ROLLERCOASTER

-x-

And Not An Electric Sheep In Sight

-x-

Lieutenant Llewellyn shuffled from foot to foot to try to relieve the pins and needles in his toes. He really hated guard duty. It truly was the most tedious aspect of a career as a Security Officer. He could have stayed in Merthyr with his family and just carried on with his Tae-Kwon-Do… might even have gone pro some day… but no. He'd joined Starfleet to see the galaxy and have Great Adventures. And under the watchful eye of Commander Yar, he'd trained and trained for the worst possible scenario; single-handedly fighting back hoards of Cardies and Ferengi and so on in ferocious simulations… and how was he putting all that skill, all that strength to use? He was standing stock still outside the quarters of one of the Senior Officers, in case the Officer in question started sleepwalking again. Admittedly, that particular Officer happened to be an android capable of ripping down Turbolift doors with his bare hands, and technically it was less sleepwalking and more sleep-stabbing, but, still. This was not what he had signed up for.

At least Worf was due to show up soon – only to check up on Commander Data, mind, not to relieve Llewellyn of his dull sentry – but still, it would break the monotony. If, that was, Worf had time to speak with Llewellyn. Mind you, even if the taciturn Klingon did have time to chat, that wouldn't necessarily mean that he'd have the inclination. Llewellyn was sure that one of these days, he'd be given the chance to do something courageous and thrilling enough to impress the Klingon Officer. One of these days. Until then, he was just going to have to be as good a door guard as he could be.

He saw a familiar figure in Security Officer's uniform striding down the corridor towards him, and deflated a little. It was Yar approaching, rather than Worf. Sod. He'd been looking forward to that, too.

Yar nodded at him as she stopped outside the door. 'Lieutenant.'

'Sir,' Llewellyn replied, flatly.

Yar gave him a knowing smile. 'Sorry, Lester. I know Worf was scheduled to do the rounds this afternoon…'

'I enjoy your company as well, Boss,' Lester conceded. 'My thoughts don't completely revolve around Tall, Dark and Moody, you know. I'm not that pathetic.'

'I'm sure you're not,' Yar grinned. 'Anyway, the good news is, you're relieved.'

Llewellyn quirked an eyebrow. 'Thought I was on Standing Still duty for another two hours.'

'I cleared my schedule,' Yar explained, 'for some one-on-one guarding.' She smiled again. 'Now who's pathetic?'

'You're sure you don't want me to stay outside, just in case?' Lester offered. 'He did just stalk and stab a woman, and she isn't even his Ex.'

'I'm well aware of that, Lester.'

And with that, Yar opened the door to Data's quarters and walked in.

-x-

Tasha found Data at a bookshelf, rearranging his keepsakes.

'It is ill-advisable that you should enter into my quarters at present, Tasha,' Data informed her without shifting attention from the shelf. 'Particularly alone. I do not wish to harm you as I am, apparently, capable of at present.'

Tasha took a seat close to the door, her phaser in her hand. 'Don't worry. I think I can shoot you before you get to me, if necessary.'

Data looked around at her, assessing the distance between himself and her weapon. 'Very well.'

Tasha watched him as he went back to the reorganising. 'Spring cleaning?'

'I am attempting to busy myself with domestic tasks,' he explained, 'in the hope that constant activity will keep my dream programme from spontaneously activating itself again. However, since I am avoiding handling any objects which may be used to impale flesh, it is proving quite a challenge maintaining perpetual busyness.'

'I'm surprised you're not painting,' Tasha replied. 'Isn't that how you usually clear your head?'

'Ever since my dream programme first began to function, I have regularly painted images from my dreams in an attempt to realise and rationalise them…'

'Well, haven't you been trying to do exactly that with these nightmares?'

'To rationalise them – yes. However, they are already proving to realise themselves in a most unfortunate manner.' Data stood back, surveyed the shelf, then started rearranging the objects upon it once more. 'Besides which, I believe that a paintbrush might be too… aggressive an object for me to handle at the moment.'

'What do you mean; "aggressive"?'

'A knife features heavily in this particular dream,' Data told her, keeping his distance. 'The dream programme has occasionally been involuntarily triggered in the recent past by my holding an object which is similarly… phallic.' He pulled an odd expression at the word, as though he disliked using it, or at least, that he felt the word was in some way inappropriate.

'Still got Freud on the brain then, huh?'

'The dream in question features my impaling and consuming a female associate with whom I have been close for some years,' Data told her. 'That alone is open to Freudian analysis, let alone the fact that I have since caused bodily harm to that woman. How is Counsellor Troi's condition, by the way?'

'Dr Crusher thinks she'll be OK.' Tasha barely paused as she moved the conversation back onto Data's earlier subject. 'Deanna was never a fan of Freud's. She always said he placed too much emphasis on sex. I take it that's what you mean by saying dreaming about eating her was Freudian…?'

'I believe that Freud might have interpreted that aspect of the dream as an expression of desire to sexually possess her…'

'But you don't,' Tasha clarified. 'You've never shown an interest in her before… Hell, save for Q's meddling a few years ago, you've never shown an interest in anyone before, not even me or D'Sora. You don't have sexual desires to repress. I learnt that the hard way.'

'Do I not?' Data asked in a quiet, flat tone.

Tasha sat back in the chair with a frown. 'You're starting to question that now, too?'

Data didn't quite meet her eye. 'Recent events have given me cause to wonder whether I may be beginning to go through a transitory phase… the sudden activation of my dream programme has affected me greatly, as did the short period I was able to spend with emotions, forced though they were, as was our ability to maintain a monogamous relationship for a comparatively lengthy time-span, Tasha.'

Tasha didn't reply.

'Perhaps, as a combination of these factors, I am beginning to experience a sexual awakening of sorts.'

Tasha continued to watch him, silently. That would be just her luck, wouldn't it? After years of fighting her attraction to him, and painful months fruitlessly yearning for him to show any sort of desire for her, wouldn't it just be so godammed typical for Deanna Troi – her best friend – warm, sensual, dark, exotic, feminine… everything Tasha was not – to unwittingly rouse a long-dormant sexuality in him?

She swallowed, dryly. 'Sexual awakening? Are you sure?'

Data shook his head. 'I am not. All of this is mere speculation. I have found myself in a most confusing state recently.' He took a slight step towards her, still keeping enough distance between them for Tasha to feel she could comfortably evade him if his dream programme were to kick in again. 'What is you opinion on the matter, Tasha?'

'Why ask me?'

'You are the most regular sexual partner that I have ever taken. We have now been sporadically copulating for over six years. If anybody is to understand my sexuality, I would expect it to be you.'

'But I don't,' Tasha replied. 'That was always part of the problem between us. Shouldn't you know for yourself if you're getting sexual urges?'

'I have no frame of reference,' Data admitted.

'Well,' said Tasha, 'how often are you thinking about sex these days?'

Data fell silent for a brief moment. Tasha knew the outward signs of him computing information in his head.

'Over the past 24 hours I have recalled past sexual and romantic experiences of my own on 64 occasions; contemplated the mating rituals of the Terran porcupine, the Wyndal tree primate and the Betazoid ruby beetle; analysed the themes of sexual obsession and destruction in Webster's "The Duchess of Malfi"; studied the…'

'No, Data,' Tasha interrupted. 'I meant, sexual fantasies.'

'Fantasies…' Data frowned. 'My dreams are the only "fantasies" that I have.'

'And you don't dream about sex?'

'Unless Dr Freud's interpretations are to be believed…'

'Stop bringing this back to Freud!' Tasha snapped. 'If you were dreaming about sex, or fantasising about it, or craving it in any way that you were aware of, then I'd say that you were definitely developing a libido. But if not…' she trailed off. 'Am I in your dream?'

'The current recurring dream?' Data confirmed. 'Yes. I pass by your quarters, where you are standing at the door, wearing the same attire that you chose on the occasion of our first sexual coupling.'

Tasha raised her eyebrows. Well, that was something, at least. 'And?'

'You do not do or say anything,' Data added, 'although you do have a fig in your navel.'

'A fig.'

'Yes.'

'I hate figs.'

'I know.'

'Why would I have a fig in my belly button?'

Data shook his head, resignedly. 'There is much about the dream that I find incomprehensible.'

'Do you dream about me often?' Tasha added, her interest piqued.

'Since my dream programme was first activated, you have featured in my dreams 43 times.'

'Is that a lot?'

'Comparatively,' nodded Data, 'yes. The most prominent individual in my dreams is myself, after which Geordi features the most regularly, then Dr Soong, then Lal, then you.'

Tasha smiled. 'That's nice. But you say the ones with me in are never about sex?'

'We are never having sex,' Data replied, 'although one or both of us are normally in a state of partial or full undress. In one dream, we were chained together at the hips and I was holding an umbrella which kept spontaneously opening at inopportune moments; in another, you are a waitress serving me pie which I must eat without use of my hands; another involves a giant trampoline…'

'Oh,' Tasha interjected, trying and failing to keep the mental images that his descriptions conjured up at bay. 'That's… interesting.'

'Do my dreams distress you in any way, Tasha?'

'No,' Tasha replied, quickly. 'No, I just think it's… interesting.' She bit her lip. Nope, those mental images were there to stay, it seemed. She hastily rose to her feet. 'Well, I guess I should leave you to your… um… your shelf arrangement.'

Data blinked at her for a moment. 'Perhaps that would be for the best,' he reasoned, 'under the circumstances.'

'Sure,' smiled Tasha, tightly. With her hand still on her phaser, she made her way quickly to the door without turning her back on him. 'I hope we're able to get all this business with your recurring nightmare straightened out soon.'

'As do I,' Data replied.

-x-

He watched her leave, and then returned to rearranging the objects on his bookshelf, as she had suggested. He was indeed hopeful that the strange behaviour that he attributed to the recurring dream would soon cease. It had taken him considerable effort not to act upon the almost overwhelming impulse he had experienced while Tasha had been in such close proximity to him.

Should he have informed her that he had felt such a compulsion? It had been a different sensation to that automatic, all-consuming drive to impale Counsellor Troi – that had been more akin to being switched off – or at least, switched off in part. It had been sudden, and uncontrollable. The urge with Tasha had been ongoing, grinding, nagging… but, at least, possible to contain. Even if he had surrendered to the compulsion, he did not believe that it could have harmed Tasha in any way. All that the impulse had been urging him to do was to reach out and poke his index finger firmly and slowly into her navel.

He believed it fortunate that he had managed to control the urge. Although Tasha would not have been harmed by the action, it was inappropriate behaviour, and he did not know how she would have reacted to it.

He stood back, regarding the shelf. His gaze fell upon his Sherlock Holmes apparel and, seemingly unbidden, vivid recollections of being chained to Tasha in the Dixon Hill adventure played upon his memory, followed swiftly by that day's 65th graphic reminiscence of indulging in sexual intimacy with her. Momentarily, he attempted to calculate when the last occasion was that he had reviewed a sexual encounter with any partner other than Tasha, before quickly coming to the conclusion that it was neither appropriate nor productive for him to dwell upon his sexual history, whether with Tasha or anybody else at this conjecture. Freud's theories were 500 years old, and much of them had since been debunked by his successors. He was certain that Tasha was correct – he could not be suffering the consequences of a repressed sexuality, since he had no sexuality to repress. The recurring nightmare, and the erratic behaviour he had been exhibiting since first dreaming it, had to have some other cause, and some other solution. He could not accept that he had harmed Counsellor Troi simply because he subconsciously wished to any more that he could accept he simply longed to press himself into Tasha's abdomen… pornographic recollections relayed themselves to him for the 66th time that day… the particular temperature and tautness of the different areas of her torso during the different stages of copulation… the curve of her spine 5cm before it joined her pelvis, and the faint, smooth distension of her belly… the tightening of her muscles as she climaxed…

He stared intently at the bookshelf.

He was still unconvinced that this was the optimal aesthetic arrangement for these particular artefacts. He began removing everything from the shelf, placing the items in order of size on the floor. He was just going to have to start again from the beginning.