The Amazing Stories

by M. Shayne Bell

  “Kes's comments implied no criticism, and you have slighted her,” reprimanded the etiquette program. “If we see her this evening, I suggest you apologize.”

  “See? It's working beautifully.” He smirked a little.

  “She going to tell us which wine to serve at your memorial service when I delete your program?” Tom smiled. Charmingly. He took perverse pleasure in the nasty looks both the Doctor and Etta shot him before they made their way to their table.

  Tom watched them go. He wondered if he could bribe Neelix into spilling red wine on Etta's white blouse. Dismissing the thought, he turned again to Ricky.

  She was gone.

  “Having a bad night?” It was Torres.

  “Uh, yeah, you could say that. B'Elanna,” he went on, turning to her, “has there been any problem with the holodeck recently? Any, I don't know, unexpected surges of energy, something like that?”

  She frowned. Her ridged brow furrowed even more than usual. “Not that I'm aware of.”

  Paris rubbed the small of his back. He thought about dragging the Doctor away from his supercilious date and getting the twinge treated, then dismissed the idea. The Doctor would refuse, on the grounds that the pain was deserved, and merely score another point with Etta. He'd just let the pain of the throw work its way out.

  “I don't get it,” he said, more to himself than Torres. “Usually when she's mad at me she . . .”

  “She what?” prompted Torres. She was grinning up at him in an almost malevolent fashion.

  “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

  She shrugged. Belatedly, he realized that she, too, had dressed for the occasion. Torres wore a fashionable white and blue suitdress with white pumps and a broad-brimmed hat. Her hair was styled, and she even sported dangly diamond earrings. Almost absently, he acknowledged that she looked good. Great, in fact.

  “When your buddy Gaunt Gary over there gave me some line about treating tramps like ladies and vice versa, I said he was a pig and you were too, for designing him.”

  “So you did.”

  “Can I help it if I think it's funny that now you're getting a little muddy?”

  He'd taken B'Elanna's gibing before, often, and almost as often admitted that she had a point. Now, though, anger rose in him. Everyone had this image of him, and suddenly he was painfully aware of the fact that it no longer fit. That, moreover, he didn't even like it anymore. That Ricky was acting totally out of character, and that the only way that could happen, barring outside interference, was if—

  The realization struck him so hard that for a moment he couldn't breathe. “I'm out of here,” he said, and headed for the door.

  He almost ran to his quarters, his heart racing. Redemption. Here it was, finally. His chance to make everything right, to show everyone, especially her, that he wasn't so bad, that he could change, had changed.

  Her brown eyes, so soft and warm, were cold now. Her lips were pressed in a thin line, and her body was held aloof from his tender touch. So often, when she was like this, it had been easy to melt her with the right word, the touch in just the right spot.

  “I can't handle it anymore,” she said. “You keep promising that you'll change, and you don't. I don't think you even can, let alone want to. I've been with you for two and a half years now, and that's about two years and five months too long.”

  “Ricky . . .” he began.

  “You know I don't like being called that. My name is Richenda.”

  “Of course it is, baby.”

  Now the cold eyes flashed. “I'm not your baby, damn it, Tom! I'm an adult and I have needs, and I do not deserve the way you treat me.”

  The computer had found what he wanted. He leaned forward, listening eagerly, fearfully.

  “Moriarty,” it began in its cool, familiar female voice. “Professor James. A character created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in the Sherlock Holmes stories of the late nineteenth century. Designed as a holodeck program by Lieutenant Commander Data and refined by Chief Engineer Geordi La Forge aboard the starship Enterprise. . . .”

  Harry smothered a grin at the satisfying click of the cue ball on the eight ball. The black ball rolled slowly toward the side pocket, seemed to consider its options, then dropped in obediently.

  “I win again,” he said to Gaunt Gary.

  The holographic character frowned. “Maybe I ain't been so nice to you, girl,” he said to his cue, patting the shaft affectionately. “Get you a little more chalk next time.”

  Torres walked up to him. “Nice game. Can you be a little more obvious?”

  “Hey, I like to win as much as the next guy,” protested Kim. “Gary—rack 'em up, will you?” The simulation glowered at him. Harry turned to face Torres. “So, how do you think it's going?”

  To his surprise, she looked troubled. “I'm not sure. Part of the fun was that he'd be here and we could watch what happened. The computer says he's been in his quarters, accessing the ship's database, for the last three hours. I'm going to go check on him.”

  “Don't blow it.” He watched her go, her heels clicking against the simulated wood of Sandrine's floor, then looked over at the Doctor and Etta.

  He grinned. The Doctor, who had only a few hours before been so infatuated with his clever etiquette program, looked utterly deflated. Etta looked exactly as she had looked when they first walked in. And she hadn't stopped talking. She had criticized how he placed his napkin, how he ordered dinner, how he spooned the soup, how he ate through three courses, and how he selected and sipped his after-dinner drink.

  “. . . and when a lady approaches, you should always rise,” Etta droned on. “Your chair-holding needs work. Let's try it again.”

  “Etta, I'd rather not.”

  “You have been resisting my excellent advice all through the meal,” she said. “One might think you didn't enjoy my company.”

  The Doctor gazed at her and stated bluntly, “I don't.”

  She gasped. “How extremely rude. We'll have to work on verbal courtesy next.”

  The Doctor smiled. “You know, I somehow don't think we will. Computer, delete etiquette program.” Etta's eyes flew wide and she opened her mouth to protest.

  “Permanently,” he added.

  Etta disappeared. The Doctor sighed, picked up the napkin from his lap, crumpled it vigorously and then tucked it into his shirt at the neckline. “Garçon!” he called to one of the waiters. “A second dessert. Something gooey. And no utensils.”

  As the waiter hurried away, the Doctor smiled, gently and with tremendous satisfaction.

  Kim chuckled.

  “You treat me like a, a pet, a plaything. I stayed because I love you, Tommy. My God, do I love you. I've taken treatment from you that I would never have stood for from anyone else, but it's over now.”

  “Fine with me, sweetheart,” said Tom. “I don't care one way or the other. We had some fun, and—”

  “Yeah, sure, we had some fun. A million laughs.” She gazed at him with pity instead of anger in her dark brown eyes. “I know you don't love me, Tommy. And that's all right. What makes me feel so sorry for you is I'm not sure if you'll ever love anyone. And that's a frightening way to go through life.”

  The door chimed softly. Paris jerked awake, realizing that he'd fallen asleep. Rubbing his eyes, he called, “Come in.”

  The door hissed open. Torres stood there for a moment, the soft lighting from the corridor playing over her features and casting them into a mosaic of shadow and light.

  She sniffed. “Coffee? I thought you would be indulging in some exotic vintage, or a neat whiskey.” She entered and regarded him evenly. “It's late. Aren't you going to go to bed?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Are you planning on going to bed in the near future?”

  “No.”

  “You ever going to bed?”

  “No!” he shot back, starting to get annoyed.

  “Then I'm not sleepy either.” She sat down on the desk. “What are you
working on that has you away from your own party drinking coffee alone in your quarters?”

  His eyes searched hers; then he made a decision. “You might be able to help me out, at that,” he said. He tapped in instructions to the computer. Instantly, a female face appeared on the screen.

  “Do you know who this is?” he asked Torres.

  She frowned. “It's your holographic sweetie, isn't it? Ricky? Though her hair's different and she looks a bit older.”

  Tom nodded. “It is . . . and it isn't. This woman is Richenda Masterson.” She didn't seem to recognize the name. “The founder of the Interplanetary Art Exchange program.”

  B'Elanna chewed on her lip. “That sounds familiar—is she the one who takes groups of artists and visits different worlds? The one who invented the mathematical art theory?”

  “Exactly. I knew her several years ago, when she was studying in France. We met at Sandrine's.”

  She looked at him with a new appreciation. “She's the only human artist I know of who's managed to impress both the Vulcans and the Klingons. You knew Richenda Masterson?”

  Tom grimaced. “We were . . . involved, for a while.”

  Torres glanced away. “Oh. You don't have to tell me—”

  “I know, but I want to. I need your help, and you've got to understand why. Richenda was one of the most amazingly talented and brilliant women I've ever met.” He looked back at the screen, at the older but no less beautiful visage of “Ricky” Masterson. “I was the luckiest guy in the world. She loved me.”

  “What happened?”

  “She left me because I treated her badly,” Tom said bluntly. His voice was flat. “I wasn't in love with her and, damn me for a bastard, I played her like Harry plays that clarinet. The more hoops she jumped through for me, the less I thought of her—and the more hoops I held up. Finally, she had enough and walked out on me.” His voice suddenly betrayed him, cracking a little. “Smartest thing she ever did.”

  Torres still wouldn't look at him. “Tom, there's something I have to tell you.”

  He ignored her. He was afraid if he stopped now, he'd never get it all out, and he had to tell Torres if he were to ever make it right.

  “Back at the Academy, when I had girl trouble—she didn't notice me, or she wasn't nice, or whatever—I'd get my own sort of revenge. I'd start calling my ship by her name. That way, it was almost like being able to make the girl do whatever I wanted. Pretty childish, but I thought it didn't harm anyone. When Richenda left—I didn't want her to go. I wanted her to stay and be someone that I could handle. So from the minute I had my first opportunity to visit a holodeck and create my own programs, Ricky was in them. I made her do whatever I wanted her to do. She was always willing, always patient, she'd never leave me—”

  “Tom, stop it!” Torres whirled on him suddenly. He couldn't read her expression, but she was agitated. “Harry and I—”

  “It was wrong, and I know it was wrong. But I've got a chance to make it up to her!” Paris barreled on. “Don't you see?

  Something has happened with Ricky's program. She's not the same character I designed, and if nothing's gone wrong on the ship, then there's only one answer. Somehow, she's become sentient!”

  “No, Tom—”

  “It's happened before. Remember the Moriarty incident? We all got that lecture before going into the holodecks back at the Academy. I admit, the Moriarty program evolved because it was so complex, and Ricky was designed to be anything but, but it's happened and I need your help. If we can—”

  “Listen to me!” Tom blinked, startled at her outburst. “It's not that, Tom. Ricky's not sentient. I—we—Harry and I decided to play a trick on you.” She swallowed, hard, but kept her eyes locked with his. “I broke into your program and redesigned Ricky to make her behave more like a real person. I got so sick of her prancing around, and we thought it'd be funny. We had no idea about—that you'd take it so seriously. We thought you'd catch on right away, especially when Harry programmed your pool shark to lose all the time. I'm so sorry, Tom. It was just a joke.”

  He felt the blood drain from his face. Just a joke. He'd just bared his soul, dared to hope for a chance at correcting some of the obscenely cruel things he'd done when he was young and halfmad with pain and guilt over the accident back at the Academy, all because Kim and Torres thought it would be funny if—

  “I hope you and Harry have a good laugh,” he said, his voice eerily quiet. “Now get out.”

  “I've never seen him like that,” Torres finished. Harry looked as miserable as she felt.

  “I guess I can't blame him,” said Harry softly.

  A pool cue tapped on his shoulder. “How 'bout another round, kid?” asked Gaunt Gary.

  “No, thanks.” As the big pool shark strode away, his attention on Captain Janeway, who had also beaten him tonight, Harry added softly, “It's no fun anymore.”

  “You said it.” Torres glanced about. It was very late. Nearly everyone else was gone, and Sandrine was starting to gather up the glasses. Neelix looked at the few crumbs that remained of the lavish feast and smiled. Captain Janeway declined an invitation to another game of pool and, on Chakotay's arm, headed for the door. The only other real people left in the holodeck were Harry and B'Elanna. Everyone else was a hologram, a figment of the imagination, and even they were going home for the “night.” None of this was real. And yet, because of these illusions, she and Harry had inadvertently hurt their friend. Because of these illusions, Tom had done so much to hurt himself.

  Harry yawned and rubbed at his eyes. “I'm going to turn in.”

  “You go ahead. I don't think he's going to show. We can catch him tomorrow and apologize.”

  He wandered through the heavy wooden doors and disappeared into the foggy night. Torres heard the doors to the holodeck hiss open, then shut.

  She accepted the last glass of red wine and a neat scotch from Neelix, who, sensing her troubled spirit, tactfully left her alone. Leaving the scotch untouched, Torres sipped the wine slowly.

  She didn't like to lie, but she had lied to Harry just now. She did think Tom would show up one more time tonight. At least, she hoped he would. If he didn't, then he was more broken than even he knew.

  Even the drunks had gone home, thought Paris as he opened the door to Chez Sandrine. The only reason the place was still open at this ungodly hour was because he had never bothered to program a closing time for the bistro. But there was a stillness about the place. Sandrine's might never close, but the characters did have set agendas.

  Sandrine was there, of course, washing up. Yvette was performing her traditional final number, “Non, je ne regrette rien.” The gigolo was in hushed, urgent conversation with his latest conquest. Gaunt Gary had put away his cue and was shrugging into his jacket. He gave Paris a curt nod, adjusted his fedora, and went out into the night.

  And B'Elanna Torres was at the bar, nursing a final drink. She straightened, sensing his eyes on her, and turned around. Their eyes met for a long time. Then she smiled—a soft, sweet smile that he'd never seen from her before, that gentled her edgy Klingon features.

  He liked that smile.

  She put down her drink, thanked Sandrine, and picked up a shot glass of scotch. She glided past him without a word, pressing the scotch into his hand, and left the holodeck. He was, for all intents and purposes, given his privacy.

  Now or never, Tommy, he thought, and closed his hand around the cool, small glass.

  “Non, je ne regrette rien,” crooned Yvette. I regret nothing. An ironic anthem for Tom, who regretted nearly everything he'd ever done.

  “Computer,” he said. His voice cracked. “Computer,” he repeated. “Activate holoprogram Ricky.”

  At once, she was there. She looked around, a bit startled; then her brown eyes narrowed as she saw him.

  “You again.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Listen, can we talk?”

  “I don't—”

  “Please.” He could hear the pleading
in his voice, but he didn't care. She just had to stay long enough to hear him out.

  Ricky—Richenda—regarded him for a long, cool moment, then nodded. He gestured to the table by the fire, and they seated themselves. Sandrine glanced at them but declined to comment. Paris was grateful for that. For all her flirting, the real Sandrine was, at heart, a good woman, and he had programmed her doppleganger thus.

  “I'd like to tell you a story,” he began, running a finger idly over the rim of the shot glass. “It's a story about a young man who had a universe full of happiness, and was too much of a fool to realize it. This young man had friends, a family who loved him, and a promising career. But he was so busy thinking about what he didn't have that he got careless one day. And because of his carelessness, three people, his two closest friends and the woman he loved, were killed.”

  He didn't look at Ricky, but sensed her softening, her compassion. He kept his eyes on the table and continued.

  “The young man was horrified. But he was also selfish. So he lied about the accident. But you know something? Lies aren't just words. Lies sit there in the pit of your stomach and eat you up from the inside out, until there's nothing left of you inside at all. You're just a walking shell, with darkness where your heart and guts should be.”

  Something warm brushed his back. Her hand, stroking, calming, wordless. That was how Ricky showed her sympathy—not with words, but gestures.

  “So our empty young hero, with no heart and no guts left to speak of, tried to fill that emptiness with alcohol and women and parties. And the universe, which had always been so kind to him, one day gave him yet another kindness that he didn't deserve. It gave him a woman named Richenda Masterson, who had more talent and courage and intelligence in her little finger than he had in his whole rotten shell. But you know what? The young man was so eaten up inside he didn't realize what the universe had done. He hurt Richenda. He belittled her gift. He took from her and gave her nothing in return but contempt and disinterest, thus ensuring that the emptiness inside him would only continue to grow.”