The Farther Shore

by Christie Golden

  “I do have a name,” said the woman, practically spitting the words. “I am Lieutenant Akolo Tare. I am a pilot aboard the U.S.S.—”

  Andropov never learned the name of her ship. The rider spurred his horse and bore down on Tare. The crowd hastened to get out of the hologram’s way. All except Tare. She stood her ground, and as he galloped straight toward her she leaped at him. He was clearly surprised at the attack and seemed even more shocked when she grabbed him around the waist and pulled him off his horse.

  It was a short struggle, however. Strong and fit as she was, it was obvious that Baines had foreseen something like this and programmed his holograms to be much stronger than a human. It wasn’t more than a second or two before the rider had pinned Tare beneath him.

  But Tare’s actions had inspired the prisoners, and they descended on the rider, pulling him off the gasping woman. Tare scrambled to her feet. Her hand went to her throat; bruises were already starting to appear.

  The small revolt was brief. The other riders galloped toward their friend’s defense, and this time when the whip struck Andropov he fell to his knees. It wasn’t just a whip sting this time. Whoever was manning the controls in this hellish simulation had just programmed the whips to deliver a powerful shock. His body was still thrumming and his bones ached as he climbed un-steadily to his feet.

  The riders had trussed up Tare as if she were an animal, and the first rider flung her over his saddle. Her eyes were wide and filled with fear now, and although she struggled, everyone present knew it would avail her nothing.

  “You are slaves!” bellowed the rider. “You exist to serve at our pleasure. How is it to be on the other side of the simulation?”

  And Andropov suddenly got it. He wondered why it had taken him so long to figure it out. He supposed it was because he wasn’t really paying attention to Baines’s speech.

  Baines didn’t want them dead. He wanted them to suffer. He wanted them to be treated the way human treated holograms in various fantasy scenarios—as things, objects. Andropov blushed, because he knew he hadn’t been above playing holographic scenarios with such prepossessing titles as “Vulcan Love Slave” a time or two. He knew what happened to the holograms.

  But they were holograms, damn it, not people. They were created to be, well, love slaves, or centurions, or servants, or antagonists to the organic protagonist. They were just force fields with images projected onto them—nothing more than photons. They couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t love, couldn’t feel pain. This sick role-reversal Baines had concocted wasn’t truly putting the shoe on the other foot, it was merely torturing the people Baines somehow decided were “masters” who created holograms to abuse.

  But then Andropov thought about Voyager’s Doctor. He’d met him and found him to be convincingly real. He’d heard about how the Doctor had exceeded his programming, fallen in love, learned about opera and dance. That sounded more like a person than a collection of photons.

  Like most people, Andropov had played through “Photons Be Free” and found it to be thought-provoking. But that was just a holonovel. At any point, Andropov could end it by saying three little words: “Computer, end program.”

  Here, it was all too real, and like the holograms in “Vulcan Love Slave,” he had no way of turning the program off when it became uncomfortable.

  Allyson rushed up to him, followed by Robinson. “Are you okay?” Allyson hissed through her teeth as she looked at his face. He tried to smile, although the gesture sent pain shimmering along his nerves.

  “Nothing a dermal regenerator won’t take care of,” he said, trying to reassure her. The kid didn’t need to add worrying about him to her list.

  Robinson’s eyes were somber. “I haven’t noticed one lying around in the sand,” she said.

  “We’ll get back. He won’t kill us.” At least, Andropov thought, I hope he won’t. “Don’t you see what’s going on? He’s trying to turn the tables. He wants us to experience what it’s like to be a helpless hologram, subject to the whims of the one who created the game.”

  “Pretty stupid way to go about getting sympathy,” Robinson said. “And that woman Tare…she was so brave to stand up to him like that.”

  Allyson nodded, swallowed hard. “If she hadn’t done it, that would be me slung across his saddle, about to—to be—”

  “I know,” Andropov said softly. He knew what happened to women in this sort of simulation. He was pretty sure Baines wouldn’t murder anyone. Who would report back to Starfleet about the horrible injustices the holograms suffered? But, as was evidenced by the slashes on his back and face, other forms of torment were apparently allowed. He desperately hoped that Baines had enough human decency left in him to draw the line at rape.

  But he wasn’t sure.

  “Get going, slaves!” cried one of the riders. The whip sang out and cracked on another man’s back. He grunted, his eyes wide from the unexpected depth of the pain. Far in the distance was something that looked like a half-constructed pyramid. This was to be today’s activity, then.

  “Come on,” said Robinson gently. “Our doubles aren’t going to fool people forever, and I bet Baines won’t be able to hold off gloating for very long. He’s going to start bragging to Starfleet, and they’ll find a way to stop this.”

  Andropov wished he shared her faith. He looked up at a nearby cliff, and saw a white horse with a blue-clad rider. When the sun glinted off something gold on the rider’s head, he knew it was Baines.

  You self-righteous bastard, he thought, with a wave of hatred that felt unsettlingly good. If you kill anyone, or rape that poor woman who had the guts to stand up to your thugs, I’ll kill you myself.

  Chapter 10

  ENSIGN LANDON FERGUSON liked his new job. Many would have thought it excruciatingly boring, standing around all day with nothing better to do than send high-ranking Starfleet officials to various ships or other locales, but Ferguson was more than content with his lot. He had just graduated from the Academy and had no particular craving for adventure and action aboard a vessel of the fleet. Nor did he particularly care for the delicate dance that was the diplomatic path. He didn’t have a real aptitude for computers or engines, either. But he had been a diligent student and gotten decent enough grades to pass, and Starfleet always made sure its former cadets had useful and respectable employment.

  So Ferguson was here in San Diego, one of several dozen people who manned the transporters. San Diego was an enormous hub for Starfleet comings and goings, hence the usage of humans rather than holograms at the transporters. Here was where one was officially cleared to beam onto a vessel, or to a top-security site. So even though Ferguson knew his job wasn’t particularly glamorous, he also knew it was important. Let others fight the enemies or entice new species to join the Federation. He would happily see to it that those people got where they needed to go.

  He snapped to attention when the door to the large transporter room hissed open. His brown eyes widened slightly as he recognized the rather well-known figures that stepped briskly inside.

  “Admiral Montgomery, Admiral Janeway,” he said smoothly. He was getting used to greeting high-ranking personages. Just last week, he’d had the honor of transporting the Mirkashu of Junn to Starfleet Headquarters.

  “Good morning, Ensign,” said Montgomery. “These good people need to be transported to Voyager.”

  The blood drained from Ferguson’s face as he regarded Janeway; Commanders Data, Tuvok, and Chakotay; Lieutenant Commander Tom Paris; and Lieutenant Harry Kim. The other two, who like Montgomery were carrying some sort of briefcase, he didn’t recognize, but he was willing to bet they were from Voyager, too. And that was a big, big problem.

  “Uh,” he said, less than eloquently, “uh, Admiral Montgomery, sir, may I speak with you for a moment?”

  Montgomery glowered. Ferguson cringed, and swallowed hard. “These kids fresh from the Academy,” Montgomery sighed, shaking his head. “Give me a moment, Kathryn, will you?
”

  They walked away a few feet. “Well?” Montgomery demanded.

  “Sir, are you forgetting your orders?”

  “I never forget my orders. I sometimes change them, though. Like I’m doing right now, if you get my meaning.”

  “Yes, sir, I do indeed, sir, but you were quite adamant when you spoke to us,” Ferguson said, wishing his voice wasn’t so quivery. “You said under no circumstances was anyone who had served on Voyager to be allowed admittance. You made it very clear what would happen if anyone did permit them to transport.”

  “I’m glad I made myself clear then, and I hope I’m making myself very clear right now when I say, that’s an order, Ensign!”

  “Yes, sir, of course, sir,” said Ferguson, scurrying back to his position behind the console. “Just one moment and—”

  “What are you trying to do, Ensign? Are you bucking for yeoman? Time is of the essence!”

  Ferguson felt sick. “It’s procedure, sir. Look, I’ve got him on the screen already. Commander Watson, I have Admiral Montgomery for you.” He stepped back quickly to allow Montgomery to see Watson on the small screen.

  “Good morning, Admiral,” said Watson, a handsome black man whose hair was just starting to get sprinkled with gray. Watson always intimidated Ferguson. Then again, most people intimidated Ferguson. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I’ve got seven people who need to board Voyager. Don’t give them any guff. Stay out of their way and let them do their job. That understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, and Dr. Kaz is going to be joining them shortly. The same applies to him.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I’m going to be in some very important meetings for the next few days, and I’d appreciate not being disturbed. These folks know what they’re doing. The ensign here has been stammering protests and it’s worn me out. I don’t want to hear a peep out of you, Watson.”

  “Understood, sir. No peeping.”

  “Good. Montgomery out.” He turned and glared at Ferguson, who tried and largely failed not to cringe underneath that piercing gaze. “Now, transport these people immediately.”

  Ferguson couldn’t do it fast enough. When the transporter whined and the seven people dematerialized, he heaved a huge sigh of relief and slumped against the console. It was far too busy a day for his liking.

  • • •

  Janeway didn’t miss the slight widening of Commander Watson’s eyes as he recognized her. She smiled, hoping to put him and the other two security guards in the room at ease.

  “I know our appearance here is a bit unexpected, Commander Watson,” she said, and recalling Kaz’s comment added, “but desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  “Indeed they do, Admiral Janeway,” Watson replied coolly. “If I hadn’t had it straight from Admiral Montgomery himself, I’m afraid I’d have to detain all of you until you were cleared.”

  “Your thoroughness does you credit. But as the admiral said, we’ve got work to do.”

  She stepped lightly off the transporter and was heading out the door when Watson moved smoothly to block her way.

  “I’m sorry, Admiral, but before I let you pass, I do need to know what you’re doing here.”

  Her jaw tensed. “With all due respect, Commander, no, you don’t.”

  She tried to move past him, but he blocked her way again.

  “Commander Watson,” said Data, “what is your level of security clearance?”

  “Level Beta,” he said.

  “Is everyone on the ship cleared for that level?” Chakotay inquired, glancing at the other two guards present. Watson nodded once. “Good. Then you can tell him, Admiral.”

  Janeway didn’t bat an eye. “We’re here to assist Starfleet in discovering a cure for the Borg virus. We’ve had more experience with the Borg than anyone on Earth, and the information in our databanks as well as our familiarity with their technology is an asset.”

  Watson narrowed his eyes. He looked like he didn’t believe her. “Why didn’t Montgomery tell me that?”

  The real reason “Montgomery” hadn’t said anything was because first, of course, it wasn’t really Montgomery but one of Baines’ holograms, and second, the hologram had no idea who Watson was or what level security clearance he had.

  But Janeway didn’t mention either of those particular facts. Instead she said, “Montgomery was standing right in front of a particularly edgy-looking young man who was clearly fresh out the Academy.”

  Watson nodded his comprehension and seemed to relax slightly. “You may proceed.”

  She smiled slightly. “You know, Commander, they never formally relieved me of duty. Technically, this is still my ship.”

  Let him chew on that, she thought, and stepped past him into the corridor.

  For a moment, they all stood staring. “What the—” began Kim.

  “They’ve gutted her!” said Tom, saying what they all thought.

  Voyager had looked worse, but Janeway was having trouble remembering exactly when. The technicians under Montgomery’s command had probably done their jobs well and thoroughly, but they had left an enormous mess in their wake. Panels had been opened and tossed aside. Conduits gaped open, naked wires hung loose and occasionally sputtered.

  “Didn’t their mothers tell them to tidy as they went?” Janeway asked, sighing.

  “Admiral,” said Tuvok, “I believe we can expect this level of…untidiness…throughout the ship.”

  “Project Full Circle was about discovering Voyager’s capabilities and enhancements,” said Chakotay. “It wasn’t about getting her ready to fly again. And I imagine when the virus broke out, the last thing on anyone’s mind was taking the time to put things back where they belonged.”

  A shiver went down Janeway’s spine. “The regeneration chambers,” she said. “There’s no telling what they’ve done to them.”

  “As a prime example of Borg technology on the ship, it’s probably going to be one of the most thoroughly dismantled,” said Paris glumly. Seven and Icheb, despite their holographic facades, looked worried.

  “All right,” said Janeway. “We mustn’t panic. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

  • • •

  Commander Roger Watson stared at the closed door through which the former Voyager captain and her crew had just left.

  “Something wrong, sir?” asked one of his men.

  “I’m not sure,” Watson replied slowly. He had been in the field of security for over twenty years. He had gotten as far as he had by trusting his instincts, and now, they were sounding a red alert. Yet there seemed to be nothing amiss. He’d seen Admiral Montgomery with his own eyes. He knew about the Borg virus, of course, and it made sense that the people who knew the Borg the best ought to be allowed access to the ship they knew the best.

  And yet…Montgomery, and even Commander Grady, had been adamant about not allowing anyone from Voyager to return to the ship. What made them change their minds? And why now? And why was Commander Data with him? Last Watson had heard, the android still served on the Enterprise.

  Although all protocol had been observed, his instincts were still warning him that something was wrong.

  “Something just doesn’t feel right about this,” Watson said at last, still staring at the door. “Get the second team up.”

  • • •

  As she sat roasting the flesh of some creature she’d trapped and killed—it had large soft eyes, four legs, and horns along its spine, but she didn’t know its proper name—Torres thought back to the last time she had sat beside a fire cooking her dinner. It had been with her father, uncle, and cousins during that final, disastrous camping trip. B’Elanna smiled as she tried to apply the term “camping trip” to the Challenge of Spirit.

  She hadn’t killed her dinner then; just brought hot dogs and marshmallows to roast over the fire. There had been comfortable tents, dry, clean clothing, and people—people she loved. There had been
companionship, even though it was destined not to last.

  The chunks of meat impaled on sticks dripped juices into the fire. The flame snapped and sizzled. B’Elanna’s mouth watered. The smell was delicious.

  Despite the tentative overtures they had both made upon her returning home, things were still tense between Torres and her father. Now as she sat by the fire alone, waiting for the meat to cook, she realized that she really did want to patch things up. She needed to make things right with both her parents, her put-upon and absent father as well as her audacious, violent Klingon mother.

  Maybe they’d have another campout, B’Elanna and her father and Tom and the new little one. Maybe they could start a new family tradition. As for her mother…

  Torres still shuddered whenever she thought about the rite she’d been forced to endure prior to embarking on the Challenge. Her memory was hazy, due no doubt to the fumes emanating from the lava pits, but she remembered enough: heat and pain and nakedness. And yet despite the extremity of the ordeal, it had all felt right, appropriate. She had indeed felt reborn as she ventured out into Boreth’s wilderness. She certainly didn’t want to do it again. But she was glad that there had been something, some kind of ceremony, to mark her departure as something worth doing…something worth acknowledging.

  B’Elanna picked up a skewer and blew on the meat, touching it tentatively until she was certain it wouldn’t burn her mouth. She took a huge bite. Juices flowed down her chin as she chewed. Nothing had ever tasted so delicious. She looked down at the six other makeshift skewers and smiled. She’d sleep with a full belly tonight, and wouldn’t even have to eat a single grub to do so.

  The flesh was melting off her. She’d always been slender, even small, but tough and wiry. Now even the faint layer of fat that had softened her musculature was all but gone. She was bone and blood and muscle and sinew. She made good time during the day, had learned to find food to keep her going, and slept like the dead at night. A few months ago, she would have laughed at the notion that such an intense physical ordeal would be “purifying” rather than a hardship. But now, she knew it to be the truth.