Homecoming - Christie Golden [35]
Tom felt his throat getting tight. He swallowed past the lump. “I’m sure if you encounter any targs, they’ll think they’ve gotten the worst end of the bargain.”
He bent and kissed her, tenderly but passionately. She was the one to break the kiss, stepping back and putting her hand on his chest.
“I have to get back. Please take care of yourselves.”
“Come home to us,” he whispered.
“I will. I swear I will.”
“I simply cannot believe,” the Doctor said, for the umpteenth time, “that there are no crowds. Not even a groupie or two. No one from the press at all. I had my speeches all prepared, and—”
“And even a list of sample questions for your interviews, I know,” said Barclay, a touch snappishly. “Doctor, as I’ve told you, I find it difficult to believe myself. But there it is. Now will you please let me return to my work!”
When the Doctor had first hinted that, now that Voyager was in dry dock, he no longer had a proper home, Reginald Barclay had leaped at the chance to host the Doctor. Of course, he still had his holographic emitter, [102] and it was a matter of a few hours for Barclay to rig up a few emitters in his home. With his deep fascination with all things holographic, Barclay had thought himself the luckiest person alive when the Doctor had agreed to come live with him nearly a month ago. He didn’t understand the meaning of the glances that had been exchanged between various crew members when the Doctor had made the announcement, but now he did.
He was a great man—well, he wasn’t exactly a man, of course, but he was great, nonetheless—and a towering intellect. Barclay had loved every minute of Photons Be Free and had run the simulation at least half a dozen times! But the Doctor was, well, on twenty-four hours a day. He didn’t sleep, and with no sickbay, he had nothing to occupy himself with. He was bored and a bit hurt by the perplexing lack of adulation he had been greeted with upon his return. Barclay had suffered agonies on the Doctor’s behalf, feeling his pain and frustration, but all his assurances that no one aboard Voyager was receiving the accolades they deserved fell on deaf ears. The Doctor felt slighted, and everyone was going to hear about it.
“The only one who’s received any attention at all is Seven of Nine,” the Doctor went on, “and ironically, she despises it.” He sighed heavily. “Genius is never appreciated in its own time. Fortunately, I am eternal. I can afford to wait for the universe to recognize me.”
“Hey, I’ve got a great idea,” said Barclay, turning around in his seat. “Why don’t you start another holonovel?”
To his relief, the Doctor brightened visibly. “A [103] sequel to Photons Be Free? Hmm ... intriguing. But I think perhaps a sequel would weaken the impact.”
Nearly panicked, Barclay said, “N-Not at all! Surely you haven’t said all there is to s-say about the plight of the hologram.”
“Well,” said the Doctor thoughtfully, “I could shift the focus from the Emergency Medical Hologram’s thankless life aboard a starship to the appalling lack of appreciation he receives on Earth.”
“Exactly,” said Barclay, and when the Doctor steepled his fingers and leaned back to think, he breathed a sigh of relief.
It went worse than Tom had feared.
His mother cried. Miral wailed. And instead of bellowing, Admiral Paris looked at his son with a mixture of contempt and compassion. Tom realized that his father actually felt sorry for him, sorry that Tom had messed up again, had married a wild Klingon Maquis woman who evidently thought so little of her husband and newborn daughter that she was traipsing off to perform some ancient rite that honored the dead more than the living.
What really pissed him off was that he had thought so too, until B’Elanna had shared her secret with him. The secret he was not permitted to share in turn.
So he got defensive. He said that he didn’t blame B’Elanna for wanting to leave, to look for a little space, hell, if he could he’d leave and have a little space, and his mother said, “I told you, Owen, seven years wouldn’t