Boogeymen - Mel Gilden [42]
Data didn’t understand that, and Wesley knew it was pointless to try explaining it, so he just forged on with another question. He said, “What is your condition?”
“Much the same as it was before. Tell me about being sick.”
Wesley considered the question. Most ailments that were common before the twenty-third century had been eradicated. Still, germs, viruses, and other afflictions mutated constantly and were sometimes accidentally carried from one outpost of the Federation to another. People even occasionally caught cold. Wesley suspected that Data knew all this and really wanted to know how humans reacted to being sick. Data was a great one for playacting. His rendition of Sherlock Holmes was not the end. The drama group he directed was famous all over the ship.
Wesley said, “I had a cold once.”
“Cold? As in heatless, chilly, nippy, frigid—”
“No, Data. A cold. A viral infection causing you to sneeze and cough and have a fever. Nothing really hurts, but you get bored with sneezing and coughing, and that’s after the infection makes you tired to begin with.”
“I see that being the son of a doctor has had its effect on you.”
Wesley was pleased by that, but he said, “Everybody knows this stuff, Data. But the important part as far as you’re concerned, is that when you have a cold you lie in bed with tissues to sneeze into and all your favorite books and a portable computer terminal and maybe some games you can play by yourself and a glass of water and some cough drops.”
“Sounds cluttered.”
“Maybe if you were well it would be, but if you’re sick, it’s just comfortable.”
“I see. Comfort is a consideration.”
Wesley nodded.
“Useful information. Please excuse me,” Data said and rested his head on his crossed arms.
Wesley sat there feeling helpless. If Data were human, he’d already be in sickbay. If he were just a machine, Wesley would already be poking a hyperspanner around inside him. But Data was supposed to be self-adjusting. He wasn’t supposed to get sick or broken or whatever.
When La Forge emerged from the turbolift, Wesley went over to talk to him.
“How is he?” La Forge said.
“Not so good. But he’s having fun with it.”
“That’s our Data.”
They watched Data for a while. He wasn’t moving. Which in Data’s case meant nothing. Wesley said, “Did he catch this from the mainframe?”
“I hope not, but the evidence is pretty clear, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Does this have anything to do with my Boogeymen?”
“The diagnostics didn’t find the program. But even if the Boogeyman program somehow got through, the machete program would have cleaned it out.”
“That’s a relief.”
“You may be relieved, my boy,” La Forge said as he put an arm around Wesley’s shoulders and guided him toward Data, “but personally, I’d rather have Boogeymen. At least I’d know what the problem was and how to deal with it. As things are …” He shrugged.
Data looked up as they approached and attempted to erect a smile. La Forge said, “Can I plug you in again, Data? I’d like to run a little diagnostic of my own.”
“Of course,” Data said. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
“How about some hot chocolate?” Wesley said.
“I must remind you, Wesley, that I do not eat.”
“I know that. But I’ve seen you mimic eating for social occasions. I just thought a cup of hot chocolate would make you feel better.”
“This is part of being sick?”
“If you’re lucky,” La Forge said.
“Very well.”
Wesley went to a food slot and said, “Hot chocolate in a cup. With a marshmallow.” He grinned at Data.
“Very plush,” La Forge said.
However, what came from the slot was not a steaming cup but a large platter with a red spiderlike creature lying in the center surrounded by greens and lemon wedges. Something round, soft, and purple was caught between its jaws.
“Geordi,” Wesley said, very worried.
La Forge came over to look at what had come from the food slot. “Denebian Slime Devil ŕ la Tellarite,” he said.
“Yeah, but I asked for hot chocolate.”
Another cooked slime devil appeared on the stage, knocking the first one to the floor. And then another after that.
“Computer,