The Farther Shore - Christie Golden [13]
“It’s not possible,” she said, more to herself than to the Doctor. “We cannot sleep as humans do. We must regenerate.”
“He’s younger than you, and was Borg for a much [37] shorter time,” the Doctor reminded her. “I think he’s learned to ... adapt to his new situation.”
Seven felt tears welling in her eyes. She tried to blink them back but they would not be stopped. They were tears of gratitude, of relief, and they poured down her face like a waterfall coursing down a mountainside.
“Thank you,” she whispered, to who or what she did not know. “Thank you.”
It had been a long night for Lieutenant Vassily Andropov. He’d been doing the graveyard shift for over six weeks now, and he still couldn’t get his body to get used to it. He was not a night person and it was with reluctance that he agreed to do the shift at all. He hated materializing in his apartment as the sky was turning gray outside, and the birds were just starting their daily songs. Having to drink too much coffee during his shift simply to stay alert made him jittery, and it was hard for him to unwind when he did get home and have a chance to catch a few hours’ sleep. He was grateful that he lived alone. It would be nearly impossible to maintain a relationship with this maddening schedule. And he’d be so grouchy, no one would want to live with him.
Andropov never called for lights when he materialized at home. He wanted it as dark and easy on his eyes as possible. There was only the simplest of routines—appear in the bedroom, undress, and fall into bed. He sank down in his favorite chair and groaned with pleasure at the comfort of it. He was so tired. Well, he told himself, taking off his boots and yawning, it wouldn’t be for too much longer. He just had to soldier through a few more weeks and then—
[38] Hands clamped down on his shoulders, holding him down in the chair. He cried out and tried to break free, but they were implacable and strong, like iron bands. A figure stepped in front of him.
“Lights,” called the stranger.
Andropov blinked a few times, then stared. “Oliver Baines,” he said, hoarsely.
Baines smiled. “Well, not really, but close enough. I’m a holographic version of Baines.”
Hologram? Impossible. Andropov’s apartment wasn’t fitted with holographic emitters. He couldn’t possibly—And then Vassily’s gaze fell to the small black rectangle at Baines’s feet. It was the size and shape of a briefcase, but with the swiftness of one trained to recognize a possible threat when he saw it, Andropov made the jump. It was a portable emitter. Even though such things didn’t exist, as far as he knew, that was what it had to be.
Andropov struggled with renewed energy. It was futile. The being behind him—another hologram, he guessed—held him firmly. Damn it, he was one of the top people at the corrections institute, his apartment was well protected, they ought not to have been able to get in here—
“Yes, I know, you’re wondering how we managed to surprise you with our welcome home party,” said Baines idly, taking out a piece of equipment that looked both familiar and strange to Andropov. “I don’t want to reveal my tricks just yet. But let’s just say this—your security needs an upgrade.”
He smiled broadly, as if he had just said something that was actually funny.
“What do you want?” Andropov demanded.
“Why, you, Lieutenant. Or at least, your [39] appearance.” He looked at his apparatus and nodded, as if satisfied. “Excellent. You may step out now.”
The pressure on Vassily’s shoulders was gone. At once, he tried to bolt upright, thinking to go for the phaser he had so carelessly tossed on the dresser. How easily he had been lulled into a false sense of security. But even as he tensed to rise, Baines pressed something and a force field descended. Trapped in his chair, Andropov swore angrily.
The other hologram moved into Andropov’s field of vision. He was about as tall as Baines, and clearly male, but he had no face. Andropov gasped, taken aback. The faceless hologram turned toward him, then