The Farther Shore - Christie Golden [38]
“Okay. Thanks, Aidan.”
“I’m not sure you should be thanking me at all,” he said, and terminated the conversation.
[112] The talk with Aidan had calmed Libby somewhat and had helped lift the veil of fear and confusion. She was alert and focused now, and knew what she had to do.
The trouble was, how to get in touch with Harry? He was going off on some mission. She guessed it was something to do with Admiral Janeway and the rest of the former Voyager command crew, but that did her no good. Where would they go? What would they try to do?
And suddenly, she knew. Harry, bless him, had told her, though not in so many words.
“Sweetie,” she said aloud, chuckling despite the direness of the situation, “you’re just too easy to read.”
And she began to compose her message.
“Vassily,” came a voice, low and urgent. “Vassily, wake up.”
Slowly Vassily Andropov opened his eyes. Robinson was bending over him. Her eyes were encircled with black liner, and there was a beauty mark on her cheek. Her hair, which he had always seen neatly pinned in a regulation bun at the back of her head, was loose and flowed down around her shoulders.
Her bare shoulders.
He bolted upright and scrambled away, vastly relieved to see that she wasn’t entirely naked. She had a swath of shimmering blue satin that covered just enough of her body to keep Vassily from mortification. Next to her was a girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty. She was petite and frightened-looking, with large green eyes and short, light brown hair.
[113] “Thank God you’re awake,” Robinson said, her voice a harsh whisper.
He looked down at himself and found that he, too, wore only the barest scrap of clothing. His muscular chest and strong legs were bare for the world to see.
“What the hell ...” Then he remembered. Remembered Oliver Baines breaking into his house, remembered the hologram that resembled one Vassily Andropov in every single aspect.
“Baines?” he asked Robinson. She nodded.
“Broke into my own house,” she said bitterly. “So much for security systems.”
Andropov looked around. They were not alone. At least four dozen people, all clad in the same shimmering blue silk, were also here. But where was “here”? Why had Baines ... ?
He blinked at the sun, a dazzling light in an azure sky. Beneath him was sand, creeping uncomfortably into his not-very-concealing loincloth.
“What have you learned so far, Lieutenant?” he asked, hoping the usage of her formal rank would help things feel a bit more professional. It was hard to feel professional in a loincloth.
She reached to touch her own clothes, trying to secure them and stretch them to cover more of her pale flesh. The girl at her elbow followed suit.
“Not much, I’m afraid. Allyson here tells me everyone was kidnapped by Baines and replaced with holograms.”
“There doesn’t seem to be a pattern in who he picked,” said Allyson, speaking for the first time. Her voice was soft, shy. “You’re both with Starfleet. I’m [114] just an artist. Others here are mechanics, scientists—people from all walks of life.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” said Andropov, getting to his feet and brushing sand from his backside. “Holding us is dangerous. We’re a liability. Why didn’t he just vaporize us?”
“Hostages?” offered Robinson.
“No, he doesn’t want anyone knowing we’re gone, remember?” Andropov said.
Suddenly dozens of creamy white horses galloped over the hill. Their riders were resplendent in shimmering white and gold. Both males and females were beautiful and proud, tall and strong-looking.
All the prisoners, for prisoners they were, rose and clustered together. The riders halted their mounts, and one of the bright white horses stepped forward. Andropov recognized its rider.
“Baines,” Robinson whispered. “Bastard.”
Oliver Baines was clad in a tunic. Sandals laced up his legs and a large gold crown glinted in the sunlight. He looked like a desert king, but the garb was preposterous—surely no real desert chieftain had ever worn such flimsy material. His eyes raked the prisoners with