Ghost Ship - Diane Carey [67]
Troi shot him a glare. “Yes, it’s true that I’m perceiving massive 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 classify it as dementia praecox.”
“What’s that?”
She gave him an intolerant look and said, “Dementia is irreversible deterioration of mental faculties with correspondent degenerative emotional instability. Praecox 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 ship, 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 ship. They were-or should ideally be-each other’s family … next of kin. Ironic that on a ship 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 passive 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 entities 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, nobody said anything because they expected her to keep going. When she didn’t, Dr. Crusher shifted 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