Chapter Nine
Data rubbed the two brushes together until the gel was well distributed between them, glanced at his reflection in the mirror, then proceeded to precisely and meticulously brush his unruly, freshly showered hair back into its accustomed style.
"And the doctor actually had to cut her open!" Kahlestra prattled beside him as he brushed. "The whole clinic was shaking, the lights were going on and off, but it was like she didn't even notice. She focused her mind, did her duty, and that was that – just like Kahless would have done!"
Kahlestra flopped down on her cot, laced her fingers under her head, and stared up at the metallic, domed ceiling.
"Maybe that's what I'll be when I grow up," she said.
"Kahless?" Data teased.
"No," Kahlestra retorted. "A surgeon! Maybe even a Starfleet surgeon. I mean – cutting into people, not to kill them, but so they can keep living! It's got to be one of the coolest things I ever saw!"
"I am delighted by your enthusiasm, Kay," Data said, setting down his brushes and giving his appearance a final, critical inspection before turning to face her. "I am certain Dr. Crusher would feel quite gratified to know she has made such a positive impression on you. I take it your mother is now recovering?"
"She's still asleep, but yeah," Kahlestra said. "I know it's awful to say this, but I almost wish she'll stay that way. Unconscious, I mean, not injured. No way she'll let us talk like this when she wakes up."
Data tilted his head.
"Why not?"
Kahlestra sighed, and crossed one leg over her raised knee.
"It's complicated…" she muttered.
"If you explain the situation, perhaps I can help," Data offered, pulling his newly replicated brown vest over his cream-colored shirt, then sitting on the cot opposite hers.
Kahlestra turned her head away.
"It has to do with the divorce," she mumbled, and sat up, her face still turned to the wall. "I was practically a baby when she left my father's House, and of course no one ever tells me anything, but I do know my father only lets me live with her because she made a vow before the court to raise me in strict accordance with his Family's 'traditional Klingon values.' I hate it, and I know she hates it too. But, she won't fight back!"
Kahlestra growled low in her throat, then pounded her fist against the wall.
"I despise her for that!" she cried.
"What is so disagreeable about these 'traditional Klingon values'?" Data asked.
Kahlestra shuddered angrily and shook her head.
"I don't want to talk about it," she grumbled, and sat up. "Not now, OK? Because, if I start talking about it I'll get angry, and if I get angry I might scream and, if I scream, she might hear me and wake up and I'm not ready for her to lock me in a room with my stupid homework just yet."
Data raised his eyebrows.
"Surely, your mother would not lock you in a room," he said.
Kahlestra snorted.
"You don't know her," she said, and slid off the cot.
"Data?" she asked.
"Yes, Kay?"
Kahlestra regarded him closely, as if considering a rather weighty decision.
"I…" She hesitated, then tried again. "I was just thinking. Because, my mother doesn't know I know this… But, I asked at school once, and there is a way to get around the—"
The sliding doors opened, and Ishta stormed through.
"You clean now?" she asked Data.
"Yes," he said. "But, Ishta, when you interrupt—"
"All dressed and decent?"
"You can see that I am." Data frowned at her in confusion. "Ishta, what—?"
"I want a new outfit," Ishta told him. "And a hairbrush. Like you promised me last night."
Data regarded her, rather nonplussed by her demanding tone.
"You showed very little interest when I made that offer."
"Well, I'm interested now!" Ishta snapped. "Will you help or what?"
Data's lips tightened.
"Right," he said, and stood up. "Let's start this again. Hello, Ishta. Kay and I were just having a conversation. If you would care to wait, I can be with you in—"
"Actually," Kay interrupted, "it's OK. It was a dumb thought, anyway."
"Kay, if something is upsetting you—"
"No, I'm fine, really," she said. "Thanks anyway, Data."
"If you say so…" Data said, his expression deeply puzzled as he watched the girl walk out of the room.
"Well?" Ishta demanded impatiently.
Data returned his eyes to the scowling young Orion.
"Can you describe specific criteria for the apparel you wish to replicate?" he asked her.
"I'll tell you what I want when we get to the replicator," she said, and led the way out of the room. "The good one you fixed up in the cafeteria. Come on!"
Data shook his head, then took a last glance at himself in the mirror, fastening his vest and neatly smoothing a few errant strands of hair back into place as he walked out after her.
"She called me a 'poor thing'!" Ishta protested angrily as she picked the tangles from her long, black hair with the hairbrush Data had replicated for her. "Said I reminded her of some old rag doll she had when she was a child."
"Who said this?" Data asked, taking the newly replicated boots from the replicator's shelf and carrying them over to her.
"Your prissy, pinch-faced doctor friend!" Ishta snapped, flipping her hair back behind her shoulders and taking the boots. "She said it to that half-Betazoid shrink-woman you stuck us with when you went down into those stupid tunnels. But, I heard her, and I knew what she meant."
She scowled and jammed her socked feet into the boots.
"I won't be pitied. Not ever. Especially not by some fancy Fed doctor like her!"
"I am certain she meant no offense," Data told her. "Dr. Crusher is one of the kindest, most—"
"I don't care!" Ishta cried. "I'm not some pathetic, beat up little doll! I am Ishta! That is what I want that doctor-woman to see!"
Data nodded slowly, his expression contemplative.
"Is the fit acceptable?" he asked regarding the boots as she stalked up and down the cafeteria.
"Yeah, they'll do," she said, and spun sharply in place, her hair and skirt twirling around, then back as she said, "How do I look?"
Ishta had exchanged her torn, stained and battered rags for sturdy black leggings and boots, a blue turtleneck, and a knee-length cranberry jumper dress with gold trim that managed to simultaneously conceal and compliment her willowy figure.
Data cupped his chin.
"You wish me to offer an honest opinion?"
Ishta buried her face behind her hands.
"Deities, is it that bad?"
Data chuckled fondly.
"Not at all," he said. "I believe this new skin suits you quite well."
Ishta snorted.
"Oh, ha ha," she snarked, but her blue eyes were vulnerable when she glanced up at him.
"You really mean that?"
"I do," Data assured her. "You look like Ishta."
The young Orion's guarded expression opened wide, her sharp features softening as she blushed happily. On impulse, she rushed Data with a hug, but pulled away before he could hug her back.
"Will you help me braid my hair?" she asked, sniffing a little, then clearing her throat.
"Of course," he said, and picked up her hairbrush and a black elastic. Within a minute, the braid was complete, and Ishta pulled it over her shoulder for inspection.
"My mother used to braid my hair, when I was small," she said. "Your braid's better."
"Thank you," he said, and smiled. "Shall we join the others in the main building now? They should still be eating lunch."
"Yeah, I guess," she said. "Data… Can I ask you a question?"
"You may ask me anything, Ishta," he told her.
Ishta swung her foot back and forth, then asked: "Do Federation people…dance?"
Data grinned.
"Indeed, we do," he said.
"Seriously?"
"Absolutely," he said. "In fact, back on my old ship, I once devised a comprehensive dance course for the holodeck, incorporating music from across the Alpha and Beta quadrants and featuring some very interesting partners."
"So…you dance?"
"I do," Data said.
"You're telling me that you," she gestured to his rather stiff, upright posture, "can dance."
"Quite proficiently."
Ishta quirked an eyebrow.
"Prove it," she said.
"You first," he shot back, his grin turning a little wicked. "After all, since you introduced this subject, I must assume you find it to be of some personal interest."
Ishta averted her eyes.
"Maybe I used to," she admitted. "A long time ago. It was just stupid kid stuff."
Data regarded her expression.
"Somehow," he observed gently, "I don't think you fully believe that."
"What do you know?" she snapped, and stalked toward the cafeteria table.
"Did you used to dance, Ishta?" he asked quietly.
"I wanted to," she said, her back still turned to him. "When I was six… Dancing… It was a way out! It seemed like…like this magical life. Good food, beautiful costumes…"
She sighed, and sat on the bench.
"Orions take dance very seriously," she said. "Top stars can write their own ticket at the high-end slave markets. That's how my mother got started."
"Are the dancers slaves, then?" Data asked uncomfortably.
"Most of them," Ishta said. "The producers and directors hand pick the best of the best for their productions. The dancers are trained from age six to work hard and follow their masters' instructions. If a top performer gets famous enough, they can use popular demand as a bargaining chip. Many of them bargain for a cut of the ticket money, then use that money to buy their freedom. Some continue performing after that, or try different careers, but most put themselves on the market to hook wealthy buyers. Like my mother did."
"Is that why you did not become a dancer?"
Ishta fiercely shook her head.
"Too independent-minded," she growled. "That's what they said. Like it's some awful crime to even have a mind, let alone opinions of your own!"
She shivered a little, then turned to face him.
"I was a good dancer," she said. "Better than the brat kids they did pick – and they knew it! But, they threw me away – back to the slave market, and then to the Skins…" She snarled, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "They rejected me. And, now I'm way too old for training…"
"Ridiculous," Data said. "You are only fourteen."
Ishta grunted in exasperation, and buried her face in her hands.
"Why do I even say anything to you Feds," she muttered.
"Ishta," Data said, "I can see this means a great deal to you. It is understandable if you are frightened. But, if you do not try—"
"And, there it is!" Ishta exclaimed. "That stupid Fed optimism! 'Anything's possible if you just believe hard enough.' Well, it's not, OK? Because, it's not just you who has to believe. It's all those gatekeepers out there whose entire job in life is to keep you out!"
Data blinked, her words striking a surprisingly deep chord within him. But, rather than analyze the unsettling sensation, Data kept his mind on the topic at hand.
"You can dance for fun, you know," he said. "And for the exercise. It does not have to be your career."
"Whatever," Ishta mumbled. "Look, let's just go, OK? Forget I said anything."
"Ishta—"
"No!" she snapped. "I don't want to talk anymore."
"Then don't talk," he said. "Dancers express their feelings through movement."
"I told you, I'm not a dancer—"
"Neither am I," Data said. "But, I can do this."
He broke into a quick series of tap steps, ending with a neat spin.
Ishta raised a wry eyebrow, but couldn't hide her impressed surprise.
"Your turn," he challenged. "Show me what you've got."
The girl gave a dark, world-weary sigh, but lifted her arms into a graceful pose. Slowly, she arched her back, then whipped her body around, her toes sliding into a ballet-like position before she set off leaping and spinning, her frustrations and angry fears translating into quick, athletic kicks, dives, and jumps. She leaped high, performing a startling split in mid-air, then turned her landing into an elegant spin that grew lower and lower until she ended on her back with one leg in the air. She stopped short, then rolled backwards, finishing with her knees on the ground and her arms crossed over her chest.
She held out a hand, and Data moved to take it, helping her rise to her feet.
"I know," she said, before he could speak. "I suck. But, you're not going to say that."
"No," Data said. "You are unpracticed. But your timing and instincts are good, and you have a natural grace any observer would find quite striking. I think you should show Dr. Crusher what you can do."
"That fancy-pants doctor!" Ishta scorned. "What the hell for?"
"Dr. Crusher is the one who taught me to dance," Data said. "She is quite proficient. If you are interested, she may even be able to advise you regarding dance schools and performance troupes. She is certainly better informed on these matters than I am."
Ishta scowled at him.
"You really are an idiot, aren't you," she said.
"Because I believe that you should follow your interests?" he asked.
"Because you think it matters."
"You matter, Ishta," he said, staring right into her eyes. "You matter to me."
"And I should hate you for that," Ishta said, turning her eyes away.
Data sighed, and pulled her into a warm, half-embrace, which she slowly returned, resting her forehead against his shoulder.
"Yep," she mumbled into his arm. "I totally hate you."
"I know," he said, and gave her a fond little squeeze. "But, we should go. Lunch will be nearly over by now."
"Data?" she asked, looking up at his face.
"Yes, Ishta?"
"When this is over, and you go back to your ship…will you think of me?"
"I will," Data said. "And, I would hope that we would stay in contact."
"Data?"
"Yes, Ishta?"
She caught a sniffle with her sleeve and swallowed hard, clinging to him as she pressed her head even deeper into his shoulder.
"I can't stand how much I'm going to miss you."
Data pursed his lips, then he smoothed back her hair, a peculiar inner ache tightening his chest.
"I will miss you too," he said, surprised by the slight roughness in his voice. "But, the Enterprise-E is not a family ship. Even if it were..."
He stopped, the memories of his daughter Lal and Starfleet's cold response to the android's earnest attempt at fatherhood threatening to overwhelm him. Yet, somehow, Ishta seemed to understand.
"Fed authorities probably wouldn't let a metal man adopt a meat kid, huh," she said. "Let alone two, or three."
"It would be...difficult," Data admitted, realizing that was an understatement.
"Well," Ishta said dryly. "Isn't the universe just full of bigots, jerks, and bastards."
"Not entirely," Data said, and Ishta punched his arm.
"Idiot," she said.
"Cynic," he retorted, and she smiled.
"You sure I look OK in this?" she asked, giving her skirt a little twirl.
"You look like what you are," Data told her. "A sharp, sweet, talented girl I am proud to call my friend."
Ishta's eyes widened.
"Dieties," she said. "You actually mean that."
"I do," he said, and offered her his arm. "Would you now do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to lunch?"
"Only if you don't expect me to return those compliments."
"I would expect no such thing."
"Then, I'll accept," she said, and squeezed his hand in hers.
"Hey...Data?" she said as they stepped through the sliding doors.
"Yes?"
She lowered her eyes.
"Thank you for the new outfit. I...I've never had new clothes before, and these..." She swallowed, embarrassed, and shrugged a little. "Well, thank you."
Data's expression warmed, and he nodded.
"You are most welcome, Ishta," he said and squeezed her hand back, allowing himself to imagine - just for a fraction of a moment - what his life might be like if adoption was a viable option for an android officer, and he really did have the chance to be a father again...
0.68 seconds...0.69...
"Then, it's possible the quake we experienced here was actually caused by that wall opening underneath the Stairway?" Crusher said as she finished the last bite of her sandwich.
"I wouldn't be surprised if that's exactly what the readings show," Nat said around his own mouthful.
Picard nodded thoughtfully, and glanced at Tu'Pari.
"I'd be curious as to whether this new finding has any bearing on the increased frequency of the quakes this region has been experiencing lately," he said.
"Yes," Troi said, setting her drink down on the control room's little conference table, "But, what troubles me is that Kurak's bio-monitors cut out before the tremors started."
She creased her forehead, her gaze seeming to turn inward.
"No, it's more than that," she said. "Just before the quake, I had the strangest feeling… It was as though we were being watched. But, there was no one there – at least, no one I could see."
"Well, you are empathic, isn't that right?" Freja said. "Maybe it was a premonition…a sense that the quake was coming?"
Troi shook her head, just slightly.
"I don't know…"
The doors slid open and Ishta walked in, with Data just behind. Riker smiled a greeting from the table and said, "Hey, we saved you two some sandwiches. Come grab a seat."
"Thank you, Will," Data said, heading for the nearly empty sandwich platter. "Hello, everyone."
"Hello, Data," Troi greeted. "That vest looks quite flattering on you."
Data smiled and straightened his posture.
"Ishta and I decided to update our wardrobe," he said. "I am pleased you approve of my selection."
Crusher narrowed her eyes curiously, looking like she was about to ask a question, but Freja's gasp diverted everyone's attention.
"Oh my…" she said, bringing her hands to her mouth. "Is that really Ishta? Oh, what an adorable dress!"
Ishta scowled and picked at her skirt.
"Whatever," she muttered, grabbing a sandwich, some apple slices, and a bottle of milk and flopping onto the seat next to Kahlestra, who pretended to sniff the air.
"Well, you certainly smell better now," she teased. "What happened to that torn up old sack you were wearing?"
The Orion growled and bared her teeth at the Klingon.
Kahlestra rolled her eyes.
"Sheesh, I was only teasing. Seriously, though, you look a lot better with your hair back. First time I've actually seen your whole face."
Ishta scowled and scrubbed her fingers through her neatly brushed-back hair until her long bangs came loose from the braid and fell over her eyes and forehead.
"OK…" the Klingon drawled. "I guess that works too."
Ishta grunted and took a bite of her sandwich.
Crusher raised a bemused eyebrow and shared a glance with Troi, who had to cover a smile with her hand. She looked up and gestured to Data, who was just setting his folding chair down beside the two girls.
"Data, why don't you sit here," she invited, scooting her chair over to make more room. "Beverly's been wanting to talk with you."
"Very well, Counselor," he said and politely excused himself, carrying his chair and plate to the other end of the table. "Hello, Doctor. Welcome to Nineveh IV. I understand your arrival was quite eventful."
"I admit, it's not every day I'm expected to perform surgery during a ground quake," Crusher said wryly. "Fortunately, the patient pulled through just fine."
"Have you yet had a chance to examine Mikey?" Data asked anxiously.
"Only a cursory check," Crusher said, rather grimly. "Once the runabout lands, I'd appreciate it if you could help me transfer the boy to the ship's sickbay."
"It was my intent to do so," Data said, and Crusher smiled.
"Correct me if I'm wrong," she said, "but there's something different about you, Data. It could be the vest – I've so rarely seen you without your uniform."
Data regarded her, his head slightly tilted.
"Are you teasing me, Doctor?" he asked.
"Never!" she said playfully. "I'll admit, when Deanna first told me about your upgrade I wasn't quite sure what to expect. But, now that I've seen you, I think it works. In fact, I might go so far as to say you look more yourself now than before you left the ship. The eyes in particular seem more…well…you."
Data's forehead creased.
"More…me?"
The women laughed, and Troi patted the android's arm.
"Consider it an observation on how well you've managed to keep that promise you made to yourself at the start of this trip," she said. "To let yourself be yourself. No hiding."
Data's pale face flushed and he glanced down at his twiddling thumbs.
Dr. Crusher's eyebrows raised at the new sight, but she managed to keep her expression suitably sympathetic.
"Don't be shy, Data," she said. "That's a good goal to set. In fact, it's probably something we should all give a little more thought to."
She offered him a little smile, which he gradually returned.
"But I want to hear more about these adventures you've been having," she said. "Deanna tells me you were kidnapped by Orions?"
"That is correct, Doctor," Data said, "but it is a long story. Do you think we have time before the runabout arrives?"
"If we're interrupted, you can always tell me the rest later," she told him, and he shrugged his acknowledgement.
"Very well," he said. "But the story is not just mine to tell. Kay and Ishta each played an instrumental role in our escape, as did Mikey and Howard. In fact, I—"
"USS Blackstone to Dr. Crusher," came the runabout pilot's voice. "Landing permission has been confirmed and finalized. I am beginning my descent."
"Acknowledged, Lieutenant," Crusher said and stood. "Well, Data, it looks like that story will have to wait after all. Let's get your little friend ready to move."
"Right away, Doctor. Please, excuse us," Data said to the group, taking his sandwich and following her out the door.
To Be Continued…
References Include - TNG: Hero Worship; Data's Day; The Game; The Offspring; and the movie First Contact
NOTE: In DS9, runabouts were named after Earth rivers. I named this one after the Blackstone River that runs through Pawtucket, RI and provided power for Slater Mill, the first successful cotton-spinning mill in the US and the birthplace of the American Industrial Revolution (and one of the first school field trips I ever went on. I remember the waterfall best!) :)