The Farther Shore - Christie Golden [40]
“I do have a name,” said the woman, practically spitting the words. “I am Lieutenant Akolo Tare. I am a pilot aboard the U.S.S.—”
Andropov never learned the name of her ship. The rider spurred his horse and bore down on Tare. The crowd hastened to get out of the hologram’s way. All except Tare. She stood her ground, and as he galloped straight toward her she leaped at him. He was clearly surprised at the attack and seemed even more shocked when she grabbed him around the waist and pulled him off his horse.
It was a short struggle, however. Strong and fit as she was, it was obvious that Baines had foreseen something like this and programmed his holograms to be much stronger than a human. It wasn’t more than a second or two before the rider had pinned Tare beneath him.
But Tare’s actions had inspired the prisoners, and [118] they descended on the rider, pulling him off the gasping woman. Tare scrambled to her feet. Her hand went to her throat; bruises were already starting to appear.
The small revolt was brief. The other riders galloped toward their friend’s defense, and this time when the whip struck Andropov he fell to his knees. It wasn’t just a whip sting this time. Whoever was manning the controls in this hellish simulation had just programmed the whips to deliver a powerful shock. His body was still thrumming and his bones ached as he climbed unsteadily to his feet.
The riders had trussed up Tare as if she were an animal, and the first rider flung her over his saddle. Her eyes were wide and filled with fear now, and although she struggled, everyone present knew it would avail her nothing.
“You are slaves!” bellowed the rider. “You exist to serve at our pleasure. How is it to be on the other side of the simulation?”
And Andropov suddenly got it. He wondered why it had taken him so long to figure it out. He supposed it was because he wasn’t really paying attention to Baines’s speech.
Baines didn’t want them dead. He wanted them to suffer. He wanted them to be treated the way human treated holograms in various fantasy scenarios—as things, objects. Andropov blushed, because he knew he hadn’t been above playing holographic scenarios with such prepossessing titles as “Vulcan Love Slave” a time or two. He knew what happened to the holograms.
But they were holograms, damn it, not people. They [119] were created to be, well, love slaves, or centurions, or servants, or antagonists to the organic protagonist. They were just force fields with images projected onto them—nothing more than photons. They couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t love, couldn’t feel pain. This sick role-reversal Baines had concocted wasn’t truly putting the shoe on the other foot, it was merely torturing the people Baines somehow decided were “masters” who created holograms to abuse.
But then Andropov thought about Voyager’s Doctor. He’d met him and found him to be convincingly real. He’d heard about how the Doctor had exceeded his programming, fallen in love, learned about opera and dance. That sounded more like a person than a collection of photons.
Like most people, Andropov had played through “Photons Be Free” and found it to be thought-provoking. But that was just a holonovel. At any point, Andropov could end it by saying three little words: “Computer, end program.”
Here, it was all too real, and like the holograms in “Vulcan Love Slave,” he had no way of turning the program off when it became uncomfortable.
Allyson rushed up to him, followed by Robinson. “Are you okay?” Allyson hissed through her teeth as she looked at his face. He tried to smile, although the gesture sent pain shimmering along his nerves.
“Nothing a dermal regenerator won’t take care of,” he said, trying to reassure her. The kid didn’t need to add worrying about him to her list.
Robinson’s eyes were somber. “I haven’t noticed one lying around in the sand,” she said.
[120] “We’ll get back. He won’t kill us.” At least, Andropov thought, I hope he won’t. “Don’t you