“That sounds like a sad story,” said Richenda, her voice husky. “Does it have a sad ending, too?”
Now Tom looked at her. His heart almost broke. If only he could do it over again—
“I don't know. The last chapter hasn't been written.” Hesitantly, he took her hand. He hadn't programmed the calluses into Ricky's hands. Richenda's work in stone and wood had made her fingers powerful and strong. She opted to keep the calluses and scars, though a dermal regenerator would easily get rid of them. She was proud of them, she told him; proud of what they symbolized. It was yet one more thing Tom had taken from Richenda.
“Do you understand that you're a hologram?” he asked her.
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Let me tell you who you are. You are what I made of Richenda Masterson. When the real Richenda left me, I made you—Ricky. A Richenda who would never leave, would always wait for me, would never argue. I turned a wonderful, real human being into my own personal toy. When I saw you tonight, after B'Elanna had reprogrammed you—I wanted to make it up to Richenda.”
There was no more anger in her face now, only sorrow and gentleness. She covered his hand with her own. “Tom—I'm just a hologram. I'm not Richenda.”
He nodded. “I know. And I hope to God that someday I'll be able to tell the real Richenda just what I'm telling you. But I'm thousands of light-years from home, and I not only owe her an apology—I owe you one, too. I'm sorry.”
Tears stood in her eyes. “I forgive you, Tom,” she whispered. “And I think that, one day, Richenda will forgive you, too.” She leaned forward and kissed him softly, without passion.
Tom savored the kiss, then pulled back. He stroked her face one last time, touched the thick softness of her dark hair. Lifting the scotch glass—the shot of courage B'Elanna had given him—he toasted her.
“Here's looking at you, kid.” He downed the scotch and set the glass on the table. Only one more thing left to do, to make it as right as he could.
“Computer,” he said, gazing into her eyes. “Delete hologram Ricky. Permanently.”
She was still smiling as she disappeared.
Torres was waiting for him outside the holodeck entrance, leaning up against a bulkhead. They regarded one another for a long moment.
“How's Ricky?” she finally asked.
He took a deep breath, held it, exhaled. “Ricky won't be at Sandrine's anymore.”
She ducked her head, not looking at him as she spoke. “I'm proud of you, Tom. That took courage.”
Automatically Paris formed a flip comment, but the words died in his throat. He wasn't feeling flip, and the thought of faking his emotions right now suddenly made him slightly sick to his stomach. He tossed his coat over his shoulder, carrying it with his index finger. They walked in silence for a while.
“You know, honestly, I was getting kind of tired of Sandrine's, anyway,” said Torres.
“Yeah, me too.”
“How about another program? Like, maybe, pirates or something?”
He was suddenly very glad that she had waited for him. He glanced down at her and grinned. Pirates, huh?
“You know, B'Elanna,” he said, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
When Push Comes to Shove
By Josepha Sherman and Susan Shwartz
Captain Janeway paused, glancing about Voyager's bridge. All was calm: Tom Paris looked bored; Chakotay was lost in thought; and Tuvok was . . . Tuvok, which meant Vulcan-impassive. Harry Kim, at his station, was studying some onscreen calibrations with utter concentration—not surprising, since Seven of Nine was studying them over his shoulder and, presumably, making coldly analytical corrections.
Just another day on Voyager. Until . . .
“Captain!” Kim said sharply. “I'm picking up a distress signal . . . two-eight-zero mark thirty-five. One . . . ship, I guess,” he added doubtfully. “It's, well, cobbled together, I'd say.”
“A badly assimilated amalgam of parts,” Seven agreed.
“On screen,” Janeway ordered.
They all stared at the distressed ship in a moment of startled silence. Rusty, mismatched engines . . . gouges in one side patched with what looked like scrap metal. . . . Janeway's first thought was: That can fly? Her second was: Not for much longer. “Life signs?”
Kim was studying his console. “Six . . . no, seven life forms. Humanoid, oxygen-breathing, and—”
“Sensors indicate that life support is failing,” Seven cut in. “The ship is venting atmosphere, and the structural integrity field has been compromised. It will collapse totally in four point three minutes.” She added in cold disapproval, “Certifying what is obviously an almost derelict spacecraft as fit to fly is unproductive.”
“We can discuss that later,” Janeway said dryly. “Lieutenant Paris. Open a hailing frequency. U.S.S. Voyager to unknown vessel. Your distress signal is acknowledged. We are standing by to render assistance.”
“. . . thanks be . . .” came the weak reply, half lost amid static. “Please . . . child . . . at least save . . .”
The transmission ended in one final burst of static.
Janeway spoke into her combadge. “Captain to transporter room. Prepare for emergency transport from disabled ship. Seven persons. Sick Bay: Be ready to receive possible casualties. Mr. Neelix, meet me in the transporter room.” Granted, Voyager was light-years away from “his” sector of space, but you never could tell what information Neelix might provide. Springing to her feet, Janeway added, “Chakotay, you have the conn. Tuvok, Seven, come with me.” What Neelix didn't know, a Borg might.
And never mind how she might have learned it, Janeway added to herself.
The image of the damaged ship loomed over them on a remote monitor. Janeway glanced up at it, willing, Hold on . . . hold on . . . we've almost got you. . . .
Debris erupted from the derelict's nacelles. An instant later, Janeway winced as the ship blew apart in progressively brighter explosions and one final blinding glare.
“Did we get them?” she demanded.
Lieutenant Warren, a stocky, competent man, was at the console, his fair-skinned face red with concentration. “Signal's trying to break up . . . no, you don't . . . I'm reinforcing it . . . yes! Got them!”
Six . . . no, all seven figures were forming: The smallest, presumably the child, was clinging so tightly to an adult that it was almost hidden.
An adult what, though? The refugees were light-boned, almost birdlike in appearance, their narrow faces triangular, with high, prominent cheekbones beneath bright, dark eyes. They were also, understandably, disheveled and stained with ash, oil, and grime from their destroyed ship. Long, unruly crests of hair flowed down their backs in unruly tangles of blacks, browns, and bronzes, and their gauzy robes, almost as gaudy as Neelix's outfits and even more colorful under the stains, looked downright bedraggled.
But they're all alive, and apparently unhurt.
They were fully alert, too. Those bright glances flicked from Janeway to Tuvok to—
Ah, yes, here came Neelix now, hurrying into the room, shedding a chef's apron as he came. As he saw the new arrivals, he stopped dead with a laugh of sheer delight. “By the Great Tree, this is wonderful! Never would have expected to see any of you folks this far out of your range, but—just wonderful! Captain, our guests are none other than T'kari!”
“Yes,” one of the refugees agreed in a clear tenor, smiling an almost human smile. “We are T'kari.” He blinked. “Captain?”
Hearing her title, the T'kari surged forward, all of them delightedly chirping:
“Captain!”
“You are the one who spoke to us!”
“You saved us!”
“We are happy, grateful, yes!”
It was difficult to be alarmed by the fluttering lot, particularly since Janeway was a full head taller than any of them. And their near-hysteria was understandable: They'd just been snatched from death.
“Wait a
minute,” Janeway said, raising a hand. The T'kari obediently froze. “I am Captain Kathryn Janeway of the U.S.S. Voyager, and you are welcome on board. You are . . . Mr. Neelix called you T'kari. What and who are T'kari?”
Neelix's smile widened, and he almost danced with delight. “They're nomads, Captain, truly splendid musicians and entertainers who live on board their ships. Though, usually, the ships are in, well, better repair than that one was.”
The T'kari who had first spoken, the tenor—a male?—said, “True enough, true enough. But that poor thing was the only refuge we could find. And yes, Captain Jane-e-way, we are performers.”
Sure enough, he had a stringed instrument slung over his shoulder, while another T'kari had a small, long-stemmed drum. A lighter-boned . . . female? . . . carried a framework of tiny bells that tinkled faintly as she moved.
“And look,” Neelix exclaimed, “that one, the elder”—he dipped his head in quick courtesy—“the elder actually has a Destiny Tarot.”
The elder, a T'kari woman in filmy layers of red and violet robes, carried a battered deck of cards on which a gold symbol blazed.
Seven of Nine moved to Janeway's side. “Species 7509,” she pronounced the newcomers. “Extreme manual dexterity and speed compensate for this species' relative physical frailty. They have vestigial telepathic abilities. We added their distinctiveness to our diversity and found ourselves even more efficient at micromanipulations.”
Instead of the horror Janeway expected, the T'kari seemed . . . amazed.
“A pet Borg!”
“You have separated one out from the collective!”
“You have tamed a Borg!”
Genuine wonder? Or an oblique way of insulting Seven? Either way, she merely watched, expression unchanged. Janeway explained gently, “She is not a pet or a captive. Seven of Nine is a valuable member of our crew.”
“Is it so? Is it so?” The elder's voice was deeper than Janeway had expected, a true alto. “Most amazing. But do not mistake what your valuable Borg says. We are not thieves!”
“We are the T'kari,” the tenor added. “Which means, though we wander, we have honor. This is Inarra, and I am Andal.”
The others added their introductions: Ekta, a soprano carrying a harp, Lirik, a baritone with what looked much like a lute, Eloan and Kalora, sopranos and pipers, all T'kari adults, though Eloan looked to be barely out of adolescence.
Where's the child? There she is, still hiding behind them. Why haven't they introduced her? Custom? Or just giving the poor little thing a chance to catch her breath?
“We are singers, sojourners, dwellers on the paths between the worlds,” Andal continued. “We can repair what is broken. . . .”
“Apparently, Captain, this did not extend to their ship,” Tuvok commented.
Inarra's bright, disapproving glance flicked to him. “A cook-unit, a zither with a snapped bridge, a ripped cloak: Those we can repair. A broken ship . . .” She gave an odd little twist of a shoulder: a T'kari shrug. “Such are in the hands of Destiny—which we can read, Captain, but which squirms away even from us at times.”
“I see. And what,” Janeway wondered aloud, “are we to do with you?”
“Three stars away,” Andal said hopefully, “is the world Avan-aram with its markets. You will surely find fresh supplies for your ship there. And if you take us there, we will be able to make a living, put a little away for another ship—one not so old as our lost Eyrie.”
“Avan-aram?” Janeway asked Neelix, who shook his head. “I'm sorry, but you'll have to describe this world and its star system. Give us the coordinates if you can.”
“We will try,” Andal said uncertainly. The T'kari moved together, touching hands, eyes shut in sudden, intense concentration. Janeway blinked as an image of a planetary system formed in her mind: a yellow star, so like Earth's own sun that it was jarring to count only seven worlds about it. No, it was not home—but she suddenly knew how to get there.
And just as suddenly, the image was gone. The T'kari swayed and staggered, clinging to each other to keep from falling, clearly drained. “We have . . . only the faintest . . . of telepathic talents,” Andal panted, clearly embarrassed. “Vestigial . . . yes. Once, stories say, our people had greater powers. Now . . .” He gave that twist of a shrug.
“Even vestigial telepathic powers may still be dangerous,” Tuvok reminded Janeway.
Not in this case, she thought. That was no feigned exhaustion. And so much work just to give me a star chart—no. They'd kill themselves before they could work any harm. But she'd have the Doctor examine them thoroughly, just in case. “Neelix knows about these people, or thinks he does. Besides,” she added with a quick little grin, “Neelix has been pestering us about fresh supplies.”
Activating her combadge, she said, “Janeway to Sick Bay: Prepare to receive seven visitors.” Cutting off the Doctor's predictable huff of outrage at being deprived of Tom Paris's services as nurse “while the man is playing pilot,” Janeway contacted Paris next.
“Tom, lay in a course for Avan-aram on the following heading: 79X Mark 35. Warp factor two.”
“Aye, aye.”
“We shall not trespass on your hospitality long,” said Inarra with a sharp glance at Tuvok.
Andal nodded. “And while we're aboard, we shall offer our thanks by performing for you and your crew. Is that acceptable?”
Neelix was grinning so broadly and nodded so vehemently that Janeway nearly laughed. “It is highly acceptable. Seven, now you'll have a chance to hear some live music aside from Ensign Kim's clarinet—”
But Seven of Nine, her face utterly unreadable, had moved to study the child, who had come out of hiding to stare up at Seven. Was this truly another T'kari? Some genetic throwback to an earlier type, perhaps, or a child of a closely related species. It . . . she . . . was darker-skinned than the others, so light-boned that she seemed almost fragile. A long, tousled crest of black hair flowed over a crimson jacket and skirt that exposed bony wrists and ankles. Her triangular little face, with its huge dark eyes, was far too solemn for someone of her age . . . whatever that was. Ten, Janeway hazarded, at most.
And Seven, to Janeway's utter bemusement, sank to one knee to study the child more closely. For a long moment, neither moved, equally fascinated.
“Her name is Lari,” Andal murmured to Janeway, his eyes gentle. “At least we think that's her name.”
“We found the girl, lost and alone, crying with hunger in a marketplace,” Inarra added. “She could tell us nothing of herself or her family, but she is clearly T'kari-kin. Besides . . . we could not leave the little one to starve.”
“The entire troupe adopted her,” Andal continued tenderly. “And we are raising her as best we can.”
The child, Lari, brought up a wary hand to touch the implant on Seven's face.
Seven shied away, springing back to her feet. As though struggling to return to proper Borg coldness, she said to Janeway, “Although the child seems to be of the same or a closely related species, Captain, the Collective has no additional knowledge.”
That was no Borg analysis you were making, Janeway thought. What just happened? Were you . . . remembering Annika?
Neelix was kneeling beside the child now, murmuring something cheerful to her to make her smile. She gave the softest of giggles, but her gaze stayed on Seven.
Poor little thing, Janeway thought. You've been through too much for a child so young.
“The protective impulse you are all manifesting,” Tuvok said in his most scholarly Vulcan tone, “is an example of neoteny, the attraction toward the very young, and part of a species' survival instinct.”
But that observation, Janeway noticed, didn't stop him from moving to Neelix's side and holding up a hand to the child, his fingers parted in the Vulcan greeting. “Live long and prosper, Lari the Wanderer.”
The child gave a tiny laugh of delight, trying to make her fingers match Tuvok's. She succeeded, and the Vulcan's dark face seemed
to gentle.
“I'd say neoteny seems to be part of the Vulcan psyche too,” Janeway noted. Did Tuvok see in this waif some echo of the family he had not seen for so long and the grandchild he had never met?
After one last smile at Tuvok, Lari returned to studying Seven—who was clearly growing disconcerted by the child's interest.
The Doctor was trying to contact Janeway. She activated her combadge in time to hear him snap, “Captain, I don't know what you're doing, but may I suggest that the best time to interrogate these people is after I have run them through Sick Bay? Perhaps you could have them sent here—and perhaps you could also send Mr. Paris to help me!”
“I'll take your request under advisement, Doctor,” Janeway said carefully, refusing to laugh. “You are Voyager's guests,” she told the T'kari. “I'm sending you to Sick Bay—no, no, just to be sure none of you are injured. Regulations,” she added, and saw the T'kari sigh in resignation. “You won't be harmed, my word on it. Tuvok, if you would see that they are properly escorted? And Mr. Neelix, please accompany them.”
So far, so good. But as Janeway left the transporter room, Seven followed more slowly.
What memories did that child spark in you? Janeway wondered. Can you be remembering Annika Hansen? Are you remembering being . . . merely a human child?
She knew that if she asked, Seven would not respond. And, Janeway mused, it was just possible that Seven didn't know the answers, either.
Ah, well, back to the bridge. Sitting in her command chair, Janeway was about to add to that suddenly interrupted log when the Doctor sent her an acerbic message.
“Our visitors are exactly what they seem: a group of frightened, weary humanoids, avian subgrouping 104.5A, no hazardous materials, no infectious diseases, nothing worse than a few minor contusions.”
“Have you tested for—”
“Yes, Captain.” The Doctor sounded even more put-upon than usual. “They do, indeed, have vestigial telepathic abilities, not enough to bend a spoon. Though why one should want to—”
The Amazing Stories Page 11
