His existence was precious to him. It had been remarkable. And despite his many challenges, he had never wished for it to do anything other than continue, as it had. Each moment was filled with the possibility that his life, as he knew it, would continue to evolve and no one, not even those who knew him best, could say how or where that evolution might end.
Registering Barclay’s assessment of Conlon’s significance to the ship’s continued survival while staring at Conlon’s test results filled him with both existential dread and something approaching despair. Apparently, this particular cocktail of subroutines read as “tired.”
The Doctor’s ethical programming did not allow him to breach a patient’s confidentiality, but it did allow for considerable latitude in searching for potential cures. Having finally been fully briefed on Doctor Sal’s intended treatment regimen and its dire consequences for Ensign Aytar Gwyn, he was well aware that the desire to cure a patient could blind even the best among his medical compatriots to potential conflicts. But no such conflict existed when he and Lieutenant Barclay had begun to consider ways to extend Conlon’s life using technological means until medical science found a solution.
A few weeks ago, the Doctor had begun to investigate a radical solution intended to buy more time for the physicians working to solve Conlon’s problem—the construction of a positronic matrix to house her consciousness. Barclay had balked at the notion, not only because researching the project had included conversations with a holographic version of Commander Data, one of only a few positronic androids that had ever been created. Barclay had personally designed that hologram to help him grieve Data’s loss and was rightly offended when the Doctor attempted to utilize it for his own purposes. Reg had insisted that the Doctor’s pursuit was folly, given that even Data had never successfully created another android like himself. But Barclay had offered a counterproposal, the creation of a holographic matrix to perform the same function—to become a temporary home for a human consciousness that could not be damaged by its DNA’s inability to repair itself until Conlon’s body could be healed. The Doctor had already successfully done this with a Vidiian physician, Denara Pel.
Even as he had prepared for the possibility, the Doctor still hoped it would not be necessary. He had believed that Doctor Sal, who had previously found a cure for a similar syndrome, would succeed in her efforts to repair Conlon’s DNA. Now, that hope had vanished. He was going to have to find a way to cure Conlon if she was going to survive, and to do that, he would need time—time these test results told him he did not have.
“Reg,” the Doctor began, “what would you say the odds of our survival would be without the presence of Lieutenant Conlon?”
Barclay appeared stunned by the thought. He moved to sit opposite the Doctor, his mind clearly working the question. Finally, he said, “Our immediate power issues have been resolved. As long as the fusion reactor holds, we can survive indefinitely. But Conlon is by far the most experienced engineer on board and, in her absence, I do not believe we will succeed in the next critical steps.”
“Which are?”
“Off the top of my head, we will need to find a source of benamite, or something that can replace it, in order to bring our slipstream drive back online. Even if we could solve the problem of creating antimatter, which is a big ask and one I believe to be insurmountable under our present circumstances, restoring warp power will never get us back to our fleet. We need the slipstream drive if we are ever going to see them again. Torres could have done it. Possibly the young man running Vesta’s engineering section as well.”
“Bryce?”
“Yes. But without Conlon…”
“We’re screwed?”
“Yes, I believe so,” Barclay agreed.
The Doctor nodded.
There had certainly been times in the past, while undertaking certain away missions, for example, when his survival depended upon the actions of one or more of his fellow officers. Searching his memory, however, he could not remember a single instance where a medical choice before him could mean the difference between not only his continued existence, but also the survival of his ship and crew.
“Do you recall our recent conversation about the possibility of utilizing a hologram to store Conlon’s consciousness?” the Doctor asked.
Barclay remained perfectly still. He likely not only recalled the conversation but the vehemence with which Doctor Sharak, Voyager’s CMO, had objected to the prospect. “I do.”
“When we had that discussion, our systems were in perfect working order and we were still connected to the rest of our fleet.”
“True.”
“Given our current situation, is it still your belief that such a thing would be possible?”
Barclay exhaled through his lips, causing them to beat rapidly against each other and producing a sound much like one of Tom Paris’s antique engines starting. “Possible? Yes. But—and this is a big but—it would require me to reallocate our holographic resources considerably.”
“How so?”
“A matrix that size would require all of the processing power currently allocated for the rest of our emergency holographic personnel. None of them have been reactivated yet, but the crew is hoping we can bring them back online quickly, if only to allow for more
