Star Trek®: Strange New Worlds 10

by Dean Wesley Smith

  “Yesterday,” Odo said, his voice raspy, “when my friends and I were here, you seemed to know things.”

  “I’ve been around the block a couple times,” the jacketless Vic replied.

  The exchange seemed casual, but Zimmerman sensed a hint of desperation, like an interrogation. “You were trying to distract him again,” Zimmerman said. Next to him, Vic winked.

  “You seemed to know specific things,” Odo insisted. “For instance, Dax and Worf are married, the Chief misses his wife.”

  “Do you see that?” said the present Vic, whispering excitedly. “The way Odo pushed like that? That’s why he’s the best. Man, I thought he had me.”

  The past Vic lifted his drink, swallowing a healthy gulp. “You don’t have to be an Einstein to clue into any of that.”

  Zimmerman held his breath, caught up in the anxiety of the scene. Vic stood motionless beside him. Each waited for Odo to spring.

  For the lie to come suddenly into the light.

  Odo looked down and said, “At one point, you were going to make an observation about Major Kira and myself.”

  Zimmerman exhaled, and next to him, Vic did the same. “Gets me every time,” Vic said. “But at that point, I knew I had the cat fooled, and I could get on with what was really important—getting those two lovebirds together. And they’ve been happily ever after ever since, well, more or less.”

  “That’s quite a tale.” Zimmerman leaned against a bar stool, the joints in his knees burning. Odo and the second Vic faded from view and the lights in the restaurant brightened.

  “Hey, Doc,” Vic said, “I sure am sorry about having given you the run-around before. And sorry I muddled your experiments and whatnot for a while.” The bartender raised his shoulders to his ears and then lowered them, relaxing. If he recognized Zimmerman’s distraught pose, he didn’t acknowledge it. “Man, it feels good to finally get that off my chest. You know, Doc, you’re the only one who knows that. You and me, we’re simpatico now. Next time you come in here, your drinks are on the house, I mean that. Least I can do for you, keeping my secret.”

  Zimmerman’s head was down, reviewing information on his padd. He tapped a few more keys.

  “Doc?” Vic said.

  Zimmerman only gave him a passing glance before looking back to the padd. “I’m afraid there won’t be much time for making drinks,” he said. “Our transport leaves in eleven hours.”

  “Leaves?” Vic stared at Zimmerman, his eyes large. “But didn’t you hear me? I’m not fully a hologram. You’ve got no competition from Fritz. Everything’s fine, right?”

  “Fine?” Zimmerman scoffed. “There’s nothing ‘fine’ about it! You and I may know your story, but the rest of the world still considers Fritz a genius. Do you know they’re considering him a candidate for the Daystrom Prize for Holography? They created that prize for me! No, no. No, I think not. You’ll be coming back to Jupiter Station with me so I can verify your claims.”

  “But Doc, you said if I came clean, you’d leave me alone. We had a deal.”

  Zimmerman ignored the pain in Vic’s voice. “I said I’d think about it, Mister Fontaine, and I have.” He felt his tremor returning. “I’ll give you some time to put your affairs in order, and then I’ll be back. We have quite an endeavor ahead of us.” With that, Zimmerman turned and walked from the bar as quickly as he could manage.

  Holographic pain, from a holographic…alien? He shook his head as he went. If anyone understood, it was Zimmerman, that we don’t always get a say in the choices life makes for us.

  Zimmerman paused on the stairs as a searing twinge went through his leg. Below, he spotted Leeta near the bar, loading drinks onto her tray. Still every movement held the fluidity of a dancer. The noise of the full room grew louder as he gingerly made his way down, flexing stiff muscles. He reached out to tap her exquisite shoulder—and nearly collided with her tray of drinks as she turned around, liquids sloshing over the edges of glasses and onto the floor. “Oh, Lewis!” Leeta said. “I’m so sorry! I heard you were on the station, and I’ve been meaning to—”

  He put his hand on her arm. “Not to worry,” he said in his most lilting tone. “It’s nothing a cup of Amielian tea won’t fix, and the pleasure of your company.” His wet shirt-front dripped onto his shoes.

  Leeta looked from Zimmerman to Quark, busy trying to pawn off the red-draped “lounge lizard” cage to a portly Lurian sitting at the bar. “Well, I guess I could take a break. Being part of the family has its privileges.” She glanced over her shoulder at the bar and whispered, “As long as you don’t tell the proprietor.”

  Leeta guided them past a replicator for the tea, and then up the stairs to a table on the second floor. Zimmerman felt warm gratitude when Leeta slowed on the staircase, silently allowing him to catch up. At the table, Zimmerman wrapped tight fingers around the teacup, soothing his hands. Leeta’s flowery perfume enveloped them both. “So,” he said, “you’re a married woman now.”

  “Over a year,” Leeta said. The diamond and platinum ring shone on her finger as she held it forward. “Rom is such a sweet man. And you should meet his son Nog. He’s so smart! He’s going to be a Starfleet officer, you know.”

  “You’re a stepmother, too. That’s…fantastic.” He looked away from her. “You know, we never did find an adequate restaurateur on Jupiter Station.”

  “Oh, Lewis.” Leeta gave a soft laugh. “I really am sorry.” She regarded him seriously. “But truly, how are you?”

  “I’m fine. The long-term medical holographic system is still in the planning stages, but it’s no matter. I’ve been spending a lot of time in the lab perfecting the EMH Mark Two.”

  “No.” Leeta stared at him until his eyes met hers. “That’s how work is going. I asked about you.”

  Zimmerman readied a glib reply, but with Leeta watching him, he felt suddenly abashed. Visions of giggling, bright-eyed children with his intellect and her hairline played through his mind. He saw he and Leeta growing old together in front of a holographic fire. “Acute subcellular degredation,” he said, scratching one finger against the table. “It began with the loss of pigmentation in my hair. My bones have become brittle. As it worsens, my joints will begin to atrophy and break down. In a matter of years, I’ll no longer be able to walk or feed myself. Already I’m finding it hard to focus; I have to use a hypospray just to get through the day.”

  Leeta gasped softly. She wiped at her eyes swiftly with her knuckles. “You should have called. Let me know sooner.”

  “You have a life here now. A family.” Zimmerman peered away, over the railing. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Lewis,” she said. She reached over and placed her hand on top of his. “Even if things didn’t work out between us, who can you turn to, if not your friends?”

  He leaned over and put his other hand on top of hers, resting on the table. “You’re very sweet—”

  “I knew it!” came Rom’s voice, startling Zimmerman. He and Leeta each looked around; she was the first to spot her husband, pointing to where Rom glared up at them from the ground floor below. “Sitting there together!” Rom yelled. “Drinking tea!” He stopped, noticing abruptly that every customer at every table in Quark’s stared at him. “Table-sitting!” he spat, still caught up in his anger. “Tea!” He sputtered once, and then stalked off.

  Leeta looked at Zimmerman apologetically. “He’s been so high-strung about your visit. I should go after him.” Zimmerman nodded. Leeta stood and squeezed his hand once. She cupped his chin in her palm, looking at him fondly, and hurried away.

  Zimmerman took another sip of his tea, shook his head, and shrugged.

  As he crossed the Promenade, Zimmerman felt fatigue pulling at his every step, as if the station’s artificial gravity had been enhanced. He stumbled and had to grab a bulkhead for support, breathlessly waving away an officer who tried to help. What Zimmerman hated most was the not knowing—was he simply tired, or was his tiredness a symptom of his con
dition? Was he more exhausted because he constantly worried about the significance of his exhaustion? At least with holography, you knew where you stood: everything was fake.

  Quark had dimmed the bar lights, casting vague square shadows from the tables to the floor. The bartender spoke urgently to a viewscreen on one side of his bar, vehemently trying to convince someone to help him “get rid of this damn lizard.” Zimmerman shuffled past, grasping the staircase railing as he took the steps up to Vic’s.

  At the landing, Rom hurried out from Vic’s curtained entrance. Zimmerman tensed, half-expecting an attack. Instead, Rom greeted him with a toothy grin. “Well, hello, Doctor.”

  “Rom. You’re looking somewhat more chipper than this afternoon.”

  “Oh, that.” Rom waved a hand at the doctor as if to dismiss an unpleasant memory. His face burned dusky in the Ferengi equivalent of a blush. “I think I overreacted a little.”

  Zimmerman let himself relax. “So you’re no longer upset?”

  “No, no,” Rom said. “I talked to Vic for a while, and he helped me see. Leeta loves me.”

  “That she does.” Zimmerman extended a hand, and Rom shook it heartily. “Take care of her.”

  Inside, Vic’s was as dark as Quark’s, the only illumination spotlighting the proprietor behind the bar. Vic stood cleaning glasses again, much the same as when Zimmerman had left.

  “I tell you,” Vic said, “I haven’t had a doc in here so much since that night the Klingon chef served a bad case of gagh.”

  Zimmerman stared at Vic, nonplussed. “I’m a scientist, not a physician.”

  “I meant—ah, never mind. Coffee?”

  Zimmerman took a stool at the bar and Vic set a mug in front of him. The steaming liquid was already cooled with a drop of milk and, when Zimmerman took a sip, a hint of sugar. “Just the way I like it,” he said. “A lucky guess, or do you read personal logs as well as station databanks?”

  Vic shrugged. “So much for peacemaking.” He pushed back his sleeve to check the gold wristwatch on his arm. “Almost time for that transport, eh?”

  Zimmerman drank deeper from the mug, feeling the heat pervade his muscles. “You really had an effect on Rom.”

  “Yeah, well, that Rom’s a good guy. A family man, got to respect that.” Vic leaned his elbows on the bar. “He’s got brains, a wife that loves him, a son to be proud of. His life is good. But give him a reason, and the guy’s more jealous than Bogie watching Frank and Betty from his deathbed. Thing is, Rom doesn’t believe himself worth the ground he’s standing on. Never has. I’ve just got to remind him he’s an okay guy every once in a while, and everything shakes out fine.” Vic shook his head, chuckling to himself. “You know, most of the time, with Rom and the rest, when they come in with problems, they already know what the answer is. They just need me to give them a push in the right direction.”

  “And as for me,” Zimmerman’s voice sounded skeptical, “do I already know the right answer to my problems?”

  “Ah, see, but that’s the thing,” Vic said, teasing. “It’s not the ones who don’t know the answer. It’s the ones that don’t know the question that’re the doozies.”

  “Touching.” Zimmerman took another sip of his coffee, then pushed it away, resenting the warmth.

  “People here, they work hard,” Vic continued. “It’s good for them to be able to go someplace where they can get a little R&R once in a while. And why not here? I’m light bulbs and force fields, you know? I’m air. The rent on this joint is paid, the casino brings in a good take every night; why shouldn’t I help out? What better thing could a cat like me do with his life?”

  Zimmerman looked up, giving Vic a hard glare. “Besides letting people open up to you while pretending to be something you’re not? Did you ever once think that your little subterfuge might have an effect on somebody else?”

  “I’m sorry I hurt your rep,” Vic said, but then he shook his head, feeling a surge of anger himself. “Cut me to the quick, why don’t you? You know, you’re a real Mack the Knife there, Doc.”

  “I’m sure I’ve been called worse.” Zimmerman stood up from the stool. “It must be nice, being the benevolent alien probe, dispensing your wisdom day and night from your cushy holosuite without a concern in the universe.”

  Zimmerman had begun to yell, and Vic matched him in volume. “Least I don’t make it my business uprooting people’s lives every time I come around. And here, I was just starting to warm to the idea of taking off to Jupiter Station. Pay you back for the mess I made of things. Thought it might be fun; maybe you and I could come to an understanding.”

  Zimmerman scoffed. “Thank you, Mister Fontaine, but I don’t need your ‘understanding.’ What do you think you can tell me that I don’t already know? That I’m here on a wayward space station in the middle of a war chasing down any errant hologram that even hints at threatening me or the legacy of my life’s work? That my crowning scientific achievements are used for waste disposal? That they’ve become the laughing stock of the galaxy? That I’m dying and I’m afraid I’m going to be forgotten?” Zimmerman looked Vic in the eye and spoke sharply. “Trust me, Mister Fontaine, I already know.”

  “Yeah, Doc, you only think you’re going to be forgotten,” Vic shouted back. “Truth is, you ain’t scared of how you’re going to be forgotten, you’re scared of the way you’re going to be remembered—a bitter old man who blamed everyone else in the galaxy for his own misfortunes, except himself.”

  Both men stopped, out of breath—Vic holographically, if not in fact. Softly, Vic spat, “And I didn’t need your personal log for that one, either. I could tell that much just by looking at you.”

  They stared at each other, the rage that they felt slowly fading, replaced with the silence of the restaurant. Zimmerman turned his face in embarrassment, and took one step away from the bar. Vic looked down at his hands, sheepish. “Well, enough of my jabbering on,” he said. “Time to hit the road, right?”

  “Yes,” Zimmerman said quietly. “My shuttle leaves in ten minutes. I just came in to say goodbye.”

  “Goodbye?” Vic paused. “You mean…?” A hesitant grin spread across his face. “Wait a minute, Doc. Wait a minute. Are you saying I’ve got a stay of execution?”

  Zimmerman averted his eyes again, trying to downplay Vic’s excitement. He sighed impatiently. “Something like that.”

  “Hey, Doc, thanks.” Vic came swiftly around the bar. “Look, you know, I’m sorry for what I said. Really I am. I didn’t mean it.” He took up Zimmerman’s hand in a hearty handshake, which Zimmerman barely returned. “So what was it that changed your mind, huh? What did it? When you came in here, was it all that stuff about helping out Rom?”

  “No. But you make Leeta’s life easier,” Zimmerman said. “I…may not be around much longer. If I can’t be here to look after her, someone has to be.” And so much, he thought, for bright-eyed children.

  “So the tin man’s got a heart after all,” Vic said. Zimmerman, nodding vaguely, turned to go. All of the sudden he felt too tired even to try to piece together the hologram’s—the alien’s—strange allusions. “Hey, Doc,” Vic called after him, “that offer of a drink still stands, next time you drop by.”

  Zimmerman barely looked back. “Sure.”

  “Look, hey.” Vic hurried to follow, sounding concerned. “So the docs-in-a-box didn’t work. Smart guy like you, you’ve got to have more ideas. What about a holographic zoo, huh? Kids’ll love it. Or holographic spy cameras? Join the war effort, no?”

  “I appreciate your help.” Zimmerman held on to the wall for support. “But maybe it’s time to let a new generation take over.”

  “You know,” Vic said, “I had this friend, Leonard. Guy tried for years to learn to play the harmonica, never could get it. But man, he blew that thing night and day. You could hear him all the way down the alley! It’s like a wise man once said, if you can’t sing it well, at least sing it loud.” Vic put his arm around Zimmerman’s bony shoulders
. “So your holograms are being used for waste extraction. I bet, with a little tweaking, you could have your face on the best darn garbagemen in the whole galaxy.”

  Zimmerman stepped away, rubbing at his scalp through his whitening hair. “That’s just the problem,” he said. “I look less and less like them every day.” And he walked out, leaving Vic alone behind him.

  “Holographic zoo,” Zimmerman muttered as he stepped carefully down the stairs. He snorted bitterly.

  At the bar, Quark rested his head in his palms, looking bored. The wire cage he’d brought to Vic’s sat uncovered next to him. Inside, Zimmerman saw a long green lizard with a glossy horn-rimmed neck. As Zimmerman walked past, it looked up at him with plaintive eyes.

  “What is that?” Zimmerman asked.

  Quark kept staring straight ahead. “It’s an old Earth-lizard,” he said. “Iguana.”

  “Curious.” The scaly animal tilted its head to peer at Zimmerman again, bored and wry at the same time. Despite himself, despite it all, Zimmerman couldn’t help but smile. As he exited through Quark’s wide doors, he tried the word between his lips: “Iguana.” He said it again: “Iguana.”

  From the curtained doorway of Vic’s, despite the lack of holo-projectors, Vic Fontaine peered out into the hall and over the railing, watching Zimmerman slip away. Did he see the man standing just a little straighter?

  “Crazy, baby,” Vic grinned. Whistling to himself, he went back inside to prepare for late-night customers.

  A guy’s got to make a living, after all.

  Signal to Noise

  Jim Johnson

  Jim Johnson makes his third appearance in the pages of Strange New Worlds. He’s still in northern Virginia with his lovely wife Andi, four cats, and a chestnut mare. By the time you read this, he’ll have two original novels making the rounds and will be working on his third. Huge thanks to the Paneranormal Society and all the fine members of the Yahoo! SNW Writers group (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/SNW_Writers). All my thanks and appreciation to Paula Block, Margaret Clark, Elisa Kassin, John Ordover, and especially, Dean Wesley Smith, for making Strange New Worlds live and breathe lo these ten years.