NEW:Ghost in the Machine-VOY/TOS NC17 m/m 3/5
Killashdra
SEE DISCLAIMER IN PART 1.
It's late. Sandrine's is quiet, with that comfortable,
depressed feeling it gets around three or so, when the
'real' patrons have gone to bed and the regulars are all
that's left. B'Elanna was the last one to leave; we talked
for a while about nothing in particular. I think she
knows that I've been kind of down lately, though she
doesn't say anything. I wonder if she has any idea.
Harry didn't come tonight. He usually does; if I
don't show up at his quarters after dinner, he usually
finds his way here and we shoot a few, or just sit around
drinking synth-beer. Tonight no Harry. Was he down in the
gym maybe? Or maybe he just needed an evening to himself
--we all do, from time to time. I haven't let myself think
about what else he might have been doing. The truth is, if
B'Elanna hadn't been here all night I would have guessed he
was with her.
Shit, Paris. Don't start that. Not tonight. They're
just friends, and you know it. Harry Kim is not the type
of guy to go for hell-on-wheels Torres.
Ah, who'm I kidding. What guy in his right mind
wouldn't fall for B'Elanna in a heartbeat, if she gave him
the slightest encouragement?
Suddenly I can't stand the smoky gloom of this place
one more minute.
"Computer, end program!"
It obliges me, and in a moment every trace of
Sandrine's is gone, as if it's never been. I'm alone, with
only the muted lighting and a black-and-yellow checkerboard
for company.
Come on, pull yourself together, Tommy boy. How'd you
like Chakotay to come in here right now and see you like
this, standing by yourself on the empty holodeck, looking
like your dog just died?
Hell, right now I'm so depressed even Commander High-
Horse would be a welcome distraction.
I head for the door, sick to death of my own company
and determined to get some sleep. I haven't been getting
much lately, and my reflexes are starting to suffer.
It's official: I'm in love, and it's killing me.
This is the twenty-fourth century; you'd think someone
would've invented a cure by now. It can't be healthy for a
human being to expend so much mental energy on something so
pointless. Where's the survival instinct in wanting
something so badly that your gut aches all the time, and
you can't sleep, or eat?
Every day I think, I can't stand it any more, I have
to tell him. And every day he looks at me with that
innocent, unsuspecting trust, and something chokes the
words back before I can say them.
I've reached the exit. I look down and realize that
I've got the disk in my hand, that I've stopped in front of
the control panel beside the door.
The ship's well into third shift by now. First
shift's asleep, and second's mostly been here and gone.
The display tells me that no one's reserved a personal time
slot before eleven hundred hours tomorrow.
So, it's to be tonight then.
Deep breath. You sure you want to do this, Paris?
You're not exactly in prime emotional shape right now, and
this is likely to be pretty intense. Are you sure you can
handle it?
"Engage privacy lock, authorization Lieutenant Thomas
E. Paris."
I guess you are.
Okay, slip the storage wafer into its slot. Hands
shaking a little. Nervous, I guess--it's conceivable that
he'll actually perceive this as an invasion of privacy.
Remember, Tommy boy, you wrote him. You're in control of
this situation.
Yeah, right.
"Run program NCC1701-K."
"That program requires retinal scan verification."
I draw another deep breath.
"Override security protocols. Authorization Paris,
subroutine 1147-P." After all these years, I still
remember the codes. Guess I was keeping them stored up
there for a reason.
"Please enter password."
I hesitate. In the polished display crystal, I can
see the faint ghost of my own image, reflecting through the
multicolored readouts. Maybe I'm the ghost, I catch myself
thinking, and he's the reality. Maybe I'm a bad dream he's
been having, and when he wakes up, I'll be just an
unpleasant and fading memory.
That doesn't sound so bad.
"Deux ex machina," I say. I must have been having
delusions of godhood when I picked that one. My shadow-
self gives me an ironic, derisive smirk.
And everything changes around me.
I'm in a wide, shadowy corridor, standing in front of
a closed door. I look in both directions, but no one is
coming along the hall, not at this hour of the night. On
this ship, as on Voyager, it's deep into third shift.
I stand there for a minute, trying to control my
breathing and the pounding of my heart. It's tempting to
go along the corridor peeking into all the rooms, admiring
my handiwork. I wrote this thing for detail, and I put six
months of my life into it--it's only natural to want to
look around. Plus it's a little like waking up to find
yourself in King Arthur's Court; every beam and nail and
stone is the stuff of legend.
But that's not why I'm here.
Okay then, pull it together Paris. I draw myself up
straight before the door, not letting my eyes stray to the
name plate I know is there. I don't need to look. You
don't win a Lansing by forgetting obvious details like
that.
I reach out and press the buzzer, once.
For a moment I expect to hear, "Come." But there is
no answer from within; the door simply slides open,
revealing the dimly-lit room beyond. Of course. He's
expecting only one person--and they, apparently, have no
need of such formalities.
I square my shoulders and step through the doorway,
into the lion's den.
The room is not large. In front of me is a narrow
desk with an incredibly outdated computer terminal mounted
to its top. Behind the desk is a none-too-comfortable-
looking chair, and behind that, a mesh screen that serves
as a room divider. On the wall to my right is a large,
breathtaking painting of an old sailing ship. There is a
shelf behind the desk, upon which rests a stand holding
several antique, leather-bound books. Alongside these sits
a red Kassarian sphere, and next to that something which
looks like a fake flower made of cloth--the kind that women
used to wear as ornaments on their garments, in a century
long past. It might once have been yellow. It's been
preserved in a block of transparent crystal.
I examine the flower more closely, since I know it's a
construct I did not write. It's a beautifully rendered
object, really outstanding set design. There's something
tight in my throat all of a sudden. Even though I don't
understand its significance, that detail tells me a great
deal about the man who so carefully built its algorithm
into my program.
It looks like no one's home at the moment. I step
past the divider and into the cramped sleeping area beyond.
The room is almost painfully neat. Not one object
appears out of place, and the regulation coverlet on the
bed has been arranged in precise, even folds. I guess I
shouldn't be surprised by that, but I am. For some reason
I always kind of identified with the image history painted
of him, and it's a little unsettling to find this
difference in our characters illustrated so obviously.
I've never inhabited a room this neat in my life.
Pretty damn arrogant, really, now that I think about
it. How much could someone like me have in common with
someone like him, anyway?
There's a sound behind me, the swish of a door
opening. I turn, almost stumbling in my surprise.
And he's there, in the doorway, the force of his
presence smacking me in the gut. Even the betas I'd run,
even the stories I'd heard, didn't prepare me for it.
"Who are you, and what the hell are you doing in my
quarters?"
His voice is low, predatory. He says it softly, the
gentle threat making the hair stand up on the back of my
neck. His face shows no fear whatsoever, even though he's
just stepped through the door to find a complete stranger
in his bedroom.
"Ah, Captain, this is going to take some
explaining..."
"Oh, I believe that." He's coming toward me, as if
meaning to pin me between him and the mesh screen behind
me. "Perhaps you'd better start with the first question."
I'm backpedaling, knowing already that I'm in serious
trouble. Not just because he looks like he's going to wipe
the floor with me, but because I was right all along. I
never should have come here.
He's just come from the shower, you see. He's got a
towel slung around his broad shoulders, and he's wearing
nothing but a pair of loose, drawstring pants. His upper
torso is covered with a fine sheen of water. It's formed
droplets on his skin.
And seeing him like that I know, beyond any shadow of
a doubt, the answers to any uncertainties I might still
have harbored about the nature of this program.
True, I wrote the AI. I also coded most of the
response algorithms. But not all of them--and not this
one.
I put up my hands, as if to ward him off. I have to
force myself to stop backing up, to stand my ground and
face him. His eyes approve me when I do. "I'm Tom Paris,"
I say. "I'm--the programmer." It's self preservation. I had
to say something, and that was the first thing that came
to mind.
It stops him. He looks at me for a long time,
pinning me with his eyes as surely as if he'd done it with
his hands. That look isn't one you can shrug off. It
reaches down into me and squeezes around my heart, making
it hard to breathe. But though his expression doesn't
change, I can see, even in the shadows, that the blood has
left his face.
In theory, he should now demand to know what I'm
talking about. But he doesn't. He just keeps looking at
me, shocking me with his perfect comprehension. This
avatar was never supposed to be self-aware; I hadn't
programmed him to know that he was a hologram.
There's no doubt at all that he knows. It's written
in every line of sudden tension in his body, every
accusation in his eyes.
To my surprise and horror, it is he who looks away,
unable to hold my gaze.
"What do you want?"
It's only a whisper, and so far from the steely demand
he greeted me with that I can hardly believe this is the
same man.
"Just to talk to you." The words escape me without
thought, and it's the simple truth. That is what I want--
or rather, what I wanted. Now I just want to beg his
forgiveness for what I've done to him.
And oh, gods, look what I have done.
I did my job well. Too well. He was the last man in
the universe who should have had to live with this terrible
knowledge. Faced with his mute agony, I can't believe I
didn't see how awful it would be for him. I gave him every
scrap of skill I had. I wrote him a soul, for godssakes--
maybe a better one than my own.
Goddamnit, I never meant for him to know he wasn't
real!!
The fine muscle in his jaw jumps; he's struggling to
stay calm. "What is it that you want to say to me?"
I can feel the anger pouring off of him now, blunted
only by despair. It's more than I can take.
"I'm sorry."
I blurt it out, and my reward is seeing him flinch.
Him! Flinch! Oh, god...
He looks at me, and I believe I might turn into ashes
from the heat of that look. He's burning inside, consuming
himself with his own self-loathing and hopelessness. For
one instant he turns that flame on me, and if I could
breathe, I would weep.
His tight answer flays me to the bone.
"No one is more sorry than I am."
"Captain--"
His lips curl back in a snarl. "Don't call me that!"
"What do you want me to call you?" My voice is hardly
more than a whisper.
"Nothing. Don't call me anything. Just leave me the
hell alone."
He turns away from me, as if he'll leave the room the
way he came in. The muscles slide under his skin like a
cat's as he moves. The flagrant beauty of him is like
another kind of punishment: look how perfect your twisted
creation is, look how true to the life. Too bad you
couldn't keep him in the dark about what he was. Too bad
you couldn't make him real...
"How did you--?" I choke on the words, for a moment
unable to get them out. Maybe I will weep, after all. But
I have to know. "How did you find out?"
He stops, frozen a step from the door. I hear the
sharp, hissing intake of his breath, as if I have stabbed
him with some sharp and cruel-edged blade. He doesn't
turn.
"How do you think?" He spits it at me bitterly, his
broad shoulders bent as if the weight of his own words is
too much to bear.
The silence stretches. I realize then what the answer
must be. There is only one way he could have learned the
truth--only one man who could have told him what he was.
The man who'd hired me to write him.
(end part 3)
torch
Hi,
my server's not picking up part 4 and 5 of this... yet. Since I'm an
impatient person, can I ask you to mail them to me? My server frequently
decides not to get every part of a story for me...
torch
--
"You didn't exactly *miss*," said Pooh. "but you missed the *balloon*."
Killashdra
To everybody who asked for parts 4 and 5... they should show up tonight!
Thanks for the interest...
Killa
Zepp
In article <51pq4t$n...@newsbf02.news.aol.com>,
Well, so far I've seen the first four parts; I expect part 5 will show up
anyday. What can I say, but "WOW!!!!"
Such a writer I should be, nies? Maybe if I work at it long enough. Thanks
again, for another insight into my favourite pair of conundra...
Greywolf the Suitably Impressed Wanderer, borrowing zepp's account
PS: I know I keep asking this -- I think my server ate any replies the last
time. But if you ever repost Turning Point I will be eternally grateful.
If not, eventually I will get it some other way. You write good stuff --
please to continue doing so!
Killashdra
Greywold the Wanderer wrote:
> Well, so far I've seen the first four parts; I expect part 5 will show
up
As I said at the beginning of part 5, I'm afraid I underestimated my own
verbosity, and said there would be 5 parts when in fact there are 6. I've
reposted the first four parts and both my servers now show parts 5 and 6.
If anybody still isn't getting a part, let me know and I'll repost, but
they should all be up now.
> ...Thanks again, for another insight into my favourite pair of
conundra...
You're welcome! I hope everyone doesn't hate this little story, I know
it's strange. I also know I promised a Spock novel and the sequel to
Turning Point. Expect both very soon, the novel first. But this
Paris/Kirk thingy possessed me and wouldn't go away until I wrote it.
Apologies to the Paris/Torres fans and anybody else who doesn't buy my
little assignation. Couldn't resist pairing my two favorite blondes...
> <snipped> I know I keep asking this -- I think my server ate any replies
the
> last time. But if you ever repost Turning Point I will be eternally
grateful.
I will repost Turning Point when I begin posting Full Circle, its sequel.
That still looks like the first part of October.
Thanks for not shooting me for this self-indulgent melodrama!!
Killa
Zepp
In article <520vbu$h...@newsbf02.news.aol.com>,
killa...@aol.com (Killashdra) wrote:
>Greywold the Wanderer wrote:
>> Well, so far I've seen the first four parts; I expect part 5 will show
>up
>> anyday. <snipped
>
>As I said at the beginning of part 5, I'm afraid I underestimated my own
>verbosity, and said there would be 5 parts when in fact there are 6. I've
>reposted the first four parts and both my servers now show parts 5 and 6.
>If anybody still isn't getting a part, let me know and I'll repost, but
>they should all be up now.
If you could be so kind; for whatever reason, parts 5 & 6 still aren't here.
<now watch 'em show up, since I've said this! ;->
>> ...Thanks again, for another insight into my favourite pair of
>conundra...
>
>You're welcome! I hope everyone doesn't hate this little story, I know
>it's strange. I also know I promised a Spock novel and the sequel to
>Turning Point. Expect both very soon, the novel first. But this
>Paris/Kirk thingy possessed me and wouldn't go away until I wrote it.
>Apologies to the Paris/Torres fans and anybody else who doesn't buy my
>little assignation. Couldn't resist pairing my two favorite blondes...
Hey, when something jumps into your head and demands to be written, go for
it, I always say!!
>> <snipped> I know I keep asking this -- I think my server ate any replies
>the
>> last time. But if you ever repost Turning Point I will be eternally
>grateful.
>
>I will repost Turning Point when I begin posting Full Circle, its sequel.
>That still looks like the first part of October.
>
>Thanks for not shooting me for this self-indulgent melodrama!!
>
>Killa
Hell, no -- I am enjoying it!!!
Greywolf the Wanderer, borrowing zepp's account
Zepp
>If you could be so kind; for whatever reason, parts 5 & 6 still aren't here.
> <now watch 'em show up, since I've said this! ;->
(snips)
Well, part 5 showed up a day or two ago. Woo-hoo!! What can one say? 'Tis
a pure marvel, this thing ye have made.
>>I will repost Turning Point when I begin posting Full Circle, its sequel.
>>That still looks like the first part of October.
Cool! The one can wait...
>>Thanks for not shooting me for this self-indulgent melodrama!!
>>
>>Killa
>
>Hell, no -- I am enjoying it!!!
>Greywolf the Wanderer, borrowing zepp's account
Like I said, above... ;-)