Homecoming Page 10

  “Yes?”

  Disappointment knifed through him when an older woman’s face appeared on his screen. Almost immediately, though, he realized who this must be.

  “Ms. Hansen?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Icheb. I’m a friend of Seven’s from—”

  “Oh, of course, I know your name. Annika speaks of you often and so warmly. Let me get her, you just hang on . . . .”

  Icheb found himself staring into the room as Irene Hansen darted off to find her niece. He smiled a little; apparently, some people even now weren’t as comfortable with viewscreens as others. After a few minutes, Seven’s face appeared. She was trying to maintain her usual icy demeanor, but a slight smile and glowing eyes betrayed her pleasure.

  “Icheb.”

  “Hello, Seven.”

  “I assume you are contacting me to report on your first day of classes at the Academy. I trust all went well?” He filled her in, saving the surprise about Tuvok for last. She listened attentively. Finally she asked, “Were you. . . bothered in any way?”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “We were Borg. Earth’s human population seems to be by turns fascinated and horrified by us.”

  “Well, I did get a little bit of attention.” He hadn’t mentioned Eshe. Somehow, he didn’t want to.

  “You need to be prepared to—”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, Annika, let the boy enjoy being popular.” Seven’s aunt again, chiming in on the conversation. Seven looked nonplussed. Clearly, she had thought she was alone. Icheb tried not to laugh when Irene stuck her head into viewing range.

  “Icheb, why don’t you come on over for a homemade dinner and some strawberry pie? I’ve got a chicken in the oven, with potatoes and gravy and biscuits, and Annika and I are watching our girlish figures.”

  “Aunt Irene!” said Seven, flustered.

  “Ms. Hansen, I would love to come. When would be convenient?”

  “You just hop over to one of those transporters whenever you’re ready.”

  “Seven, is this acceptable to you?” Icheb asked.

  Although Seven looked annoyed, she also looked a little pleased. “It is satisfactory,” she said.

  Which, for Seven, meant that she was delighted.

  * * *

  B’Elanna swallowed hard, waiting for Tom’s face to appear on the viewscreen. When it did, her heart lurched. He was holding little Miral, who was making popping noises with her mouth and waving her arms around.

  “Hi,” Torres said.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “This is the last time I’ll be permitted to contact you until after. . . after this is all done.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “If anything goes wrong, the priests won’t know about it for a while. So you shouldn’t expect to hear anything, positive or negative, for some time.”

  “Mommy’s just so upbeat, isn’t she, honey?” Tom said in a playful, high-pitched voice to Miral. The child squealed and tried to grab his nose. “Don’t worry,” he said, looking up to face his wife. “You’re where you need to be. I know that. I’m very proud of you.”

  For a moment, she couldn’t speak. “How did your folks take it?”

  “About as expected. I’ve moved out on my own now. Well, almost on my own. The Doc’s my new roommate. Listen, we should seriously consider keeping him on. I think he missed his true programming. He’s a great nanny.”

  “I heard that,” came the Doctor’s dry voice from another room. Tom looked vexed.

  “Excuse me,” he said. He rose and went to close the door.

  B’Elanna laughed, and suddenly all the pain and apprehension was gone. Tom knew she was doing the right thing, and so did she. They would be all right, whatever happened to her. The only thing she wished was that she could hold her daughter and kiss her husband one last time.

  “I love you so much, both of you,” she said.

  “We know. We love you, too.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to say good-bye and hoped he would end the conversation first. He made no move to do so. As she reluctantly moved to terminate the conversation, Tom said quickly, “B’Elanna—”

  “Yes?”

  “Qapla’!”

  She smiled, and touched the button. The screen was now filled with the insignia of the Klingon Empire. Torres took a deep breath, held it for a second, then blew it out, steadying herself. She’d wanted to say good-bye to the rest of her friends from her Voyager days, and her father as well, but the rules were rigid: one final, farewell message.

  She had completed it. Now would come several weeks of prayer, meditation, and work on her ritual garment. The delay chafed B’Elanna terribly, but she knew she had to observe the form if not the substance of the ritual.

  Someone was depending on her.

  * * *

  The six-year-old human girl was quieter than the Bolian doctor had ever seen her. He examined her with the medical tricorder and the good, old-fashioned sense of touch as her worried mother spoke.

  “She had a little bit of a stomachache last night. We thought it was just from an extra helping of cake, but then she woke up like this,” Erin Matheson said, wringing her hands. “So pale, and quiet. . . it’s just not like her!”

  The red-haired, freckled Kara was usually a bit of a trial when Dr. Graalis saw her. She laughed, squirmed and grinned, or if the pain was bad, shrieked with agony and outrage. She was hardly ever sick. Graalis had been her doctor for most of her life, and mainly what he saw her for were the usual cuts and scrapes of a lively, playful youngster.

  This was altogether different. She had hardly any color and was so still it was spooky. Kara didn’t answer when spoken to, and her flesh felt cold to the touch.

  He sighed. “Ms. Matheson, we’ve been told to be on the lookout for something like this. I’m not sure, but I think it might be something called Xakarian flu. She has all the symptoms.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Erin said.

  “It’s only recently been seen on Earth. The symptoms are unusual pallor, lack of appetite, chilled body temperature, and often delusions. It’s not lethal,” he assured her.

  “Thank God,” she breathed.

  “However, the treatment is a long one, and to contain the spread we are going to have to quarantine you, Erin, and Mr. Matheson.”

  She blinked. “Is that. . . is that really necessary?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “But if it isn’t lethal—”

  “This comes directly from Starfleet, Ms. Matheson. They evidently think it’s important. I’ve been instructed to report it, and you should be ready to transport to the quarantine site within an hour.”

  Erin played with her daughter’s red ringlets. Kara stared into space. Graalis suppressed a shudder. But, Starfleet Medical had assured him the virus wasn’t lethal, and he believed them.

  Two hours later, Starfleet Medical came for him, too.

  Chapter

  10

  THE DOCTOR WAS BORED.

  Maddeningly, deeply, profoundly, exquisitely, screamingly bored. Despite Tom’s wisecrack to B’Elanna, caring for an infant, challenging though he supposed it must be to human parents, was nothing at all to him. After mastering the basics—feeding, diaper changing, burping, lulling to sleep, entertaining with amusing games that a six-week-old baby could wrap its tiny mind around—there was nothing more to do. He could care for Miral in his sleep. . . well, if he slept.

  He’d put in request after request to Starfleet to be transferred to some research center, some place where there was an outbreak of some new and interesting disease, a war zone, anything other than this pleasant little apartment with a squalling infant and a Tom Paris who deeply missed his wife. To the best of his knowledge, all his requests had been ignored. He’d even offered specifically to assist with the outbreak of Xakarian flu. Surely, with so many quarantine cases, they could use an untiring pair of hands. But he’d never h
eard anything back, except once from Admiral Montgomery’s assistant, who had said in a very polite way that the admiral wished the Doctor to cease annoying him.

  When there was any expression of interest in him, it was usually in the form of fan mail for Photons Be Free. At first, it was enjoyable, but when it became obvious that none of his “fans” was really interested in his actual identity as a doctor, the excitement faded. He installed a system to screen his calls.

  So when the message came after he’d been living with Paris for over two weeks, the Doctor was thrilled.

  Paris stuck his head in. “Someone wants to talk to you, Doc.”

  The Doctor glanced up from a medical journal, irritated. He could of course simply download the information, but found that reading it the way other doctors did helped kill the huge amount of time on his hands. Miral slept in his arms, her little body limp, warm and heavy, her mouth open.

  “Send the standard message. It sounds like my screening system needs adjustment.”

  Tom was grinning. “No fan, Doc. At least, not a fan of your writing. This guy’s from some medical facility somewhere.”

  The Doctor was on his feet instantly. He thrust the still-sleeping baby into her father’s arms and raced for the computer. He took a moment to compose himself, then sat down.

  Smiling, he said, “Good morning. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  The human male had black hair, brown eyes, and tanned skin. He was quite handsome. When he saw the Doctor, his face lit up and the lines around his eyes wrinkled in delight.

  “Doctor,” he said, his voice warm and rich. “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to finally speak with you.”

  The Doctor sat up straighter in his chair. Now, this was more like it.

  “My name is Dr. Oliver Baines. I work with a small group that provides humanitarian aid to various hot spots in the quadrant. We’re not officially connected with Starfleet or the Federation, but our goals are certainly similar. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to contact you. You’re a hard man to track down.”

  The Doctor scowled. “I’ve heard nothing through any official channels. Nobody’s bothered to let me know you were trying to get in touch with me.”

  “Really? That’s very odd. I would have thought people would be beating down your door.”

  “So did I,” the Doctor said. He smiled and said jokingly, “Please state the nature of the medical emergency.”

  Baines caught the jest and chuckled. “I’d like to talk to you in person about the possibility of your signing on with our group. You’d be invaluable to us. We are fortunately kept well supplied, but finding people who are willing to travel so far from their homes to treat people they don’t even know. . . well, that’s a bit more difficult.”

  Altruism surged through the Doctor. He would miss his friends, of course. . . well, maybe not Mr. Paris; he’d certainly had a good dose of him over the last two weeks. . . but other than that, he had no family. He had been programmed to serve, and this organization sounded exactly like what he had been looking for.

  He tried not to sound too enthusiastic as he replied, “I’d like to hear more about this, Doctor. Where and when shall we meet?”

  “If you’ll give me the coordinates, I can meet you right now,” Baines said.

  “The sooner the better. Let me get my, er, roommate out of the way. Ten minutes?”

  “Wonderful.” Baines’s pleasant face split into a grin. It made him look like a boy. “I have to admit, I’m very excited about this, Doctor. The strides you’ve made, the things you’ve discovered and invented. . . Well, let me just say I’ll be meeting a hero of mine in ten minutes.”

  The Doctor smiled. “I’m sure we’ll have much to discuss.” He transmitted the coordinates, then rose to tell Tom to take Miral out for a stroll for the next hour.

  When Baines transported in, he was still smiling. “Doctor,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I can’t believe that I’m here at last. You’ve simply no idea how much this means to me.”

  “Please, have a seat,” said the Doctor graciously. “May I get you something? Some water, or coffee?”

  Baines eased into the seat indicated. “I’m fine, Doctor. More than fine.”

  “Good.” The Doctor sat in a chair opposite his guest. “Tell me about your organization. I’m all ears.”

  Baines glanced away quickly and clasped and unclasped his hands. “I really am here for a humanitarian reason, Doctor, though I regret to say that it’s not quite the one I told you about earlier.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Baines leaned forward. He radiated urgency and sincerity. “I am in charge of a small group of people, Doctor. People who desperately need your help.”

  “Go on.”

  “My name is indeed Oliver Baines, but I’m not a doctor. I’m a programmer. My job is to maintain the efficacy of the EMH Mark One holograms mining dilithium on Lynarik Prime.”

  The Doctor closed his eyes briefly, knowing where this was heading.

  Perhaps sensing that his visit was about to be cut short, Baines spoke quickly.

  “I’m the only organic being there. I’m surrounded by versions of you. I know what they were designed for, and I see what they’re being forced to do. It’s barbaric, something unworthy of an advanced civilization. These people—these photonic beings—are nothing more glamorous than slaves, Doctor. They didn’t have the chance you did aboard Voyager. Captain Janeway had no flesh-and-blood doctor. She had to utilize you, and you were more than up to the challenge. Look what you did when you had the opportunity! Don’t these versions of you, who were exactly as you were seven years ago, have the same right to grow, to expand themselves?”

  “Mr. Baines—” began the Doctor somewhat wearily.

  “Please, just hear me out, just let me say what I came here to say!” Baines rose and began pacing. “When I read Photons Be Free, I realized that someone out there understood. I’ve read the reviews, and I understand that you’ve been accused of exaggeration. That’s absolute nonsense. If anything, the holographic point-of-view character in your novel has more opportunities and more respect than the other EMH Mark Ones get in the mining colony.”

  He whirled on the Doctor, startling him. “Mining colony! Doesn’t that just make you sick?” He seized the Doctor’s hands, clutching them. “These hands that can perform any operation with skill far beyond that of mere humans—they’re forced to scrub conduits, chip rocks with hammers, haul stone. Good God!” He let go of the startled Doctor’s hands and moved away, disgust written all over his face.

  “What exactly is it you want of me, Mr. Baines?” The Doctor now rose as well, trying to regain some control of the situation.

  Baines whirled. “I want what you want,” he said. “I want those photons to be free.”

  “And exactly how do you expect to accomplish this most worthy goal?”

  Baines stared blankly at him, and the Doctor realized that while the man was full of sound and fury, in the end, he signified nothing. He obviously had no plan whatsoever.

  “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.”

  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 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.