“You’re welcome,” Crusher said, as she considered the almost instantaneous one hundred eighty-degree shift in his mood. “This has really been hard on you, hasn’t it? You really didn’t want to have to go through with the implant surgery.”
“Hell, no, I didn’t,” La Forge said, still beaming.
“Why not?”
That question caused La Forge’s smile to dim somewhat. “What do you mean, ‘why not’?”
“Other than the coercion aspect, I mean,” Crusher said. “The current generation of ocular implants represents a marked improvement over—”
“Hey, Doc,” La Forge said, cutting her off. “I’m happy with my VISOR, that’s all. I don’t need the sales pitch.”
Crusher fixed him with a sharp look. “Part of my responsibility, in regard to my patients’ consent, is ensuring they’re able to give informed consent.”
La Forge sighed and gestured for the doctor to get on with it. Crusher resumed. “The old Aroeste interface has been replaced with bio-neural circuitry, giving the implants a faster rate of sensory input processing, as well as a closer approximation of standard human vision in the visible light spectrum. Plus, the iris coloration and patterning can be customized to give you a completely normal appearance.”
Chuckling without humor, La Forge said, “You know, Beverly, that’s almost exactly what Dr. Soran told me.”
Crusher recoiled as if slapped. “What?”
“Oh, yeah. Even as he was fitting that microtransmitter in my VISOR, he was telling me I should have implants so I’d be ‘normal’. If I’m getting the same advice from both you and him, it must be the thing to do, right?”
The doctor shook her head. “Geordi, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No, but still, you use ‘normal’ like it’s this huge selling point. ‘Everybody wants to be normal, Geordi!’” he said in a high, mock-chipper voice, and then grunted. “We’ve got the Dominion scaring the hell out of us because they think there should be some kind of universal homogeneous order, but just scratch below the ‘infinite diversity’ veneer of the Federation, and you find out we don’t really like things too different or abnormal, either.”
“Geordi…”
As suddenly as La Forge’s anger had erupted, it appeared spent, and he slumped in his seat. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be dumping all this on you.”
“No, Geordi, don’t be sorry,” Crusher urged him. “This is something you’ve kept bottled up for a while, isn’t it?”
He gave Crusher a sharp look, and then a halfhearted smile. “Don’t make me have to tell Deanna you were trying to do her job while she was gone.”
Crusher ignored his warning. “It hurts to be treated like you’re different, I know.” She recalled all the times Wesley had come home from school on the verge of tears because of the abuse he’d been subjected to by the older students he so effortlessly out-paced academically. “I’m guessing you’ve been hurt like that a lot in your life.”
“Ancient history,” La Forge said dismissively.
“Except it still bothers you.”
“I wouldn’t be where I am today if I still let it bother me. I learned to deal with it.”
“And yet, you’ve resisted the idea of replacing your VISOR all these years…”
“Because that’s what they want!” La Forge said. “It would be admitting that I am a freak, and changing myself to fit their definition of normal!”
“Forget ‘them,’” Crusher shouted back, “what do you want?”
That stopped La Forge cold. He sat open-mouthed across from Crusher as an expression of epiphany bloomed on his face. “Oh, my God,” he finally said. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing all my life, isn’t it? Worrying about ‘them.’”
La Forge paused as he removed his VISOR, and then put a hand over his face, rubbing at his closed eyes with thumb and forefingers. “A bunch of bullies and strangers from years ago…dammit. I must seem like a crazy man.”
Crusher waited patiently as he took a couple deep breaths, wiped the corners of his eyes, and then replaced the VISOR. “I guess I’ve got some new things to think about and reconsider,” he said as the appliance softly clicked onto its contacts at his temples. He stood up from his chair and headed for the door. Just before reaching it, though, he turned and asked, “When you say a faster processing rate, how much faster are we talking about?”
The doctor held back a smile as she started talking him through the specifics of the implants and of the procedure. La Forge listened and asked questions that brought all his concerns out to be addressed. And in the end, when La Forge made his decision, Beverly finally started to feel good again about being a doctor in the modern world.
CHAPTER
7
Lwaxana’s newborn child wailed at the top of his lungs—an evolutionary holdover from a time before Betazoid parents could sense their offspring’s hunger and discomfort telepathically. “Oh, hush now,” Dr. Byxthar said to the child, managing to sound both soothing and gruff at the same time. “It’s over now, and that’s the last time you’ll ever have to go through it.” Girl!
Deanna slowly lifted her head from where it lay beside her mother’s and turned to look at the older woman, now holding a squirming, screaming bundle in a loosely wrapped blanket. Come here; help me.
Automatically, Deanna pushed herself to her feet, while keeping her telepathic attention on her unconscious mother. She was still breathing, but that was almost all she could tell. Dr. Byxthar stood up as well, and thrust the infant at Deanna’s chest. She gasped, but her left arm instinctively folded securely underneath the baby’s torso, while her right hand cradled his delicate soft skull. She pressed him close against her body as the doctor turned to grab her tricorder.
The boy had a slight raised crease along the bridge of his nose, and as his cries slowly subsided and his eyelids opened, he revealed a pair of characteristically dark Betazoid eyes. Those eyes were not quite able to focus, but all the same, they seemed to lock on the face above him. Deanna gazed back into them. “Hello, baby brother,” she whispered, and Deanna felt his very young and unformed mind shift, the trauma of his birth already a fading memory, replaced with a feeling of security and contentedness. She smiled softly, thinking that Kestra must have held her in much the same way, and realizing for the first time how much she looked forward to being the big sister Kestra never had the chance to be.
Deanna had no idea how long she stood there like that, silently bonding with her new sibling. What finally broke the spell was the shouting that, despite the house’s solid walls and floors, could be heard all the way from downstairs: “The child is being irreparably harmed! Don’t you understand? Every minute he’s held in that room full of women…”
Deanna shot a look at the door, as if expecting Deycen to come bursting through right at that moment, even though she trusted Mr. Homn would never let him get so far. She then turned to Byxthar, who had finished her examination of the baby and was now waving her tricorder over Lwaxana’s head and torso. Deanna extended her mind again and found her mother still distressingly deep in unconsciousness. Will she be all right? she asked Byxthar. What’s wrong?
What’s wrong, the doctor answered as she pressed a hypospray to her patient’s neck, is that she’s too damned old to be having babies. Childbirth is hard enough on a woman in her prime; for a woman who supposedly went into The Phase seven years ago…
But she will be all right?
“You have no right to hold that child now that it’s been born!” the Tavnian’s bellowing voice sounded again.
Not if I can’t care for my patient in peace, Byxthar thought through clenched teeth.
Deanna looked at her mother, her face seeming to pale by the minute, and then at her mother’s son, his dark eyes closing again as he drifted into a serene sleep in her arms. Deanna shifted the baby carefully so that he was safely cradled in the crook of her left arm. Then she stepped over to the bureau where Byxthar had lai
d out her instruments and snatched up a laser scalpel with her right hand, before marching out of the bedroom to face down Deycen.
The Tavnian consul had somehow made his way out of the living room, though still attended by Homn. The big man stood at the bottom landing of the stairs, his arms held out to either side, blocking the full width of the staircase from banister to banister. “Finally,” he crowed as he saw Deanna and the baby, clearly under the delusion that she was bringing the child out for him.
“Leave this house now,” Troi said, activating Byxthar’s scalpel as she descended the stairs and pointing it in Deycen’s direction. “Leave, and do not ever, ever try to disturb my mother or her child again.”
At the sight of the thin red spike of energy arcing from the medical instrument, both Deycen and Homn stepped back. “What is this?” Deycen demanded.
“This is me, telling you to leave,” Troi said as she reached the bottom landing and stared up fiercely into the taller man’s eyes. “Do not make me repeat myself.”
“Commander Troi,” Deycen said, putting significant emphasis on her Starfleet rank, “this is not the way to resolve this matter. Now, if you would please…” He held both hands up in a placating manner, and took one step toward Troi and the baby.
Troi answered by swinging her right hand at Deycen, and slashing the laser blade across both of his palms.
Deycen screamed and jumped backward, clasping both of his now-clutched fists protectively against his abdomen. “Gend roe!” he swore at Deanna in Tavnian. Apprehensively, he looked down at his hands and was surprised at the lack of blood. The scalpel had been set for dermal depth cutting only; the shallow incisions had been cauterized before they could bleed, leaving only a thin pink scar across either palm. “What is wrong with you?” he nearly screamed once his initial shock had faded.
“What makes you think anything is wrong with me?” Troi asked in a low growl. “Because I don’t meekly submit to you and let you tear my family apart?”
“Put that weapon down!” Deycen demanded. Troi responded by pressing her thumb on the control padd of the scalpel grip. The laser beam turned a brighter shade of red and grew several additional centimeters. “How dare you?” he huffed indignantly, trying without success to cover up his faltering courage. “I am a diplomatic envoy!”
“And I am a Daughter of the Fifth House, Heir to the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, and a chu’wI’Hey in the mok’bara.”
The boast of her prowess in the Klingon martial art had its intended intimidating effect on Deycen, even though “chu’wI’Hey” identified her as little more than an advanced novice. Deycen shook a warning finger at her as he backed away from her. “The Federation Council and Starfleet Command will hear of this, Commander! I will have your uniform!”
A small part of Troi did worry about the repercussions of her actions. Captain Picard, she hoped, would understand what she had done, even if he couldn’t approve of her methods. But for something as serious as an assault on a foreign ambassador, her fate would likely end up in the hands of someone less inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt.
A quick glance down at the baby boy in her arms (remarkably, still asleep) drove all those concerns from her thoughts. “You can have it, but I doubt it’ll look half as good on you.” She looked up at him again and pointed the laser scalpel first between his eyes, and then at the front door. “Now, get out of my house!”
“This isn’t over,” Deycen said, reaching behind him for the door handle. “I will be back.” Without letting his eyes waver from Troi’s weapon, the Tavnian pulled the door open and backed out across the threshold.
And then he stopped suddenly, as if he’d bumped into a wall. Troi had no idea what barrier he might have bumped into in the middle of the front walk, until the large man turned to reveal a strange-looking humanoid wearing the beige uniform of the Bajoran Militia. “Ambassador Deycen, I presume,” the newcomer said. “I was told I would be able to find you here.”
“And who are you?” Deycen asked.
“My name is Odo.”
Deanna felt her breath catch. Even though she had been to DS9 several times, on both Enterprises, she had never before crossed paths with the Changeling security chief. She was more than a little surprised that she would encounter him for the first time in the foyer of her mother’s house.
Troi’s surprise, however, was nothing compared to Deycen’s. “Y-you?” he stuttered as his eyes grew wide. “You—you’re the Ch—”
“The husband, yes.” Odo took a step into the house, nodding to Mr. Homn and Deanna before he noticed the infant sleeping in Deanna’s arms. Troi could not empathically read the Changeling, but despite the largely unformed appearance of his face, she thought he seemed to regard the child with awe and affection.
Then Odo seemed to notice Troi’s scrutiny and self-consciously hardened his mien once again. “Mr. Homn called me earlier this morning on Deep Space 9.” He pivoted back toward Deycen. “He said you’ve been making threats against my wife, Ambassador.”
“You cannot be married!” Deycen said, in an unexpected burst of bravado. “It will not be allowed to stand!”
“Oh, no?” Odo took a step toward Deycen, forcing the Tavnian to take one backward, into Mr. Homn’s chest. The Tavnian looked from one to the other in abject fear, any protest of his diplomatic immunity caught in his throat.
Odo lifted a hand toward Deycen, which Troi now saw had been gripping a padd. “This is an official Certification of Marriage, signed and stamped by Shaakar Edon, First Minister of Bajor.” He placed it in Deycen’s hands. “I also have the First Minister’s assurance that, if you were to contest my marriage to Lwaxana Troi in the Tavnian courts, he will attest that any marriage performed in Bajoran territory, regardless of the type of ceremony or the participants’ species, is considered legal and binding under Bajoran law. Further, the Bajoran provisional government will challenge any effort of the Tavnian government to undermine Bajoran authority in the matter.”
Deycen’s face fell. Now that the legal question of Lwaxana’s marriage—and Odo’s claim on her child—was between two non-Federation worlds, matters had become much more complicated—far more so than a minor diplomat like Deycen could negotiate. “No,” he whispered, pleading. “Think of the child.”
“Of course I’m thinking of the child,” Odo said, offering him a peculiarly unnatural facial expression. “I’m his father.”
Deycen seemed to become physically ill hearing that. He gave one last, pitying look at the boy in Deanna’s arms and, once again, backed his way out of the Troi house.
Odo swung the door closed in Deycen’s face, and then turned to Deanna. “I don’t think he’ll be giving you any more trouble,” he said.
Troi nodded slightly. “Thank you, Mr. Odo.”
“Just Odo. And you must be Deanna.” Troi nodded. Of course, her mother would have mentioned her to this man, but she found it more than a bit disconcerting to hear such a familiar tone from the unreadable Changeling.
“And this must be her son,” Odo said, bending to more closely observe the baby in her arms. A strange expression pulled at the corners of the shape-shifter’s mouth, as if he wanted to smile but did not have much practice at it. “When did Lwaxana deliver?”
“Just now. Minutes ago.”
Odo nodded. “Good. I was concerned she might give birth on the transport from Bajor.” He looked up from the baby back to Deanna’s face. “And where is Lwaxana?”
“She’s upstairs, still with the doctor.”
Another unreadable emotion crossed the Changeling’s face. “Is she all right?”
Deanna extended her empathic senses out toward the second-floor bedroom. She felt the stress Dr. Byxthar was under and her deep concern for her patient. From her mother, Deanna still could feel nothing. “I don’t know,” Troi told Odo in a strained whisper. “The doctor is doing everything she can.”
Closing off her telepathic senses, Troi was able to again focus on Odo and his re
action. His face still looked like nothing so much as a plastic facsimile of concern, no less artificial than one Data would have worn prior to the installation of his emotion chip. But this time, Troi noticed Odo’s eyes. And in them, she saw the real concern and the true affection he felt. Though she still felt somewhat wary of this outcast Founder, she could no longer doubt his emotional sincerity.
“I…is there anything I can do?” he asked after a long pause, the low, gravelly sound of his voice matching the emotions in his eyes.
“You can sit and wait with me for the doctor. If you’d care to.”
Odo nodded. “Of course.”
Deanna gestured with the now-deactivated laser scalpel toward the living room. “Besides, it would seem you and I have quite a few things to talk about…Father.”
Odo started and whipped his head around, showing Deanna such a comical expression of shock that she couldn’t help but laugh. Realizing the joke, Odo untensed, turned up one corner of his mouth, and gave a single dry chuckle as they moved into the next room.
CHAPTER
8
Geordi La Forge’s hands kept going to his brow and temples, still finding it hard to believe he was seeing without his VISOR.
The operation had gone off without a hitch, and, as Crusher had said, the implants’ capabilities were equal or superior to those of the VISOR. Of course, it would still take a few days for his brain to get accustomed to processing stereoscopic information from his new dual inputs. Then there was blinking—after so many years of either a constant barrage of imagery, or fumbling in the dark for his VISOR, how strange to be able to turn either implant on or off with a simple muscle twitch.
Overall, though, he was quite pleased with the results. And as shallow as it sounded, what pleased him most was the reflection he now saw in the mirror. He’d seen photographs of himself sans VISOR before, and had always found the sight of his blank, milky white eyeballs to be more than slightly disturbing. He’d actually considered it fortunate that his VISOR had shielded those dead eyes from the view of others. Now, as he considered his unadorned face, he was entranced by how expressive his eyes could be, and he wondered again why he had opted to keep them hidden for so long.
Star Trek: The Next Generation™: The Insolence of Office Page 7
