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.” [110] 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.”

[111] 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.

[112] 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.

[113] “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 [114] 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 [115] 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,” snarled the rider. He was a large man, brown-skinned and dark-eyed. His muscles gleamed [116] 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 [117] 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.”

“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 [118] 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 unsteadily 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 [119] 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.

[120] “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 [121] 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.