STAR TREK: VOY - Homecoming, Book One

by Christie Golden

“I—I don’t know how. I assumed you would. That’s why I came to see you. Why I had to come and see you.”

  [128] The Doctor didn’t need to breathe, but the habit of imitating human behavior was so ingrained in him at this point that he found himself taking a deep breath.

  “Mr. Baines, there is no one in this universe who understands the plight of your photonic companions more than I do. And I commend your open-mindedness. You’ve no idea how refreshing it is to hear these words coming out of an organic being’s lips. But I’m a doctor, not a revolutionary. I’m proud of my novel, and am thrilled to see it has an impact. But that’s not all I am, and I resent having a label placed on me.”

  “I don’t understand. Label?” Baines frowned. His color was high. “I’m not the only one you moved with your work, Doctor.”

  “Believe me, I know,” the Doctor sighed.

  “Then you have to be aware of the kind of power you can wield!”

  “I didn’t write the novel to obtain power,” the Doctor said.

  “But you’ve got it. And you have a responsibility to your fellow photonic beings to use that power wisely. People will listen to you.”

  He paused, and fell silent for a moment. The Doctor let him gather his thoughts. Finally, Baines spoke.

  “I’ve been planning a rebellion.”

  The Doctor raised his hands. “I don’t think you should finish that thought, Mr. Baines.”

  “I’m not without a considerable amount of allies,” Baines continued, ignoring him. “But we need someone that Starfleet and the Federation will listen to. Someone respected, who can articulate the, the plight [129] of these people in such a way as to demand attention. We need you, Doctor. You’re just like them, but you’re unique. Every revolution needs a leader, someone charismatic who can embody the spirit of what’s being fought for. Someone who can be the face of the movement. You can speak for us.”

  “Us? You’re a human, Mr. Baines, unless I’m greatly mistaken.”

  “You know what I mean!” snapped Baines. “Look, will you help us or not?”

  “I don’t know what exactly it is that you want to achieve, Mr. Baines. You speak eloquently of freedom and equality, but I’ve heard nothing in anything you’ve said that is even a kissing cousin to a plan of action. And what I did hear, I didn’t want to. I’ll have no part of anything that spills blood. I took an oath—first, do no harm. Here’s what I will do for you and your friends. I’ll give you some hard-earned advice.”

  His mind went back to his time with Iden, the appealing hologram who envisioned a planet where photonic beings would be safe. It was a glorious ideal, until Iden began to murder organic beings in order to “liberate” his fellow “children of light.” Iden had been insane, in the end—a megalomaniac craving worship—but his sickness was not enough to exonerate him from what he had done. His dream was a worthy one, just as Baines’s was. How one went about achieving that dream, however, was what really mattered.

  “Forget this nonsense about a revolution. Violence will solve nothing. I know,” he said, and he knew he looked haunted as he spoke. He felt haunted, felt the [130] ghosts of those amiable, murdered Nuu’bari miners hovering about him, pleading with him not to make the same mistake, commit the same crime.

  Baines stared at him with a combination of disbelief, shock, and anger. The Doctor continued.

  “There are legal avenues that can be pursued, peaceful means of bringing this to the attention of the Federation. My novel was just one such example. You can have marches, notify the media, pass out information. You said that there are many who share our concerns. Rally them. Get them to start being vocal about their feelings. In fact, I think you would be better positioned than I to bring this about.”

  “How can that be? You’re the very symbol, the embodiment of this crisis!”

  “Humans created holographic technology. Humans are going to be the ones legislating holographic rights, not holograms.”

  “Photonic beings,” said Baines, somewhat testily.

  “See? That’s an excellent example of what I’m talking about,” said the Doctor. “What is the difference between a holographic chair and a holographic person? What differentiates a hologram that happens to look like a sentient being but who is programmed to perform only the most menial of tasks and one like myself, capable of independent thought and growth? What are the terms we should use? Believe me, humans will spend hours debating such things. Let them. Encourage it, in fact.”

  “We want action, not ... not semantics!”

  “Get people talking about it first,” said the Doctor. “The rest will come. I’m surprised you are so negative [131] about your species, Mr. Baines. I find humans to be more open-minded and kindhearted than you seem to think they are. Of course,” he added with a sigh, “being surrounded by hundreds of EMH Mark Ones like myself might just spoil you for interaction with humans.”

  Baines didn’t answer. He paced a little, clenching and unclenching his fists. The Doctor waited patiently. Finally, Baines turned and faced him.

  “I don’t want glory,” he said. “I only want justice.”

  “I never thought nor said that you were in this for personal gain,” said the Doctor. “Your motivations are obviously pure and noble. I merely wish to ensure that your methods will be as well.”

  Baines sighed. “You’ve given me a great deal to think about, Doctor.” He smiled a little, and his face assumed that pleasantly boyish innocence it had had when he first materialized. “And even though you’ve refused to help, I’m still so pleased and honored to have met you.”

  “Ah, ah, I didn’t say I wouldn’t help,” said the Doctor, waggling a chastising finger in Baines’s direction. “I said I wouldn’t be your leader and I wouldn’t condone violence. Within those parameters I’d be delighted to lend what aid I can.” He realized as he spoke that he was likely dooming himself to becoming a symbol of the Photonic Revolution, but he resigned himself to that. As long as it was peaceful and achieved justice, well, there were worse things one could do with oneself.

  “Really?” Baines brightened. “I’m so pleased to hear that, Doctor. Let me leave you with some information. You can peruse it at your leisure.” He handed the [132] Doctor a small padd. “Well. I guess it’s time I return and tell my friends what you’ve told me.”

  “They’re fiercely intelligent entities,” said the Doctor. “They’ll understand, once you’ve explained it to them.”

  “I hope so.” He extended a hand. The Doctor shook it.

  “I’m glad you came today,” the Doctor said, and meant it. Thank goodness he’d had the opportunity to set Baines on the right path before a tragedy had occurred.

  Baines seemed to be about to say something else, then apparently thought better of it. He smiled, released the Doctor’s hand, and stepped back. He touched a small device on his chest and dematerialized.

  The Doctor didn’t move for a moment. This, he supposed, was the problem with free will and the ability to exceed one’s programming. One could attempt something on the theory that it would be a pleasant and useful thing to do, and then one could step away. But so often, as he had learned, that one step set things into motion no one could predict. Would he forever be known as the author of Photons Be Free and not a master surgeon and researcher?

  And if so, would that truly be such a bad thing?

  He looked at the padd in his hand and debated sitting down with it for a while. Then he decided that after his stressful discussion with Baines, he could use some time spent listening to opera. He thought that Madama Butterfly would fit the bill nicely.

  Chapter 11

  “THE DESERT?” Libby said in astonishment when Harry told her where they were going.

  “Trust me, it’ll be wonderful,” Kim reassured her, picking up her bags. “Geez, what have you got in here?”

  “Bricks, stones, and lead weights, of course,” Libby replied, then got back to the subject that interested her. “The desert?”


  Harry sighed. “We can cancel if you want,” he said, and the disappointment in his voice was heavier than her bags.

  “No, it’s just ... when you said you wanted to whisk me away for a romantic getaway, hot baking sun and sand without any blue water was not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “You said you’d trust me,” he reminded her.

  [134] “And I do, but ...” Her voice trailed off. She had a job to do. She’d go to the desert if that was where he wanted to take her.

  As always when the reality of her relationship with Harry reared its ugly head, Libby felt slightly ill. Her interaction with Lieutenant Harry Kim wasn’t an act, but neither was it wholly genuine. She hated dancing on this knife-sharp edge: Was she or wasn’t she his girlfriend? Was he or wasn’t he a subject that she was assigned to study as part of her job? One or the other would be easier. Every night when she came home, she kept hoping for a message from Covington that the assignment was canceled. Then she could sit back and see how she really felt about Harry. But the hoped-for message never came.

  What had come over the last six weeks were increasingly distressful reports about who was under suspicion as a traitor. Names she had respected and trusted for most of her adult life “were now coming up for her to watch, to monitor. It was unfortunate, in many ways, that Harry was so eager to get her alone. She needed to be in the thick of the social whirl in order to complete her assignment.

  When they materialized in their lodging, though, she almost forgot about why she was here.

  “Harry, it’s gorgeous!” And it was. They were in a beautifully furnished adobe house, large enough to feel roomy, small enough to feel cozy. Viga beams stretched across the ceilings. An exquisitely woven rug, obviously an antique, graced the orange-tan walls, while a more functional one was spread out on the cool tile floor. Round windows made moons of sunlight on the [135] floors and walls. A cozy daybed invited lounging, while a fountain burbled softly in a corner. They padded through the house, and Libby found a tiled bathtub deep enough for a real soak, and a tastefully furnished bedroom.

  With a large, single bed.

  Kim was watching her intently and at her slightly distressed reaction said quickly, “I’ll be sleeping in the daybed. You can have this one.”

  Libby felt her face grow hot. “No, that’s all right, I’m smaller. I’ll take the daybed.”

  Kim started to argue, then grinned. “We can argue about this later. In the meantime, we’ve got about an hour until we have to leave for dinner. Would you like to freshen up and get changed?”

  “Where are we eating?”

  Kim beckoned her to follow and led her to the window. The sun was starting to set, casting incredible colors on the sand-hued mountains. Kim pointed.

  “There,” he said.

  Libby emerged from the bathroom looking radiant. She wore a blue-green sarong draped attractively about her curvaceous body. Gold earrings set with turquoise dangled from her ears. Her hair was pulled back with a barrette and she wore only the barest hint of makeup. Kim’s heart dropped into his stomach with a plop and stayed there.

  He was in love again, all right.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  “Oh, no, absolutely nothing. It’s all perfect.” He [136] extended a hand and she took it, curling her fingers, strong and callused from playing the lal-shak, about his. “You look ... amazing.”

  “You’re pretty attractive yourself,” she said. He was all in white, from his button-down shirt to his shoes. From the way she looked at him, he knew the compliment was genuine, and was unduly pleased.

  They went outside and a small shuttle appeared in the distance. It set down gently and they climbed aboard. Libby peered excitedly out the window as the shuttle rose into the air, but Kim, out of force of habit, found himself analyzing the ship itself. It was a short-distance luxury vessel, with pleasant pastel colors and deep, comfortable, soft seats. For what it was designed to do, it served its purpose well, but the Alpha Flyer it most definitely wasn’t. Kim sniffed, a bit self-satisfied.

  The brief flight was almost silent, and the pilot discreetly did not interject “commentary as they flew over the desert and the mountains.

  “Harry, you were right,” Libby said, squeezing his hand. “I never thought the desert could be so beautiful.”

  “Or so comfortable,” Harry said. He pointed. “See that butte over there? That’s our restaurant for the evening.”

  Libby gasped, looking at the elegantly set table and the two tuxedo-clad waiters. A small tent was set up a short distance away, its yellow and white panels fluttering gently in the slight breeze. The shuttle set down smoothly and the doors hissed open. The waiters were there to help Harry and Libby out.

  She stood taking it all in, her mouth slightly open and curved in a smile, and Harry just watched her. He [137] didn’t even have to talk to her, to touch her. Merely to look at her was enough.

  “Shall we start with some wine?” he asked.

  Libby had never had so delicious a meal in her life. Harry remembered everything she liked to eat, and it was all on the menu. From a bottle of fine Merlot through French onion soup and artichoke dip, to chewy rolls with softened butter, to pasta with baby vegetables lightly sautéed in basil-infused olive oil, to a selection of the finest fruits and cheeses and a rich, dark, sinful triple-layer chocolate cake that was more than enough for two, it was all delectable.

  The sun finished its descent while they dined. Right before the glowing yellow orb sank below the horizon, a hawk graced them with its flight. It flew close enough so that Libby could see its markings clearly. “A peregrine!” she cried.

  “All part of the arrangements,” Harry boasted jokingly. Soft lights came on from somewhere, and music played in the background. The waiters were perfect, of course; she had noticed the small lights on the ground that indicated holographic emitters and assumed that the only thing real here was the food. Which, really, was all that mattered.

  “Shall we have some port or Scotch to finish with?” Harry asked her.

  “Oh, no,” Libby laughed. “I think I’ve had quite enough.” She leaned back, her stomach almost too full, and looked up at the stars. “It’s really beautiful out here,” she said.

  [138] “Yeah,” said Harry. He rose and deactivated the waiters so they could have some privacy. “I’ll turn off the lights so we can see the stars better, okay?”

  “Sounds wonderful!”

  He settled back into his chair and looked up at the stars along with Libby. “I’ve got to get you up there one day,” he said.

  Libby grinned. “I’ve got enough to do here on Earth to keep me busy, thanks.” And just like that, the recollection of why she was really here flashed into her mind, and she felt the smile bleed from her face. Why can’t this be just what it appears to be? Two people out on a date, relearning about one another? Why does Harry have to be an assignment?

  Even in the dim light of the stars, Harry noticed the change in her expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she lied. She faked a grimace and rubbed her stomach. “I think I ate too much.”

  “I’m glad. I mean, I’m not glad that you’re feeling uncomfortable, I ...” He turned away. She knew he was blushing, although she couldn’t see it.

  She looked over at him, at his sweet face dimly illuminated by the twinkling stars, and made her decision. To hell with the assignment, at least for tonight.

  Slowly, bathed in starlight, Libby rose and went to him. He reached for her, shyly, and pulled her down into his lap. She looked into his eyes, dark, shadowed pools with faint glimmers of light, and leaned to kiss him.

  It was as if they had never been apart. Her body remembered his touch, his scent, and she melted into him as easily and comfortably as if climbing into a warm, [139] familiar bed and pulling the covers snugly around her. Home. This was home. This was sweet, was true, was where she belonged, and the gentleness turned more intense as the kiss deepened.

&nb
sp; God help her, she was still in love with him.

  Neither one of them slept in the daybed that night.

  Libby returned home much later the following day than she had anticipated and found several annoyed messages from Director Covington waiting for her. She felt bad at first, then defiant. She was doing exactly what Covington had ordered her to do.

  Well, okay, not exactly. She smiled as she recalled the night before, the sweetness and the passion. She had been simply Libby Webber, not Mata Hari, while in Harry’s arms. And Covington would just have to deal with it.

  “I will be transmitting you the latest updates Intelligence has gathered, Agent Webber,” said Covington, her pale face and hair almost white against the dark background of her office. “It’s pretty grim. After you read this, please delete, as per usual protocol. Check in with me immediately once you have read the information. Covington out.”

  Libby sighed. She didn’t want to read reports, chase down leads of broken codes, mix and mingle with high-ranking dignitaries at parties after conceits. She wanted to be with Harry, laughing and playing and making love and rediscovering how wonderful it felt to be with him.

  But she had a job to do. She downloaded the information onto a padd, threw herself on the bed, and [140] began to read. Indigo jumped onto the bed and curled up beside her, purring. She stroked the cat absently; then her hand froze as she read some of the names that Starfleet Intelligence currently regarded as being worthy of further covert investigation.

  Ambassador Jakrid Kalgrua

  Admiral Robert Amerman

  Captain Jean-Luc Picard

  Admiral Kenneth Montgomery

  Admiral Owen Paris

  Captain Robert DeSoto

  She realized she was breathing quickly. Was it true? Did it really run this deep? She couldn’t imagine anyone on this list trafficking with the Syndicate! Her eye fell on one name in particular, and Libby went cold inside.

  Admiral Kenneth Montgomery. She’d never met him, but she knew of him by reputation. Quite the hero of the Dominion War. Harry had said he’d chewed out Captain—Admiral—Janeway in her debriefing and had seemed interested ... what was it. ...