The Farther Shore

by Christie Golden

  “Whether or not the Doctor is a person has yet to be proved, but until it is, it might be a good idea to err on the side of caution and assume individuality until that’s proven not to be the case. Therefore, he’s entitled to a private conversation with his legal counsel.”

  “I really should get permission from Admiral Montgomery,” said Garris.

  “Go ahead,” Janeway said. She said it lightly, as if the outcome was certain, but in reality, such was not the case. Montgomery might deny her just to be unpleasant.

  “He’s unavailable right now. Perhaps if you return tomorrow—”

  Data shook his head. “That would not be advisable,” he said.

  “Commander Data’s an extremely busy man,” said Janeway. “Captain Picard would be disappointed that he gave his crewman leave and Data didn’t even get to meet with his client.”

  She wasn’t above exerting a little pressure if need be. They’d gotten used to her and her crew by now, which was well and good; but the names of Data and Captain Jean-Luc Picard still dazzled the younger members of Starfleet. The name-dropping had the desired effect. Pushing her advantage, she said, “I’ll take full responsibility if Montgomery has any sort of problem with this.”

  That did it. Relief spread over Garris’s young, attractive face. “Very well, Admiral.” She lowered the force field and Data stepped inside. The field snapped back into place, but Data and the Doctor remained standing.

  Janeway indicated the red light. “Private conversation, Lieutenant,” she reminded her gently.

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Garris touched another button beside the door and the light went off.

  “Would you care to sit?” said the Doctor, indicating the small bed.

  “I do not tire, nor do you,” said Data logically.

  Gently, Janeway took the lieutenant by the arm and steered her down the hall, out of earshot. “Tuvok” and “Chakotay” followed.

  “I understand you’ve just returned from your honeymoon. How’s married life treating you?” she asked in an amiable fashion.

  She listened with half an ear, nodding in the right places as Garris told her about her honeymoon in the tropics. But her mind was not on sunny beaches and waving palm trees. She was trying to figure out how long they would need. She suspected that the plan would be carried out in a matter of seconds, but that Data and the Doctor would linger over their conversation so as to make the fabrication of legal consultant and client more believable.

  It was a full half-hour before she heard Data’s voice calling, “I have completed my consultation, Lieutenant Garris.”

  Garris hurried down the hall. The Doctor sat on the bed, his hands clasped loosely. A small padd sat beside him. Data stood, hands folded behind his back, awaiting them. The force field was deactivated.

  Data turned back to the Doctor. “I will be visiting you again soon. In the meantime, please review the documentation I have provided.”

  “Thank you, Commander Data. I will,” said the Doctor earnestly. He turned to Janeway. “Thank you, Admiral, for believing in me.”

  She smiled. “We’ll drop by again soon, Doctor. Good-bye, Lieutenant. I enjoyed our chat.”

  “As did I, Admiral. Good day.”

  They strode down the hall. Janeway muttered under her breath, “How did your consultation go?”

  “Successfully,” said Data, but nothing more. Elation filled Janeway.

  They might just be able to pull this off, after all.

  • • •

  It seemed to take forever before the four of them safely materialized in Paris’s apartment. The real Chakotay and Tuvok were anxiously awaiting their arrival, along with Tom and Harry. When Janeway met her former first officer’s gaze and said, “We did it,” sighs of relief and not a few whoops filled the room.

  Grinning fiercely herself, Janeway nonetheless held up a calming hand. “Let’s make sure it went as well as I hoped first.” She turned to the doubles. “We’ll start with you two. Disengage holographic camouflage,” she said.

  The false Tuvok and Chakotay opened their briefcase-size portable emitters and touched a few buttons. There was a humming sound, and then Seven and Icheb stood before them.

  Even as their friends rushed toward them to offer hugs and pats on the back, the former Borg both stumbled. Tuvok caught Seven as she fell.

  “I apologize for my weakness, Admiral,” Seven mumbled. “Perhaps Dr. Kaz was correct in his assessment of my need to regenerate.”

  Tuvok gently led her to a couch and sat her down. Icheb wasn’t far behind her. Pale and shaking, he propped his head up on his elbows and held his head in his hands.

  “We’ll get you both to a chamber as soon as we can,” Janeway promised. “But we have one more person to check on.”

  Data reached up to his head and deftly removed a chunk of his skullcap. There was a sharp intake of breath all around the room. It wasn’t every day one watched a friend remove a piece of his anatomy so casually.

  Red and green dots chased each other on Data’s head. He walked over to one of the holographic emitters and his face went slack. His head twitched.

  “Processing…” he said in a dull voice.

  There was a crackle, and then the Doctor stood before them. His dark eyes were wide with delight. He clutched his chest as if ascertaining the reality of his form.

  “I’m here. You really did it! Thank you so much, Mr. Data.”

  “Do not thank me yet, Doctor,” warned Data. “You may still have your program altered or perhaps deleted entirely. We have not yet proven your viability as a unique individual, which would be the only means by which—”

  “It’s good enough for now, Commander,” said Janeway, walking over to the android and putting an affectionate hand on his shoulder. Her eyes took in the scene fondly. It was good to see her friends on the right side of a prison force field.

  Her next task was to see to it that they stayed there.

  “I’m afraid I have to ask you to download the Doctor once more, Data. And you two,” she said to Seven and Icheb, “will have to hang on for a little bit longer.”

  “Where to now?” asked the Doctor.

  Janeway smiled, softly. “We’re going to go visit an old friend,” she said.

  Chapter 9

  THERE WAS a chirping sound, and Libby started. Dimly she realized someone was trying to contact her. Automatically she touched the button, trying to compose herself. If anyone asked, she’d just say she’d been sick. Which was the truth.

  It was Aidan Fletcher. She opened her mouth to speak, but he spoke first.

  “I can tell by your expression that you’ve read the document,” he said.

  Her mind worked sluggishly, then she said, “How do you—you read it!”

  He nodded. “Guilty as charged.”

  She seized on the anger. It was much nicer than nauseating, numb horror. “You son of a bitch!” she exploded. “You promised!”

  “I know, but come on, Libby—you know I had to.” He was pleading with her, and her brief fire of outrage flickered and went out. She sagged in her chair.

  “I suppose you did.” Now that she looked at him, she could see that he was much paler than usual as well. “You look about as bad as I feel,” she said.

  “I feel pretty bad,” he admitted. “I wanted to let you know that we’ll take it from here. This can’t be Starfleet-authorized. Someone is acting on his own.”

  “Her own,” Libby corrected, “and you are not going to take it from here.”

  He frowned. “Agent Webber,” he began calmly.

  “Don’t Agent Webber me! This is my case and has been from the beginning.”

  “But you know what’s at stake!” he cried. “The virus is spreading every minute. The doctors estimate that soon healthy adults will become infected.”

  “They’re not there yet,” Libby replied. “If Covington were able to issue an instruction for them to activate, she’d have done it by now. She can’t command them as
completely as she’d like. We’ve got a little time.”

  He shook his silver-gold head. “Supposition. No. I’m sorry.”

  “Aidan, you wouldn’t even be aware that this was going on if it hadn’t been for me!” Libby protested. “Besides, everyone who works at that building is in danger. Don’t you think she hasn’t anticipated possible discovery? Don’t you think you’re already infected?”

  He paled. “I haven’t been exposed to any debris.”

  Exasperated, Libby cried, “Do you think that matters? Your desk is probably covered with nanoprobes.”

  His gaze fell to his desk and he scooted his chair back. If it hadn’t been so dreadfully serious it would have been funny.

  “If she thinks she’s in danger from anyone in SI, she’ll activate the nanoprobes. You are probably among the first who’ll be stricken, Aidan. She picked me because—” Oh, how she hated to say it “—because she didn’t deem me any kind of threat. Because she thought I was too stupid to figure out her game. I’ve got a lot more room to maneuver than you do. Please. Give me some time. I have some…some contacts. Some names to clear.”

  “Harry,” he said. “Of course. I’m afraid I—”

  “Twenty-four hours.”

  “What?”

  “Twenty-four hours. Give me twenty-four hours. Please, Aidan.”

  He looked at her helplessly. “Libby, this isn’t a game.”

  “Believe me, I know. Twenty-four hours. Please.”

  His eyes searched hers. Finally, he said, “Twelve hours. And while you’re doing…whatever it is you’ll be doing, you should be aware that I’m assembling a team of my own. At precisely twelve hours and one second from now, I’ll be executing my plan.”

  “The minute you move against her, Covington will activate the virus,” Libby warned.

  “We all run risks doing what we do, Agent Webber.”

  “Twelve hours, then.”

  Aidan sighed. “Damn it, Libby…you watch your back, okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks, Aidan.”

  “I’m not sure you should be thanking me at all,” he said, and terminated the conversation.

  The talk with Aidan had calmed Libby somewhat and had helped lift the veil of fear and confusion. She was alert and focused now, and knew what she had to do.

  The trouble was, how to get in touch with Harry? He was going off on some mission. She guessed it was something to do with Admiral Janeway and the rest of the former Voyager command crew, but that did her no good. Where would they go? What would they try to do?

  And suddenly, she knew. Harry, bless him, had told her, though not in so many words.

  “Sweetie,” she said aloud, chuckling despite the direness of the situation, “you’re just too easy to read.”

  And she began to compose her message.

  • • •

  “Vassily,” came a voice, low and urgent. “Vassily, wake up.”

  Slowly Vassily Andropov opened his eyes. Robinson was bending over him. Her eyes were encircled with black liner, and there was a beauty mark on her cheek. Her hair, which he had always seen neatly pinned in a regulation bun at the back of her head, was loose and flowed down around her shoulders.

  Her bare shoulders.

  He bolted upright and scrambled away, vastly relieved to see that she wasn’t entirely naked. She had a swath of shimmering blue satin that covered just enough of her body to keep Vassily from mortification. Next to her was a girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty. She was petite and frightened-looking, with large green eyes and short, light brown hair.

  “Thank God you’re awake,” Robinson said, her voice a harsh whisper.

  He looked down at himself and found that he, too, wore only the barest scrap of clothing. His muscular chest and strong legs were bare for the world to see.

  “What the hell…” Then he remembered. Remembered Oliver Baines breaking into his house, remembered the hologram that resembled one Vassily Andropov in every single aspect.

  “Baines?” he asked Robinson. She nodded.

  “Broke into my own house,” she said bitterly. “So much for security systems.”

  Andropov looked around. They were not alone. At least four dozen people, all clad in the same shimmering blue silk, were also here. But where was “here”? Why had Baines…?

  He blinked at the sun, a dazzling light in an azure sky. Beneath him was sand, creeping uncomfortably into his not-very-concealing loincloth.

  “What have you learned so far, Lieutenant?” he asked, hoping the usage of her formal rank would help things feel a bit more professional. It was hard to feel professional in a loincloth.

  She reached to touch her own clothes, trying to secure them and stretch them to cover more of her pale flesh. The girl at her elbow followed suit.

  “Not much, I’m afraid. Allyson here tells me everyone was kidnapped by Baines and replaced with holograms.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be a pattern in who he picked,” said Allyson, speaking for the first time. Her voice was soft, shy. “You’re both with Starfleet. I’m just an artist. Others here are mechanics, scientists—people from all walks of life.”

  “This doesn’t make sense,” said Andropov, getting to his feet and brushing sand from his backside. “Holding us is dangerous. We’re a liability. Why didn’t he just vaporize us?”

  “Hostages?” offered Robinson.

  “No, he doesn’t want anyone knowing we’re gone, remember?” Andropov said.

  Suddenly dozens of creamy white horses galloped over the hill. Their riders were resplendent in shimmering white and gold. Both males and females were beautiful and proud, tall and strong-looking.

  All the prisoners, for prisoners they were, rose and clustered together. The riders halted their mounts, and one of the bright white horses stepped forward. Andropov recognized its rider.

  “Baines,” Robinson whispered. “Bastard.”

  Oliver Baines was clad in a tunic. Sandals laced up his legs and a large gold crown glinted in the sunlight. He looked like a desert king, but the garb was preposterous—surely no real desert chieftain had ever worn such flimsy material. His eyes raked the prisoners with contempt.

  “Welcome to my world, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. His voice shouldn’t have been able to carry that far, but it did. Vassily frowned. Something was not right here.

  “A while ago, you were leading your ordinary lives. Many of you served in Starfleet. Others are civilians. All of you are here, now. Back in your world, no one even knows you are gone. My holograms have seen to that. You think you are so unique, that you are irreplaceable. But you’re not.

  “In your world, you were the organics—the masters. Here, you will experience what it is like to be the slave class. This is a pleasant little fantasy world that I have created, much the same way you,” he said, pointing to one man, “or you,” he added, stabbing his finger in the direction of another, “have created such simulations to while away the time. In these little fantasy worlds, the creator has everything he desires. He uses holograms to achieve his pleasures.”

  Baines looked around, smiling slightly. “Now the shoe is on the other foot. I hope you enjoy your time in this particular holosuite.”

  The prisoners exchanged uncertain glances. Vassily felt Allyson’s hand steal into his own. He twined his fingers around hers. There was no desire, no passion—just the desperate contact of flesh on flesh, an intense need to connect with another human being.

  The moment was shattered as the holographic riders spurred their holographic horses into action. Neighing fiercely, the beasts charged the crowd. Andropov felt Allyson’s hand being torn from his grip. He stumbled and fell, and other bodies landed on top of him.

  They all struggled to their feet. Andropov coughed, his mouth full of sand, and that was when he felt the sting of the whip. In a fraction of a second, his back was laid open from shoulder to buttock. Despite himself, he cried aloud, with pain and surprise.

  “Up, slave,” sn
arled the rider. He was a large man, brown-skinned and dark-eyed. His muscles gleamed with sweat. “We have monuments to build.” He turned his head and his eyes fell upon Allyson, who stood with a cluster of other prisoners. Andropov could already see a bruise welling on her face.

  White teeth showed in the rider’s brown face as he leered, his gaze caressing her from head to toe.

  “Behold a rose blooming amid the dung pile,” he said, his voice sultry. Allyson, green eyes wide, cringed and tried to cover herself.

  “Leave her alone,” said two voices at the same time. One voice was Vassily’s. The other who spoke was a tall, attractive woman. Her skin was as brown as the rider’s, and her long, straight hair as black. Her body was strong and athletic, and her almond-shaped eyes snapped defiance.

  Briefly the rider glanced in Vassily’s direction. Almost absently, he cracked his long, thin whip. This time it caught Andropov across the cheek, narrowly missing his eye. He clapped his hand to the wound and blood flowed between his fingers. The rider turned back to the other woman, clearly much more interested in her than in Andropov.

  “Another flower,” he said. “My chieftain Baines has an eye for beauty, I see. And such fire, to rush to the defense of her friend!”

  “She’s not my friend,” Allyson said quickly. Andropov saw that she was shaking. He knew what she was doing—trying to protect the other woman.

  “It does not matter,” said the dark-skinned woman. Her voice was deep and musical. “You will leave her alone. You will leave all the women alone, and you will cease injuring the men. Your ‘chieftain’ will return us to the places he has stolen us from, or he will face the wrath of the Federation.”

  The rider threw his head back and laughed heartily. He turned to his comrades. “Listen to her!” he crowed. “As if she actually has some say in what becomes of her!” His friends laughed along with him. He turned back to the woman, and although desire still gleamed in his eyes, his voice was harsh.

  “You are nothing, do you understand? You’ve got no name, no rights, no reason for existence except to please us. You’ll do what we tell you to do and you’ll do it with a smile on that pretty face. Or else,” he said, and casually drew a sharp, curved dagger, “I can make that face not so pretty.”