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 [123] 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 heard 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 [124] 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 [125] 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.”

[126] “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?”

[127] “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.”

[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.