Part 16 (1/2)

”That's heartening, but could you give me a bit more?”

”Oh ... a bit.”

”Oh, G.o.d ... ”

”You did ask, sir.”

”Yes, I did. Go on.”

”Where was I? Oh, yes. There are the mythological and religious concepts of death, which involve the soul leaving the body-”

Picard's finger shot forward. ”Now, we're not going to get into defining the soul, are we? I unconditionally refuse.”

Crusher looked surprised. ”Well, I'm certainly not. What you'll have to do before this is over, I can't predict. Anyway, there's that concept, and there's the medical concept, which is a process. It's the difference between a door being closed and the whole building disintegrating. Medical science believes there's nothing to come back to. And there's also a veritable blur of plat.i.tudes from the religious sector, which I'll bet you don't even want to hear.”

”I'd be so grateful,” Picard said with a fatigued nod. ”I've been trying to demythologize this from the start. I intend to stay with policy regarding the terminally ill and use that for a fulcrum.”

”But these people aren't terminally ill,” Riker interrupted, somehow feeling he'd have to be holding the rudder on this conversation. ”For all we know, they could go on like this indefinitely.”

Silently Troi nodded, not looking up. When she spoke it was with absolute conviction in those voices she heard in her mind. ”That,” she said, ”is their biggest fear.”

”Counselor,” the captain addressed her, since she had drawn attention back to herself, ”you say you feel a unanimous opinion. Can you guarantee you're picking up on all the feelings, all the life essences?”

Cool sweat broke out on her palms. She felt her control begin to slip. ”No, I can't. The opinion is unanimous among all those who still retain a solid consciousness.”

”Hold it right there,” Riker said. ”That qualification bothers me.”

Troi shot him a glare. ”Yes, it's true that I'm perceiving ma.s.sive insanity among the minds who've lost control of their personhood. That is also what the others are afraid of. Do you blame them? They've made a decision for themselves and the others who aren't able.”

”What do you mean by 'aren't able'?”

Troi took a deep, cold breath between clenched teeth and forced herself to be clinical, no matter her tattered emotions. ”I would cla.s.sify it as dementia praec.o.x.”

”What's that?”

She gave him an intolerant look and said, ”Dementia is irreversible deterioration of mental faculties with correspondent degenerative emotional instability. Praec.o.x is simply prematurity.”

”Which brings up the question of next of kin.”

Troi gripped the arm of her chair and continued glaring at Riker. ”Don't you think they're better able to judge their companions' wishes than we are?”

Riker had to nod a reluctant agreement. ”I suppose if you and I had been sharing eternity, we would qualify as each others' next of kin.”

He suddenly found himself held tight in Picard's gaze. He hadn't meant to say anything profound, yet they were sharing eternity. The two of them, perhaps more than any other pair on this s.h.i.+p, were most likely to make that decision for each other, that life or death choice. As first officer, Riker's first responsibility was Jean-Luc Picard's well-being. As captain, Picard's most valuable and needed commodity was his right-hand man. Together they had to be guardian angel for each other and the whole s.h.i.+p. They were-or should ideally be-each other's family ... next of kin. Ironic that on a s.h.i.+p full of families, the bridge had somehow gotten itself stocked with people who had nothing, no one, but each other.

”And the others are like accident victims,” Picard said to him as they shared the moment. ”Completely dependent upon a machine for sustenance.”

”Yes,” Dr. Crusher agreed. ”They're mentally competent and nonterminal, but they want to die. Modern medical history since the twentieth century has had to deal with that, and it hasn't gotten any easier. Medicine took a tremendous leap forward during that period and has improved exponentially since then. The only constant is the idea that each euthanasia case has its own variables and should be considered individually. Then there's the problem of active versus pa.s.sive euthanasia. Do you cut off intravenous feeding, or do you just let it run out, and what's the difference, and what are the moral implications of each-”

”You're piling up questions,” the captain observed. ”I asked you for answers.”

”There aren't any,” she said broadly. ”That's the problem. We regard it as inhumane to let animals suffer, but we've always had difficulty applying that to our own species.”

”But historically,” Riker said, ”isn't it true that this whole problem has been one of deciding whether an organic body without a mind is still alive? What we have here is the other way around. Minds ... no bodies.”

Crusher cast him a glance. ”No, you're wrong. There's nothing new about minds without bodies.”

When Deanna Troi spoke up, though her voice was weak, all turned to listen to her. But this time she didn't speak of the ent.i.ties who pressed upon her, but of the question they were actually wrestling with. ”That's how physically crippled people see themselves. Minds without bodies. At least for a while. It's often not true at all and they often change their opinions about themselves with time and therapy.”

For a few seconds, n.o.body said anything because they expected her to keep going. When she didn't, Dr. Crusher s.h.i.+fted uneasily, turned back to Riker, and added, ”But there've also been plenty of cases of conscious, rational people wanting to decide for themselves, and not changing their minds, Mr. Riker. Some people don't want to live if they can't function independently. Some can commit suicide, which is its own problem, but for those who can't, the problem takes on the special complication of bringing in another person.”

”Who also have rights,” Riker argued. ”The right not to commit murder, for one.”

With an impatient huff, Picard gripped the edge of his desk. ”Yes. We do have the right to consider our own consciences. Is there a definitive answer, doctor? Even one of general policy from the Federation Medical Standards Council? Or do you have a ruling that we could consider s.h.i.+p's policy?”

”Me?” She shook her head and blinked. ”This is one subject I nearly failed at medical school. I never found a single case that fit into the grooves of any other case. There's just no grounds for comparison.”

”And Federation policy? Doctor, I need a precedent and I need it now.”

She paused, thought about it, her mouth twisting with contemplation, then shrugged. ”A line was finally drawn, clinically speaking, between animals with memories and animals with memories who were also able to imagine a personal future and have desires for that future. Even that had its faults. Babies, for instance. They simply don't care about the future.”

Now it was Picard's turn to sigh. He pressed his mouth into a line and groaned, ”Beverly, you're making me tired.”

She appeared sympathetic, but admitted, ”There's just no streamlining this issue. Which is why there hasn't been any law pa.s.sed regarding it. Some things should simply never be legislated.”

Riker straightened his back and folded his arms tighter. ”Leaving us on our own.”

”Consider it a privilege,” she shot back at him.

”But these people, these 'souls,' if we have to use that term,” Riker continued, ”are not dying. They could go on forever like this!”

”Yes”- the doctor nodded, not very patiently-”the real question is not one of someone who is dying choosing when the end should be and we as society forcing him to live until the last moment, but rather ... what is it that makes life worth living?” For this, a thick and weighted question, she turned directly to Picard, and held out an empty hand to him as though expecting him to fill it.

The captain stared back at her, entranced neither by this woman's beauty nor by his own feelings toward her, but by this question she asked of him, this question that was poised on the threshold between life and death.

What makes life worth living?

Beside Crusher, Troi stirred. ”A person who is dying does ask if his disease has taken away everything that makes life worth living, as you say. There will be no more moments that resemble life as he has known it. When pain takes away any enjoyment of sight, scent, sounds, touch-”

”But we're not discussing pain, Counselor,” the captain snapped, his voice growing rough. ”These ent.i.ties have communicated no pain whatsoever of a physical nature, is that not correct? If not, you'd better tell me now, because this is a d.a.m.ned precipice we're walking over here.”

”I wish they had,” Crusher said dryly. ”The question would've been simpler. My realm of the physical is much simpler to manage than Deanna's realm of mental anguish and confusion.” She turned to the counselor and said, ”I don't envy you.”

The captain got up and paced around the desk. ”Doctor, I had hoped you'd be more help than this.”

Beverly Crusher s.h.i.+fted her gaze for a moment, settled back, crossed her long straight legs, and looked up at him again. ”I can be more help,” she told him. ”But you have to ask for my personal opinion.”

”Oh, d.a.m.n it. Of course. I'm sorry.” He reached a requesting palm toward her. ”Please.”

She sighed and thought about it. ”They've expressed a well thought-out, reasonable desire to die.”