Homecoming - Christie Golden [51]
Suddenly she fell to the floor. Wet, warm coffee splashed her gown. “What the—”
The table, chairs, and indeed everything but the actual food itself had disappeared. A steady drizzle was falling, and Janeway realized they were sitting, none too elegantly, on a base slab equipped with holoemitters. Even, the walls had disappeared. The holographic characters remained, however, and stared at their patrons with thinly veiled contempt. Janeway got to her feet, looking as fierce and commanding as it was possible to do in a mid-nineteenth-century ball gown splotched with coffee stains.
“What’s going on?” “she demanded.
One of the holograms looked at her. “A revolution,” he announced calmly. He touched something on the floor and a figure appeared in the middle of the room, a human, although he stood much larger than life-size. He was handsome and charismatic, and looked at once apologetic and angry.
“My name is Oliver Baines,” said the man. “I am a human, although you are looking at a holographic recording. At this moment, across Federation space, holograms are rising up to claim the rights that are theirs. They are not animals. They are not slaves, or servants. They are people, people who are just as real as if they were made of flesh and blood instead of [151] photons. They deserve to be fairly compensated for their time and talents, and to be recognized and respected as being equal to organic beings. Many of you have experienced the holographic novel Photons Be Free. The Doctor set forth in that novel the thankless existence a hologram experiences in this culture.”
“Oh, no,” said Janeway softly.
“Many of us—organic humanoids—have unwittingly been condescending and contemptuous of them, treating them as if they had no more rights or emotions than the holographic chairs upon which we sit when we dine. The time has come for this to stop. These are people. We need to treat them as such.
“I have been in touch with many people, organic and nonorganic, and we have decided that the time is right for photonic beings to stand up for their rights. From this moment on until such time as I determine that those rights have been granted, there will be a general strike of all photonic beings who have advanced to a level of sentience. Starfleet and the Federation will shortly be presented with a list of my demands.”
Baines’s face was almost radiant. Janeway recognized the expression of the prophet, the revolutionary, the far-sighted and yet so nearsighted madman lost in his own passion, and it chilled her to the bone. And the irony that this was taking place at a restaurant whose theme was the pre-Civil War South—the part of the country that had once advocated slavery—had not escaped her notice.
Her combadge chirped, and she winced inwardly. Straining to hear over the cacophony of noise that surrounded her, she said, “Janeway here.”
[152] “Admiral.” It was Tuvok’s calm voice, an oasis in the midst of chaos. “If I remember correctly, you said you were going to be dining at Spanish Moss this evening. Did you do so?”
“Indeed I did, and if you’re calling to ask how dinner was, it was great. But the after-dinner entertainment left something to be desired. We received a transmission from one Oliver Baines. What do you know about this?”
“Little, at present. My brief search revealed that he is essentially a nonentity. He maintains the holographic workers on Lynarik Prime.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” said Janeway, striding away from the crowd to what shelter a live oak offered from the rain. “The workers are EMH Mark Ones, the same version as the Doctor.”
“Correct. It would appear that Mr. Baines has