyes. "You wouldn't know what that is, would you?" In response to Data's reserved silence, she shrugged. "I'm nosy; what can I say? .. But, you know.." The pad of her index finger of her resting hand raised minutely off the smooth surface of the bar. "I wouldn't be here if I couldn't keep a secret." She pressed her finger back down on the bar.

Data considered this, for a moment. He lowered his voice. "It is a cortical implant programmed to automatically stabilise neurotransmitter levels and up-regulate brain-derived neurotrophic factor. The grey mark is a light sensor used by the device's chronometer. Overall, it might be described by analogy as a pace-maker for Rihar's brain. ..Guinan?"

"It's amazing what they can do for people these days, isn't it?" Guinan demurred. "But - I've gotta say - and this is strictly between you and me - it still gives me the creeps. Just a little bit." The possibility occurred to Data that she had already known precisely what was in Rihar's eye. Perhaps, more than the thing itself, it was each different person's explanation of things that interested her.

"Perhaps it reminds you of your species' assimilation by the Borg," Data said carefully.

Two fingers of her hand resting on her cheek tipped forward like a loaded gun. "That's right."

"I am sorry."

Guinan closed her eyes. A forgiving nod. "We do what we have to do."

Rihar's painting depicted two buildings among several in a complex. Data recognised the sun-baked terrain and twenty-third century architecture: it was Tantalus V. Distinct colour swatches and line patterns differentiated the various organic and inorganic forms.

"The composition is complex, but not convoluted, and you appear to have planned it carefully. Your depiction of perspective is, overall, fairly accurate to reality, although there are several minor errors."

Although the buildings and the landscape predominated on the canvas, there were some human figures visible through the wide windows of the buildings, small and doll-like. Some of the humans, like the machines they worked at - whose colour swatch they shared - appeared bright, elegant, and benign. Others in the buildings, however, in cream and grey institutional clothes, appeared uniform, restrained, and stiff, with downwards-facing eyes and hunched shoulders.

"Although the figures do not appear to have been drawn from observation, their stylised anatomy retains a certain gestural liveliness."

In the rectangle of dark plant undergrowth between the two buildings - the snakeleaf had informed its depiction - were two small mammalian quadrupeds of a Tantalan species Data did not recognise. Their tails were - oddly - knotted together. The hackles of the wide-eyed animals were raised; they bared their fangs at the buildings. One faced the foreground building of the two, and the other the background. They appeared to be frightened by them - and, although the animal figures were located on the canvas' periphery, they were, in a more abstract sense, compositionally central: in that the eye was drawn to them, and returned to them.

"In its brushwork, and overall impression, it might be said to be reminiscent of the early twentieth century painter Henri Rousseau."

"Yes; I always liked Rousseau," Rihar said. 

Data blinked. 

"I started painting when I was a little kid," they said, by way of explanation. "My mother introduced me to it. She knows a bit about art history. My dad -" they chuckled "- my dad isn't so enthusiastic." With curious eyes Data invited them to continue. "But I stopped when I was in high school. Schoolwork became too much."

Data gestured to blue bench. "May I sit here?" Rihar assented, shifting to make room for him to the left corner of the bench, under the fronds of a tree-fern on the knoll above. Data sat next to them, facing the dimmed panel on the far wall simulating evening light. "There is something I would like to ask you about."

Rihar glanced away. When they looked back at him, they pointed to the photosensor on their eye. "Is it - do you want to know..?" A pause - then a tentative, sympathetic nod.

"It helps," they said. "On the whole, it helps a lot. I can think much clearer and faster, now. I have mental space for things other than work - for example, I could never do this a year ago." They gestured to the canvas. "I mean.." They swallowed. "I don't feel emotions as strongly as I used to. And.." There were other things, perhaps, that Rihar had given up. "Never mind."

"Rihar.." said Data, resting his interlaced hands on his knees. "I am sorry that you have had to submit to being.. modified, in significant ways." His voice had become grave, quiet, and soft. "I know it would be preferable if there was another way for you to remain in Starfleet. I did consult with Starbase Five in an attempt to find one." He faced her, the whites of his downturned eyes visible. "I am sorry that we could not."

"..That's okay, sir."

"There is one more thing," Data said. "It is unfair that your service record makes no mention of the events at Tantalus V in reference to your phobia of doctors. I did not, in fact, know what happened there until you told me.. I have amended it to fix this."

"Thank you, sir."

"Mm," Data nodded, noticing a drop of red ochre paint as it fell, without Rihar's noticing, from their brush onto the dropsheet. He looked back up at Rihar. "If you would prefer, it is not necessary for you to call me 'sir' while we are off duty." They did not immediately reply. "I am not right now interacting with you in my capacity as Lieutenant Commander. Moreover.. in the course of learning more about you, I became accustomed to your presence, and familiar with your personality. ..I would like to consider you my friend."

They seemed unsure of what to say - stalled, maybe, by two mutually exclusive possible responses. They nodded with seeming calm, but could not hide the shaking of their hand as they held the paintbrush. Another ochre drop fell.

"Sir," said Rihar. "I would like that, too. Very much. But.. other crewmen and Ensigns figured that out about me a long time ago. They tease me for it." 

"..I do not understand," said Data. "Why would they tease you, for that?"

Rihar swallowed. "Do you know what a double bind is?"

Data's eyes alighted on the knotted tails of the animals in the painting. "Yes, I do."

"With humans.." A tiny, weary sigh through Rihar's nose, and a sad smile. "It's not socially acceptable to.. to want to please our superiors. Even though that is what we're told to do. And we're also told to do what we're told. But.." With the paintbrush, Rihar gestured to the façade of the foreground building in their painting. "It's a façade. In reality, it's considered shameful.. contemptible.. to be 'good' in those ways."

A brief, flickering absence in Data's eyes as he attempted to place what they had said in the context of his own memories. "I see." He found it, perhaps: in the memory of being the victim of practical jokes at Starfleet Academy, and of Geordi's patient response to hearing that he was continuing to correspond with Bruce Maddox. "There can be a great deal of inconsistency, I have learned, in what human beings expect of each other."

Rihard nodded, looking down at their hands. "Yes. And it doesn't bother me that much, being teased. But the real problem is that there will still be times when I'll make mistakes at work, and you'll have to correct me. If we were closer, I would still find that too upsetting. So.. I think it would be best if we didn't interact outside of work - except - except when we happen to cross each other's paths, like today." Rihar's facial expression was one of suppressed, almost physical pain. A very difficult thing for them to have requested.

"I understand," Data said. "I have, sometimes, underestimated how difficult it can be for human beings to switch between different social roles." Eyes closed, he nodded. "Yes. We will keep a 'friendly distance'."

Rihar, too, closed their eyes as they nodded.

"May I ask one more question about the painting before I go?" Data asked. "What will you name it?"

"I don't know if you want to know," they said. "It might -" they selected their words with care "- disorient you."

"Perhaps," said Data. "But it will not distress me. You may tell me."

"..The Starship Enterprise," they said, "sir."

An extremely unexpected and salient response. Perhaps they had simply meant it as a kind of cryptic joke. But there was another, more forceful realisation: that the 'leap of faith' he been taking, since his reactivation, to regard himself as a person - and potentially, in a certain sense, someday, human - had just now been interrupted. The title of Rihar's painting had, somehow, de-stabilised it. It was not particularly difficult to re-stabilise his faith. But the title was, indeed, disorienting. Human words to explain why would not come. That would be more difficult, and it would be inappropriate to take that long - even to explain such things to Rihar at all. It was not their fault. Instead:

"It is an extraordinary title," he said.

With a small, polite nod goodbye, he left them to finish their painting.

Chapter Text

As the turbolift doors closed, Ensign Dale Hunt wondered why the android officer had asked to go with him as both their shifts had ended. He couldn't pinpoint any mistake he might have made during the Bridge shift that day: it being his first week manning the conn, he'd tried his best. 

Dale glanced to Commander Data, who was facing the turbolift doors. The issue, Dale thought, might be some abstruse inefficiency or procedural matter that a human wouldn't recognise - but even if not, he wasn't particularly worried. Senior officers on Galaxy-class vessels could be fairly soft cosmopolitans, and he didn't expect the flagship to be any exception. "Sir, you wanted to talk to me?"

"Ensign Hunt, it is not acceptable for you to speak about Crewman Rihar as you did today," He didn't turn to face Dale.

"What do you mean?" Dale searched over what he'd said about everyone on the Bridge today - so unexpected was the nature of the complaint - until he realised who Data was talking about.

"When you were on your lunch break in Ten Forward," Data continued, without moving or blinking, "you referred to Crewman Rihar as my 'pet Borg' who 'lives in the walls'. Although I understand that you were in a fairly secluded area and meant only for Ensign Felice to hear you, I happened to be in earshot as I passed by."

So this was, apparently, a chewing out. Data's smart, but pretty socially retarded, Felice's older brother Blake, who'd served on the USS Trieste, had said at Felice's Academy graduation party. He'd see Blake again when Blake's parents went on holiday to Parallax; typically, they scheduled their holidays to match up with the Christmas shore leave period for Starfleet officers, so that Blake could look after their house and garden while they were away. This might be an interesting story to tell there, at least.

Data, finally, blinked, and turned to face Dale. "I understand that you are new on the Enterprise. As such, you may feel insecure. You may feel the need to ingratiate yourself with other Ensigns - to build rapport - to find ways to fit in." He showed Dale an offering, conciliatory sort of gesture with his open hands, which had been hanging straight at his sides.

Dale nodded. "To some extent; yes, sir." He supposed the hand gesture was the function of a nonverbal communication repertoire, and he idly wondered what kind of mechanical process governed its storage and selection. What would happen if someone found a way to glitch or hack it?

The turbolift arrived at the engineering hull, where Dale's quarters were located. "I - Computer, close Bridge turbolift two doors - I share these psychological needs," Data continued, with the appearance of warmth in his eyes and voice. The skin crawling on the back of his neck, Dale wondered whether he was locked in. "However, I must ask you to refrain from fulfilling them in any way which may make others feel excluded."

Dale nodded. "Sir," he said, chin raised just a little, "just to be clear - Rihar didn't overhear me?"

"No," said Data, and Dale felt some tension drop out of his shoulders. "Crewman Rihar was cleaning the transport pattern buffers in maintenance shaft fifteen, at that time." In the walls: Dale bit down a curl of amusement on his lip. "However, even when they are not present, I expect you to treat each of your subordinates with dignity and respect."

"Of course, sir."

Data, hands clasped now politely in front of him, glanced to Dale's polished rank pips and immaculate coiff. "I also understand that it may be difficult for you to relate to someone who did not attend Starfleet Academy, and whose work is quite menial." Dale struck a contrast, he supposed, to Rihar's unironed utility jumpsuit, shy posture, and wiry mop of hair.

"However - many of our crewmen have demonstrated courage and loyalty," Data said. "Rihar, specifically, has shown courage in the way they cope with their long-term medical conditions. Rihar also takes their contributions to Starfleet very seriously, and strongly desires to improve the lives of others by their work. That is why you saw me training them to use the LCARS, and to perform research for scientific reports. I am offering them opportunities to develop their skills which they might not otherwise receive."

The mentally ill dyke had him around her little finger, apparently. Or - Dale remembered now the anaesthetised softness he'd seen seal over her otherwise distrustful, hard eyes when Data talked to her - maybe it was the other way around. That seemed much more plausible, actually.

"Sir," said Dale. "I feel that's generous of you." Actually, Dale felt condescended to, but he didn't suppose Data would be able to pick that up in his body language. "But - permission to explain what I said to Felice? .. I meant what I said about Rihar basically in jest. It's just that Ensign Felice was kind of confused to see someone who isn't a commissioned officer working with you directly," Dale said, carefully. "And we were wondering how your.. I guess, tutoring Rihar.. is justified in terms of the chain of command. Whether it might present an intelligence hazard. Sir."

As Dale spoke, he watched Data closely. He still hadn't gotten used to seeing a human face - a man's face, at that - over which words which could start a fight in an Academy dorm ran like water off a duck's back. It was jarring. One might even say - Dale mulled over what he'd tell Felice later - uncanny. "Is Felice concerned that Rihar may be a spy?" Data asked.

"Oh, no," said Dale, with a nervous laugh. "Not as far as I know. It's just that - the joke was pretty much just to defuse any tension, and make Felice feel welcome. Basically, to move the conversation along."

"I see. ..Thank you for explaining your use of humour to me so clearly." Dale tipped his head in thanks. "To address your concerns - it would violate protocol," Data said, "if I were to give Crewman Rihar direct and unsupervised access to facilities and command functions available to Ensigns or scientists, or if Rihar and I maintained a friendship off duty. However, neither of these conditions obtain." Dale said nothing. Of course Data would have some legalistic cop-out ready on hand. "Moreover, I am only working with Rihar as and when they are finished with their scheduled duties, and I with mine."

"..I see." said Dale.

"It might also reassure you to know," Data added amiably, ignoring the curt coolness of Dale's response, "that I have received permission from Captain Picard to, as you say, 'tutor' Rihar."

"I see.."

Data nodded. "There is one more thing. I notice that you have been assigned to supervise the Engineering crewmen, including Rihar, to assist in the Bajoran relief effort on Valor II. Since I am aware that you are capable of treating your subordinates respectfully when they are present, I hope I will not have any reason to remind you to do so again."

"No, sir; you won't," said Dale, forcing himself to meet Data's eyes: yellow, like a hawk's eyes, and regarding him pointedly.

"Yes. Thank you, Ensign Hunt. Computer, open Bridge turbolift two doors." He nodded to Dale. "You are dismissed."

"So what's he teaching Rihar?" said Blake.

"Research methodologies. Basically. But the reason why I say it's blatant favouritism is that he could be spending that time prepping Ensigns to be Lieutenants, rather than prepping a weird-ass Crewman to be.. I don't know, an anthropology officer?" Dale took a sip from the blue liquid in his glass (try to guess, Blake had told him, to mess with him - he didn't know what it was.) "Your parents don't have any Earth drinks in there?" He gestured across Blake's parents' spacious living room to the wine cellar adjacent to the French doors. "I'm not complaining, haha."

"No. You know how they are. It's culturally enriching," Blake laughed, rolling his eyes. "So is he - she - it - shit - actually any good?"

"She. I can always tell," Dale said. "And, yeah. But only because she's been given some kind of nootropic implant by the psychs at Starbase Five."

"That's the starbase where they send the elite head doctors - the ones from Daystrom?" Blake asked.

"Yeah. Anyway - it's so messed up. The way she looks at him - the android - like, fuck; that's energy that's being totally diverted from its evolutionary purpose. Like, actually stolen."

"So, you're saying you would," Blake teased. "And you just know her body count's not high - if any.."

"Fuck you," Dale laughed. "No. My point is that any rational Human observer could see that she doesn't belong on a starship. Like.. on a neurobiological level. But, yes, of course, you already know how the anti-Human memeplex works." A sly, theatrical energy hunched Dale's shoulders and glowed in his eyes. "They make women, weak people, degenerates, et cetera, into their shock troopers; their - heh - their golems," he said, turning his glass in his hands.

"Um, excuse me, Dale, but that's a highly problematic anti-Semitic trope," said Blake, in a prissy impression of an Earth History teacher they'd both once had. 

They both laughed. "What actually fucks me off is that she hasn't taken shore leave this year," Dale said. "The thing is, I'm pretty sure she's an only child. So, I sort of get it. Can you imagine? Ehhh, sorry, Dad," he said, voice rising into a stammering lisp. "Would love to come home for the holidays - but I'm, ah, painting through my trauma at the moment, and Doctor Bergstein or whoever at Starbase Five says I shouldn't stress myself - oh, and also, I'm kind of a cyborg now, so I get that you might need some time to process that."

"Oof," Blake cringed. "Poor man."

Dale folded his hands behind his head, leaning back on Blake's mother's bijou rattan couch. "My heart goes out to him. You work hard all your life within this system. You don't hope for too much. Five hectares of land on a colony planet and a holiday to Risa every now and then. Maybe even a couple of grandchildren. Then - what, your wife up and leaves you. Then they get their hooks into your only child. Literally." He pointed to his right eyeball.

"I don't know, Dale," said Blake, pouring himself another blue drink under the wry, bitten smile on his curled lip. "Sounds like you're denying Rihar's agency in all this. Do you not think that Rihar," he said, as Commander Data, "can decide of her own accord to throw away the most fertile years of her life for the sake of our glorious post-human future?" 

"Jesus wept," said Dale. "Oh, God; that reminds me of this time he was acting Captain, when we were trapped in the Tyken's Rift. I think I told you about that. What a shitshow. He actually ordered us to go to bed. That's the future for all of us, isn't it? Once they reverse-engineer him."

"Of course, Human," intoned Blake blackly, with sardonic, lowered eyes. "Resistance is futile. You will be domesticated." He sniffed. Then, kicking back on his father's couch, he flicked open his lighter. "So have you put out feelers for what Picard thinks of all this?" he asked, and took a drag on the bowl he'd packed, before offering the pipe to Dale, who politely declined it (shit's fucking with my gains, he explained.) 

"To answer your question - no point," Dale said. "Don't get me wrong; Picard's a great guy. In many ways. But, in the end, he's.."

"French?" said Blake, and puffed out a ring of smoke.

Dale laughed. "I meant to say he's a bleeding heart.. That's his fatal flaw. He's actually bought into the propaganda." 

"So it's not just lip service for speeches?" said Blake.

"Oh, no; he's a true believer. They've totally done a number on him. Why do you think we have a Klingon head of Tactical? And, do you know," Dale said, "do you know, when we caught up with the Crystalline Entity again on Melona IV - Picard actually wanted to talk to it?" Blake almost cackled to hear this. "Yeah. This poor old scientist woman who studied it; she was begging us to kill it. It'd gotten her son, you see. But Picard wouldn't let her."

Blake clicked his tongue and shook his head with detached, sardonic disapproval. "You really think they got all of Locutus out of him?"

"Yeah. I hope it's that. It's got to be that. And it's such a shame," said Dale. He watched the flame crackling in its grate, illuminating the patterns on the Tibetan rug at the foot of the fireplace. "Such a fucking shame. He could have been a great man."

"But, you know," Blake intimated, voice dropping, "the Klingons would have had him killed after Wolf 359 if he'd been one of their own.."

Dale sighed. Unzipping a small breast pocket on his bomber jacket, he retrieved a tiny square bag. "I never said there isn't a lot I can respect about the Klingons." He rationed out a small portion of its crystalline contents onto the coffee table in front of him, and cut a couple of lines with a broken isolinear chip he'd saved for the purpose. "That stoicism, for instance." He knelt and bent down over the table and aligned the powder with a small cleaning pipette he'd borrowed, actually, from Rihar's maintenance supplies. "Not letting yourself be controlled by your emotions. Not giving into - " he snorted a line " - degeneracy." He pressed the left side of his nose and insufflated the remainder completely.

Chapter Text

"I'm just asking questions about the broader societal implications of this kind of thing," Dale said to Wesley Crusher. "Don't you think it's kind of weird that we'll put a literal cybernetic implant in someone's brain before helping them reconcile with their natural limitations? Like - where does that end?"

"Probably with us re-inventing the Borg on our own," said Rihar in their dry, quiet monotone, before putting in their earphones to listen to music and ignore him. Wesley chuckled.

"See what I mean!?" Dale said, with theatrical, self-parodying paranoia. "How can you say that so nonchalantly?"

"Yeah, yeah, okay, Dale," Wesley said, filling his arms with several blankets from a new load that had just been transported into the cargo bay from the replicating centre. He was working, alongside Rihar, Crewman Donaldson, and Crewman Salazar, to fill a series of long, rectangular grids projected in blue light onto the cargo bay floor. Each square of each grid was to contain an object, and each grid was to be filled with a different type of object: bedding, medicine, cooking equipment, and toiletries. Along the aft cargo bay wall, they had already finished stacking light, flexible polymer boxes to contain the relief packages. When they were finished with the grids, Chief O'Brien would run a program to transport one of each item into a box for the Bajoran relief effort.

This kind of robotic work was laughably beneath Wesley, Dale thought, but he would be helping with it so as to have an excuse to visit the Bajorans. Wesley had started taking a special interest in alien cultures this year, he'd told Rihar, and particularly those that were subject to (alleged) persecution.

"I mean, if nothing else, it probably can't be a physically healthy thing to have in your brain indefinitely," Dale continued, moving the objects being transported in from the replicating centre into an unsorted pile for Rihar to take from. "Does the Daystrom Institute even have long-term data on how these things affect people?"

"..Dude." Wesley lowered his voice, and glanced behind him before continuing. Like Rihar, Crewmen Salazar and Donaldson were also listening to music while they worked. "Back when I was an Ensign, I worked with that crewman you're talking about before they got treated. They were basically a nervous wreck - like, to the extent of not looking after their personal hygiene kind of thing."

Wesley could be a disgustingly annoying little dickrider when it came to adults he looked up to, Dale remembered. Before Wesley had left for the Academy, Dale had seen him with Data a few times in Ten Forward, talking or playing three-dimensional chess (although, given Data couldn't be expected to keep up with the subtleties of adult conversation, he supposed it could be excused.)

"Anyway, if Rihar's achieving what they want out of life, I don't really see any problem," Wesley continued. "People thought it was weird that I wanted to focus so much on what I'm interested in, rather than just being a normal kid. But I'm glad they saw potential in me."

Dale wondered now just how much truth there was to those Academy rumours that Wesley was being groomed by some kind of alien pederast. It would presumably account for what he'd been wearing on his mid-semester break this year: some kind of indigo shirt and silk vest; patterned, low-cut, and extremely faggoty. "Your Traveler, right?" he teased. 

"Yeah?" Clearly this was a sore spot for Wesley.

"I mean.. you can't blame people for thinking he was pretty weird."

"Ensign Hunt, you are an intelligent, efficient, and highly motivated officer. Therefore, you should not worry about needing my help in order to be promoted. Your service record will be more than sufficient."

"Thank you, sir."

"You are welcome," Data nodded. "However, I will not give you a recommendation at this time." The apologetic softness in his voice and expression really grated, Dale thought. He couldn't just tell him to fuck off and shape up like a normal person. "Although you get along well with your peers and superiors, you do not make the same effort to build rapport with your subordinates. In particular, you have been observed to bother your subordinates, and particularly Crewman Rihar, with personal questions. You also sometimes try to engage people in debate on contentious topics while they are trying to work."

"I see, sir." Fucking Wesley.

"Dale," Data said, using his first name for the first time, "I would like to better understand your interpersonal conflict with Crewman Rihar. Perhaps I could help somehow to resolve it."

Dale doubted that very much. "Er.. sure, sir." Data could help to evolve it, maybe. "What would you like to know?"

"You appear to hold Rihar in contempt."

"Ah," Dale chuckled, "it's not that. It's more like I'm concerned about them, sir."

"Go on?"

"They keep to themselves so much. They don't have any friends - I mean, besides Lieutenant Barclay." Data said nothing, but simply waited with curious impassivity for Dale to continue. "You introduced them, right?" Data confirmed it. "And that's nice; but he's a lot older than them, and much higher ranking, too. Sir."

Data nodded, still unfazed. "Having known Lieutenant Barclay for some time, I have come to trust that he would treat Rihar kindly and respectfully. I merely introduced them because I identified that they share a variety of psychological traits. I was curious as to whether this could, despite their differences, lead to friendship."

"Of course, sir. But - forgive me - don't you think it would be healthier for Rihar to be socialising with people their own age and rank?"

"In that case," said Data tentatively, "you are saying that, although you yourself are not interested in befriending Rihar, you are concerned that other people who might like to befriend them are unable to." That birdlike tilt of his head. "Is that accurate?"

"Yeah; pretty much." Dale's aunt's parrot had yellow eyes, too. "Also - obviously, Rihar likes you a lot. I mean, a lot. Sir. But, of course, you don't feel the same way about them.. That's part of why I worry about them."

Data blinked. Poor creature, Dale thought: his aunt's cockatoo. With no others of its own kind to fly with, it plucked out its own feathers; bit Dale's fingers and held on too hard to his hand. It mimicked human voices incessantly.

"Therefore - further, you believe that I could be said to have - " Data paused to consider his words " - sexual access to Rihar. But you feel it is, so to speak, going to waste.. which you find morally offensive?" Data tentatively interpreted. "If I am wrong, please correct me."

Dale shrugged, and feigned an embarrassed laugh. "I'm just saying that I worry that you keep Rihar on the hook without meaning to, sir." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You make it sound like such a big deal when you put it like that. But I just think it's kind of sad, is all. For Rihar."

"I see," said Data, absent-mindedly stroking the cat that had jumped up onto his lap. What was its name again? Dale only remembered that it was a normal-sounding name that Data apparently didn't realise would be abnormal to give to an orange cat. "In the past, I have failed to adhere to moral and social norms pertaining to sexuality: because I have failed to understand them. They are highly context-sensitive, and difficult for people to explain."

"Right," Dale nodded. "So - I mean - and I'm sorry if I'm overstepping here, sir - don't you think it might be healthier if the feelings Rihar has for you were directed towards relationships with other Humans? So that someday they might have; I don't know.. a partner - a family?"

"Dale.." said Data, lowering his voice a little, and scratching the scruff of the cat's neck. "I do not know why Rihar is not receptive, in that way, towards their peers. Perhaps Rihar is simply a person who prefers only to engage in solitary sexual behaviour. In any case, protocol requires them to keep their sexual feelings and behaviour private. We, in turn, must not discuss or speculate on what they do in privacy, or treat them differently because of it."

Dale nodded, and his eyes wandered left to right in thought. The fingers of his right hand, resting calm on his knee, curled inwards. "..But you have treated them differently, sir."

Data glanced down at his desk. "If I have done so," he said, looking back up into Dale's eyes, "it has only been so that, in time, they will be offered work more suited to their interests and abilities."

"But why should you have to do that?" Dale pressed, quietly. "If someone's incompetent.. isn't it protocol, too, to send them away?"

This would, Dale thought, prick at Data's need to demonstrate his Human virtues - perhaps even his ability to form a friendship with Rihar: which would, in turn, reveal his mentoring for the mockery of the chain of command it was. Dale wouldn't congratulate himself on the gambit just yet, though: Data's eyes were glazed with thought.

"You mention that if Rihar were forced to become a civilian, they might be more likely, eventually, to procreate." 

Dale gave a noncommital shrug.

"It would be unethical to deliberately increase, against Rihar's wishes, the probability that they will become a wife or mother," Data said. These are roles they have made clear they are not interested in occupying, and which they may be unlikely to perform successfully."

Damn it, Dale thought, Data was a better rhetorician than he'd been expecting. That guilt trip might have gotten to his younger self. "Permission to speak frankly, sir?"

"Granted."

"My parents got divorced, too. Acrimoniously. And, yeah, I have my own mental issues. I've been bullied; had my ass kicked; been rejected by girls; been made to feel like shit." Dale sighed through his nose. "But years ago, I realised something, looking at the Earth from orbit. My grandfather - he was in Starfleet once - he took me to fly a shuttle. I realised I'm the endpoint of hundreds of millions of years' unbroken struggle. I have ancestors, animals and Humans, who suffered terribly so I could be alive. I owed it to them to train for the Academy and get my shit together. I owe it to them to someday become a father, to do things better than my parents did. There's so many Humans back home who basically achieve nothing; who live for things like holoprograms. I didn't want to become like them."

Dale gauged Data's face for any sign of agreement or disagreement with his criticism of Earth society, but he could find none. His nails dug into his palms. "But Rihar doesn't understand these things. They'd laugh at them. Sir."

Data merely raised his eyebrows. "I did not know you felt this way," he said. "Please continue." 

"Sir." Dale felt the fire in his grandfather's eyes rise up in his own gaze on Data. "Don't you think there's something wrong with a society where so many people just give up on normal Human life - give up on their ancestors; their history; their traditions - and no one's allowed to judge them? You can just say you're mentally ill, so you shouldn't have to be a parent. And you'll be rewarded."

Data thought this over for a little while. There was a hint of skepticism and surprise in his expression, but no irritation or confusion.

"But, Dale.." He lowered his head. "Rihar has been mentally ill. And since your arrival on the Enterprise, you have been allowed almost without consequence to belittle them and to make them feel excluded."

Dale opened his mouth to reply, but stopped as Data raised his index finger to indicate that he meant to continue. "You mentioned that you believe Rihar would mock your sense of duty. But I believe you may be underestimating how much you and Rihar have in common."

"Go on, sir?"

"I have discovered that, like you, Rihar cultivates a complex ethical belief system. They think very carefully about Humanity's past, and how their actions might affect its future. The way they see the world has also been.. significantly influenced by their grandfather. Yes," he said, resting his interlaced hands on the desktop, "yes, I think you are similar to Rihar in many ways." The cat jumped down from his lap and slunk away.

That Rihar had original thoughts of any kind was admittedly hard to picture. And the picture of Dale hugging and making up with Rihar that Data perhaps naively envisioned made Dale's skin crawl. He saw in his mind's eye their messy hair and sexless utility jumpsuit; their sun-starved skin and dronelike eyes - like a deer in headlights when Dale approached them. Even when robotically cleaning the transport buffers, they were un-cordinated, probably from being babysat too much by PADDs and holograms as their parents' marriage fell apart. What could they be thinking about? They probably smelt. The only thing more nauseating was the obvious affection with which Data mentored them.

"The etymology of your surnames and your similar physical appearance also indicates a shared ethnic background," Data added, snapping Dale out of his thoughts. "Perhaps you have noticed this, and believe it gives you license to criticise Rihar's behaviour."

"Sir.. That's speculation."

"Mm," Data nodded. "However - when you are off duty, you occasionally wear a yellow and black neckerchief with a silver enamel pin of a sword, do you not?"

A brush of fear over Dale's heart. He began to flinch - but caught at its peak, and turned it into a sheepish shrug. "As an in-joke," he said. "Nobody would even notice what I was wearing unless they were some kind of history buff. And I don't actually believe any of that separatist stuff; I just sometimes do things to mess with people who were going to make unfair assumptions about me anyway."

"As you know, I find humour difficult to understand," said Data, as if uncomfortably aware that something was going over his head. "But I mention these things primarily in order to further illustrate your similarities with Crewman Rihar. Being interested in Human anthropology, they understand the connotations of these symbols."

They - she knew? Dale didn't catch his flinch, this time. Who had she told?

"However, they object to - they - Dale, are you alright?"

"You mock Humanity by paying Rihar any attention," Dale said quietly. 

Data stopped blinking. Definitely not a good sign. Oh, well, Dale thought: he'd fucked it now. Might as well keep going. "Don't you get it?! Humans aren't supposed to be like Rihar - pacified; atomised; technologically dependent. We're supposed to be upright and strong - dangerous, even, for our enemies."

Data still didn't blink. He didn't respond at all, in fact. Maddening. "You'll never know what it's like to have a family, or a homeland, or a religious community. You had scientists who reached into you and programmed and engineered you like an object. So, that's how you want to look after people. Deep down, that's what you think love is, and what life should be. Because it's all you know."

There was a felt sense of catharsis in saying it, a sharp and raw connection to external reality. He didn't know he'd even been thinking that; it had just poured right out of him.

When Data spoke again, it was without the subtle, Human variations of tone that usually characterised his voice. "It is my responsibility to pay people attention insofar as they might otherwise come to harm." His facial muscles barely moved. "You overestimate my involvement in Rihar's diagnosis and treatment. I merely tried to be an effective advocate for their interests in the course of providing specialists with information." The pupils of his eyes, trained hard on Dale, contracted tight. "Rihar needed psychiatric care because Human social institutions have failed to serve their needs."

"Because they're failing everyone; because they've been weakened - "

"Dale." Eyes closed, Data shook his head. "You must not continue to profess to care about Rihar. Your behaviour towards them has discredited that claim." Dale shut up - he'd crossed a line now, he could tell. "Although you have been very rude to me, and I must make a note of that on your service record, I will not relieve you of duty or put you on report: since you have not, strictly speaking, been insubordinate. You will, however, discuss the Computer's transcript of this meeting with Counselor Troi." His blinking resumed, and his facial muscles softened. "If you hold beliefs which are unacceptable to openly espouse within Starfleet, and which are associated with historical terrorist movements, you may feel lonely. Counselor Troi may assist you with that."

Dale waited, but Data didn't say anything else. Was that really all? Deanna was a pushover; everybody knew that. But Dale knew not to push Data any further. Clearly, Data was making a point of being forgiving - patronising, in fact - but it was a lot better than the alternative.

So Dale straightened his shoulders, which he realised had become hunched, and adjusted the collar of his uniform. But he didn't soften the sharp glint he knew was still in his eyes.

"Yes, sir. I'll do that."

"You've been on the Enterprise that long?" said Wesley Crusher. "Huh; I never realised that."

As Data passed through Ten Forward, he noticed Rihar smiling and canting their head as they talked to Wesley over breakfast. "And yet," they said in a low voice, "I was in your walls." Wesley laughed.

Mischievous Rihar. Over the past few months, he had noticed the growing attentiveness and clarity in Rihar's eyes; their increased dexterity with the LCARS terminals and with their paintbrush; the increased fluency of their verbal and non-verbal communication. They were no longer sluggish with depression, or stiff and constricted with anxiety. They sometimes wore the sleeves of their jumpsuit rolled up: the scars of self-inflicted lacerations on their arms were fading. 

These observations called up a further array of pleasant thoughts and images as he waited for his turbolift. The periodic injection of neurotrophic factors and synthetic neurosteroids into the sensitive tissues of Rihar's brain by the implant, gradually healing their over-rigid neural network. The phaser-cutter, with its pre-programmed movements, carefully penetrating their fragile, organic skull, as an electronic restraint net held them safely on the operating table. The more immediate relief from suicidal urges delivered at Starbase Five by the axonol-dispensing mask sealed over their needy mouth. A baby bird being fed.

He cut off this line of thought, however, as he entered the turbolift. It could be considered bizarre, unsettling or distasteful to linger like this: on details which clearly disgusted Dale, and frightened Guinan. 

There could be many reasonable explanations for Dale and Guinan's aversion. He would try, later, to identify them. Nonetheless, he struggled to understand why it should be socially unacceptable to appreciate the thought of someone receiving necessary aid.

Chapter Text

"I know there's a chance I'll feel more like I'm really part of things if I go. I'll have more to do, with more people, and they'll take an interest in what's going on in my mind and not just the menial work I can do. Still.. the place Commander Data has helped me scratch out on the Enterprise.. it's something I'm reluctant to give up," said Rihar. "Even in exchange for making slightly more of a difference in the world."

"Crewman," said Captain Picard. "You've mentioned making a difference and feeling as if you're part of things." Leaning back in his ready room chair and holding his teacup, he watched the placid lionfish in its round tank. "You know, I've often thought that, when we hold our best efforts up to rational scrutiny.. it seems they must amount to so little in the grand scheme of things; in the vastness of space. And so little even of what we do achieve is visible to us."

"I've often thought that too, Captain."

"Yes, and that doesn't surprise me. It's clear that people who spend much of their time alone are forced, more than the rest of us, to consider this somewhat bleak bird's-eye-view of things. Without the push and pull of others' voices, the.. cozy immediacy of their presence, our minds can wander outwards.. into interesting, but quite isolating places." He took a sip, and put the cup down. "Human places, nonetheless. The Borg, we must remember, will never know them."

"Yes," Rihar said, surprised that Picard would bring up his experiences as Locutus in even a small way. "I see."

"But perhaps our Mister Data knows them, too. Certainly, he sees the transience and fragility of human endeavours as clearly as you and I. And I think he sees in you an interesting window on Humanity - one, it seems, you've made a point to open to him." Rihar gave a reserved, hesitant nod. "Still - I can see no way around it. There isn't a life for you here, Crewman. You simply have to go."

"I know. I've already let them know I've accepted the position."

Picard nodded matter-of-factly. "I expected nothing less."

"Rihar.." Data said, in answer to the question Rihar posed him. "You have worked hard and achieved a great deal since you were allowed to leave the secure ward. When you tell your parents that you have been offered the position," he said, tipping his head forward a little, eyes shining, "I believe they ought to be proud of you."

"However, it will take you many years before you might be able to graduate from a research assistant to an anthropology officer proper. You are capable of significant theoretical insight into Human nature, but you lack the experience with other species necessary to excel in xenoanthropology. As yet, you also lack the ability to confidently navigate novel and potentially dangerous social situations. In this regard, you are for the time being likely to be passed over for promotion in favour of candidates who studied anthropology at Starfleet Academy."

"The prognosis I'd expected," Rihar said, with a dry smile.

From the corridor outside Data's quarters came the sound of doors sliding open, and the muffled voices and bootsteps of personnel leaving their shifts. The ship's chronometer had ticked more than a few minutes past seventeen-hundred hours. It was the end of Rihar's last shift on the Enterprise - if they wanted it to be their last: there were still a few PADDs in the elementary school to repair, but they could wait until tomorrow morning.

"You must not feel ashamed of yourself, Rihar," Data continued, showing Rihar a good attempt at a reassuring smile. He found it difficult to smile in a natural-seeming way, but that he went to the effort of it for them was more than enough. "It is not your fault that your illness rendered you unable to attain skills and knowledge via traditional educational routes, and that some people will unfairly hold this against you. Moreover - as you already know - even as an assistant researcher on a Federation starship, you will be in a greater position of influence than the majority of sentient beings in the known galaxy."

"Thank you very much, sir," said Rihar. A thought occurred to them. A sad chuckle. "It would be nice if Ensign Hunt were able to see that he's powerful in that way. Instead of only thinking about all the people above him."

A patient nod from Data. "You will not be forced to interact with Ensign Hunt again."

"Yes." Rihar smiled. "Ensign Hunt still seems to think I'm damaged - contaminated, basically. Maybe he always will. Sir - may I continue?" they asked, and he assented. "Because, I think, to him, it doesn't matter that I can enjoy life and do things well now. To him, I'd only be the way I ought to be if I'd grown up in one place instead of moving around. If I was breast-fed instead of bottle-fed; if my parents weren't at work so much." Rihar sighed. "If I played outside, in nature, with other kids, instead of playing indoors, alone, with technology. Like pre-modern Humans - well, only a lucky few of them, but he doesn't get that."

"I see," said Data. His curiosity seemed piqued, so Rihar continued.

"Of course, he can pull up all sorts of statistics and papers to argue from. And I've evaluated the relevant research using the methods you've taught me. He gets some things wrong, such as - " they laughed " - about Vulcans. But he gets many things right." They shrugged.

It was a searching, inquisitive look trained on Rihar as they spoke, but there was warmth and concern in it. Rihar wanted to believe there was, anyway. "Do you think that you are damaged, Rihar?"

Rihar paused. They took a deep breath, exhaled quietly through their nostrils. "I think that Ensign Hunt thinks he is damaged. I think that.. the world his grandfather wanted him to live in is gone. I think that being mean to me is the only way he knows how to grieve over it." 

Data took this in, seeming to turn it over and file it away in his mind. "But you are glad that the world your grandfather and Doctor Tristan Adams lived in is gone," he observed, and Rihar nodded without hesitation. "Ensign Hunt seems to be afraid that, in the future, cybernetically modified or wholly synthetic beings will evolutionarily out-compete organic lifeforms. Perhaps being unkind to you is also his way of alleviating his fear."

"Yes. He's a very proud person." They opened their mouth to say more, but paused. Data, however, waited for them to continue. "..I think that what Dale fears will come to pass," Rihar said quietly. "Not within my lifetime. But maybe within yours."  Their eyes flicked downwards in thought. "It's good to be proud. It prevents you from getting hurt." They looked back up at Data. "But there are good things in life, that.. require you to let go of your pride, somewhat." A small, wistful smile. "Maybe he doesn't need to be afraid."

"I would not want Dale to have any reason to be afraid."

"I know.. neither do I, sir." Some seconds passed in silence. They noticed a querying intent in Data's eyes.

"Rihar," he said. "May I ask you a personal question?"

"Of course, sir."

"Are you still able to experience sexual desire?"

Rihar twitched. Then, letting their shoulders dropped back down, they sighed. "I had been very afraid that I wouldn't be at all," they said. "And it did go away for a time, as my brain was adjusting. Months. Many parts of my mind did. It was.. distressing," they said. "As you know. But it came back. ..Mostly."

"That is good," said Data, with softness around the whites of his eyes usually reserved for his cat. "I had not wanted to be partially responsible for the loss of something you value."

"Thank you. ... May I ask you a personal question?" No 'sir', Rihar realised after saying it. They wondered if he'd notice.

"Yes?" Maybe he didn't.

"Do you have sexual feelings?"

"I do," he said, without hesitation. "However.." He glanced away, and squeezed his clasped hands. "They are - shall we say - complicated." He looked back up at them, wincing. "Although I am capable of simulating erection and ejaculation at will, I do not find it rewarding or pleasurable in itself. Moreover, I find being unclothed in the presence of others.. aversive, even during sexual intercourse."

"You're uncomfortable with people seeing certain parts of your body," parsed Rihar, and Data nodded. "I'm a similar way." They placed a hand over their bound, flattened chest, and Data glanced to it. His slow nod suggested he understood. 

A perplexed shake of his head as he looked down and tapped something into the LCARs terminal on his desk. "The programming governing my sense of modesty does not seem to function as it was intended." The lights on the LCARS powered down. He'd turned it off. "When I have been motivated to.. have sex, it was only because I wished to form and maintain relationships, and because I am intrigued by nonverbal expressions of emotion and physiological feelings - such as, for instance, laughter."

"You," said Rihar with a lowered glance and raised eyebrow, "you find it interesting when people lose control?"

An equivocating, somewhat flustered tip of Data's head. "In a manner of speaking."

"But you do have - there are things..?"

"Mm." Data's eyes closed. Arms resting flat over the deactivated terminal, his fingers arched. "..However, I would prefer not to talk about that." An immediate nod from Rihar.

"That's alright." 

He didn't say anything else.

"Ah.. I suppose I should get back to work," they said, with a small shake of their head. There wasn't really anything that needed doing on paper. Nonetheless, they pushed in their chair. 

Data stood, too, and approached them to say goodbye. They glanced to the ground. With an eye for small measurements ground into them through rote work maintaining the ship, Rihar noticed that he appeared to be almost precisely eighteen inches away from their body: a key threshold of Human personal space, they knew from their anthropology studies. 

"Rihar.." He glanced to the door, as he spoke. "We might not see each other again."

Awkwardly they put their hands in the pockets of their jumpsuit so as to appear stoic and unfazed. "No; we probably won't." 

"When the entity Q visited the Enterprise, he gave me, before he returned to the Q Continuum, something he called a going away present: named after the occasion.. but also because the gift, itself, was transient." 

Rihar felt their pulse quicken in their chest. They wondered what Q had given Data. Whatever it was, it had clearly been special to him. 

Data's eyes searched them carefully. "I will give you a going away present, Rihar." They noticed, from this proximity, the uncanny vividness of his irises, and the unusual texture of his synthetic skin. "If that is still something you would like from me." A pause and a blink bracketed the still. "Is it?"

"Mhm?" It was something between a query and a confirmation - but when they, nonetheless, nodded, he tentatively reached out and drew them by the waist into his own personal bubble.

Rihar hitched a breath and swallowed. "You - you would - ?"

He said nothing. Looking up into his eyes, they were met only with an expectant and intensely querying look. A second's pause.

They nodded again.

At this, his hand on their upper back drew them closer, pressing their chest to his own. Although it had been years since they had been held - by a boy, and then a girl, and both were unpleasant, deeply awkward memories - his body was surprisingly warm.

"I would fill you with my fluid, Rihar." A startled brush over the heart to hear their own words, the shame of which still lingered after their recovery, spoken by him with such ease. "I would inseminate you."

Rihar felt their eyes, looking up into his own, go rather deerlike. A familiar thought returned to them unbidden: of being roughly taken, over the desk or on the floor. The dispassionate, methodical fashion in which he might alleviate their need, and the felt volume of the fluid he would leave inside them. Retaining it, as they returned to the Jefferies tubes to work on their knees. It might be carcinogenic, for all they knew. But it could never really hurt them - at least, not in the ways the other kind could.

He took cupping hold of the scruff of their neck. He was looking at them again, perhaps for confirmation. Or perhaps to better calculate a course of action: his eyes and eyelids moved minutely, as they did when he was absorbed in a highly cognitively demanding task.

They gave another tiny, guilty nod.

"Yes," he said, lowering his voice to a half-whisper. A deep, tickling frisson spread across their neck in his hand as he spoke. Their head tilted back. "I think I will do that."

A familiar guilt and shame pricked at them again. "Sir.." They heard their voice straining. "Please don't feel you have to pretend to be something you're not, or to feel things you don't, to please other people. You have your own sexuality."

Data paused, at this. His grip on their back loosened, and the hand was lifted off the back of Rihar's neck. A finger-length of empty air now separated their chests.

A juncture, Rihar realised. They could step back now, and leave. Maybe that would be the sensible thing to do. They wouldn't get hurt and they wouldn't get attached. The neurochemical balance of their re-organised brain would let them do that, now - forgo things, and still remain functional, and relatively happy. 

A remnant of Rihar's old neural pathways surged in protest.

"What is it that you want?" they asked.

Data closed his eyes, briefly. 

He nodded. "Mm." Then he clasped the back of their neck, again, and squeezed. A brief touch of fear at the possibility that he was administering, for some alien reason, the Vulcan nerve pinch. But Rihar only felt their eyes slit and mouth part, and the neck muscles pressed between his thumb and forefinger relax. Only a deep, pleasant pressure followed the pinch, absorbing and immobilising them.

"Small machine," he said. Rihar's eyes flicked open. Those things - those creatures - that he had almost gotten court-martialed over not too long ago. What were they called - exocomps?

His hand pressed, again, over their upper spine. A kind of misty intensity and distance came over his eyes - but as he blinked several times, a kind of tenderness appeared in them too. "Little robot." He held the back of their neck harmlessly tighter. "You have been underutilised." The softness of his voice spread the frisson down into their clavicles, and down to where his hand held their upper back. "You have been neglected for a very long time." They felt themselves being pressed, again, to his chest, and his nails pressing pleasantly into the skin of their neck. "But I will attend to you." The pressure lifted from the back of their neck as he brought his index and middle finger up to their lips. "You have been made to perform work according to your functions. But.." They felt his fingers touch their lower incisors and the tip of their tongue. "Small machine, would you like to be played with?"

"Yes," they whispered. "Please." Their breath deepened. "But.." He drew his hesitant fingers out of their mouth, at this.

Rihar's own hands, they remembered, were still in their pockets, at their sides. Sheltered; un-co-ordinated, Dale would say. Undersocialised. Species traitor. They allowed themselves a small, cracked smile up at him under coy eyelids. "..But what kind of machine am I?" They saw the curious twitch of his neck and flash of his eyes as they said it. The corner of their right eye, with its grey dot on the white, twitched too.

"One programmed for routine maintenance work," he said, balefully. Drawing them closer, he stroked their back.

As tears formed in Rihar's eyes, his fingers slid gently into their mouth. "One that has not been allowed to be a person." He unzipped the back of their utility jumpsuit.

Chapter Text

My experiences with Crewman R. have led me to reflect upon my desire to experience emotions.

There is nothing outwardly wrong with R. They are physically healthy. Nonetheless, they have shown me how emotions are capable of debilitating people.

For example, when I visited R. in Sick Bay shortly after their neurosurgery, they were delirious and tearful (I had not been told that this is common and to be expected.) They did not seem to understand where they were, or who I was. They cowered when I came near, and told me that they were 'defective'; a 'bad baby'. This latter phrase they repeated several times. They insisted that, since they could not be 'fixed', they needed to be 'destroyed'; 'disposed of'; 'thrown away'. 

I did not say anything to R. when they were in this state, because I did not know how to appropriately respond. When they reached out towards me and took my hand, I held it. I made eye contact with them as they talked, and sat at the end of their bed until they fell asleep. 

Months later, during a kind of physical intimacy, I asked them what they wanted. Although they appeared happy and not at all distressed at the time, they said they wished to be told that they were defective and needed to be thrown away. But they had no memory of my visit after their surgery. I still do not understand why they used the same phrases in two very different social contexts, or why they were unable to remember my visit. It perplexes me.

I hoped to be able to help R. It seems that R. feels that they have been helped. To invite me to verbally degrade them and to feel the fragile tissue of their mouth and throat was an expression of gratitude and trust. I took care not to obstruct their airway.

I nonetheless sometimes ask myself why I could not 'fix' them. I could not reassure them that they are not a bad baby and do not need to be thrown away. R.'s sense of being inadequate seems impervious to the achievements they have made and the capabilities they have acquired. Perhaps it was formed in their early childhood. It is possible that they will struggle with it for the rest of their life.

If my own lifespan is indefinite, and my emotions, like the rest of my programming, subject to constant change and development, then it stands to reason that I too may eventually become mentally ill.

This is one reason why, as I explained to Captain Picard, I wished to participate in R.'s treatment and recovery. I told R. that I hope to learn from what they have shared with me, and what they have experienced, so that I may be better prepared to have my own emotions. To this end, I wish to be kept apprised of their experiences on the U.S.S. Hood.

This seemed to bring R. comfort.

End second officer's private log.