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Christine wrinkled her nose. "Honestly, Doctor, if this smelled less foul, you'd be drinking eau de toilette. We need this supply run, just to keep you in liquor." She pushed the tray to his side of the table, then sat down.
Bones blinked at her unsteadily. "You're avoiding the question. Everyone avoids the question. Tha's because... nobody.. nobody thinks about it."
"I was not avoiding the question. I was commenting on engineering's failure to accurately replicate peat moss. In the rotgut you interrupted my answer to send me to fetch." McCoy probably thought that was a piercing squint, but she suspected he was really just closing one eye to reduce her to a single person. She hoped it helped. She sighed. "I have thought about it, Doctor, and I'll tell you the answer, but only because after close to two pints of this stuff, if I shot you with a phaser on six, you'd still get up in the morning because you wouldn't remember you'd died.
"My parents were... performers on a backwater colony planet, and I was a shy little thing who loved stories. All year, every year, we'd trump around from settlement to settlement, living out of three backpacks and a trunk, and if I stayed in one place long enough for someone to remember my name, well, that was just... an anomaly. But we were sponsored by the government, so I had a library chip that worked everywhere.
"So my friends were all in books. And the thing about books is... they have a soul. No matter how many copies you make of Treasure Island you make, or what you make them on, the Black Spot sends the same message to the same person at the same time. Captain Smollett is still the Captain, Jim is still Jim, and it doesn't matter if it's in hardback or paperback or on a vidscreen or moldering or has a broken spine or one copy gets burned in a fire. My friends were there to greet me, and they were the same friends even if I'd never laid eyes on that edition before.
"So, yes. I know that I'm the same Christine who stepped onto that transporter pad yesterday, and the same Christine who stepped onto the rock of a new planet this morning. Because I'm not what happens to my copies. I have a story. I have a soul. Like a book."
And, as it always had, a woman holding forth at length had its usual effect on the men of this universe. Christine turned his head to the side and patted his cheek. "Sleep well, Doctor, and may your soul be rested. And... Computer?"
"Yes, Nurse Chapel?" She found the voice unsettling, as always, but somehow friendly.
"Access sound file number 35429, kazoo fanfare number 45, to be played at 0630, on a loop, at volume... 8.5 I think, until Mister Spock is summoned to turn it off. Disregard instructions if at any time in the past six weeks, Doctor McCoy has been recorded addressing me or any nurse who has been on this ship more than three days by correct rank and or title."
"Program accepted. Good night, Nurse Chapel."
The door whirred closed behind her.