Starlight

By Laura Schiller

Based on Star Trek: Voyager

Copyright: Paramount

"I said: Oh my, what a marvellous tune!
It was the best night, never could forget how we moved.
The whole place was dressed to the nines
and we were dancing – dancing -
like we're made of starlight … "
- Taylor Swift, "Starlight"

Lieutenant Barclay's "party" program was the most beautiful place Haley had ever seen. Strings of rainbow-colored paper lanterns shone above her head, their reflections gleaming on a polished wooden dance floor. The balmy breeze of a tropical Earth evening brushed her face and swirled the folds of her skirt. Somewhere among the 20th-century jazz notes of the orchestra, with its sultry saxophone and gentle piano, among the laughter and conversations of their fellow guests, she could hear a cricket chirping.

"Mr. Barclay, you … I never imagined … "

"Do you like it?" The tall Starfleet officer smiled down at her with an artist's pride in his work.

"It's wonderful!"

She twirled in her new white halter-topped dress, which had automatically replaced her everyday purple twinset the moment she entered the holodeck. One of her private secrets was a fascination with clothing, perhaps because she was only programmed with one outfit. It relieved her to know that, in this crowd of holographic dancers dressed in glossy satins, rustling taffeta and floating linen, she was not the plainest person in the room.

"May I have this dance, Ms. Haley?"

The Lieutenant bowed from the waist, crisp and soldierly in his white-and-gold dress uniform. His confidence, oddly, made her nervous. She ducked her head.

"I – I wasn't programmed to dance," she said.

"It's easy," he said. "Just follow my lead."

He took her hand, placed his other hand on the small of her back, and drew her close.

It was easy, she found to her surprise. All she had to do was repeat the steps – one two three, one two three – and catch the motions of his body leading her through turns, changes in direction, and out of other people's way.

"You're so … comfortable here," she observed, intrigued by his transformation, which was perhaps the most wonderful thing about this place. On the holodeck, the awkward engineer was a different man: he held himself straight and tall, his blue eyes sparkled, and a smile was never far away from the corners of his mouth. He spoke without a hint of a stammer, in a voice as deep and rich as the bass instrument in the orchestra. If she didn't know better, she could swear the rhythm of the music pulsing through her body was a heartbeat, and it was growing faster.

"I suppose I am." He shrugged, just a little bit shy again now she had pointed it out. "I wonder why."

"Because it's just the holodeck?"

She did not realize until she had spoken that a tinge of anxiety, perhaps even bitterness, colored her voice. It was only a passing thought, not worth spoiling the beauty of this evening, but it chilled her nonetheless: Is it because none of this is real to him? Because I'm not real?

"No, no, that – that can't be it." He shook his head earnestly, strands of thick brown hair falling into his forehead. "The only reason I'm comfortable with holograms is because I can program them to like me." He blushed. "I'd n-n-never do that to you, of course."

"Why not?" she challenged him, glancing at the other partygoers. If he could create, edit and delete them without a second thought, why not her?

"Because … you're different," he said, looking down into her eyes, as if he could somehow find the answer to her question there. "You're self-aware, you can learn from experience – look at how well you're dancing already!" He whirled her around in a graceful underarm turn, illustrating his point. "A-and … when I saw you earlier today … with all that, that food Dr. Z refuses to eat … he couldn't have programmed that look into your eyes, Haley. N-nobody could."

Only a few hours ago, Lieutenant Barclay had found her in the kitchen with her head in her hands, staring at an untouched tray of salad, as close to crying as a hologram could be. It was frustrating, trying to use the skills Lewis had given her to take care of him, only for him to ignore everything she tried. If he would only listen to her, not to mention listening to Counsellor Troi and Voyager's EMH, he might be healthy by now. Her near-breakdown over the salad had been building up for weeks.

If any other colleague of Lewis' had seen her like that, they would have laughed, maybe even teased her creator for programming her with an excess of devotion. Mr. Barclay, however, had put his hand on her shoulder and suggested, quietly, that she take the night off. Now she understood why.

"You mean … you think I'm real?" she asked.

"Yes." Mr. Barclay laughed. "That's the amazing thing."

"Amazing? How?"

He dipped her, surprising a squeak out of her that made them both burst into laughter. Once she was upright again, she saw that his face was flushed again – this time, decidedly not with shame.

"I've never been this comfortable with a real woman," he said, "In all my life."

Having been designed with the purpose of being family to a lonely old man, Haley possessed an unusually wide array of sensory subroutines for a hologram: touch, temperature, even smell, which could be very useful when she cooked. At this moment, she wanted to thank her surrogate father for making it possible to sense Reginald Barclay – his face, the warmth of his hands, his scent – with every photon in her body.

She had always known that she was, technically, made of light … but she had never felt like it until this moment.

"Zimmerman to Haley, where are you?"

They both froze.

"In the holodeck," answered Haley.

They moved apart as if Lewis could see them. Lieutenant Barclay looked as guilty as she felt. What was she doing, dancing under paper lanterns while her creator might be dying?

"Are you all right?" she asked. "Is anything the matter?"

"Stand down Red Alert, Haley," Lewis replied over the comm; she could just imagine him rolling his eyes. "Nothing's the matter. Not more than usual, anyhow. I'm just calling to tell you I'm giving in. You twisted my arm, congratulations. Now clear the holodeck so I can repair the Mark One."

Mr. Barclay beamed, and so did Haley. Counsellor Troi's plan had been giving her feedback loops all day as she worried over the consequences; the EMH would not take kindly to having his program sabotaged even if they did make a backup. There was still a chance that the procedure could go badly wrong. But now that Lewis was finally coming through for his dying creation, surely he would allow said creation to do the same for him? Surely, thought Haley, there was hope for them yet?

"Oh, and by the way," said Lewis, "Fetch me a salad, would you? The one you made the other day wasn't half bad."

Haley couldn't help it. She gasped with delight, stood up on tiptoe and threw her arms around the man in front of her, who staggered a little from the impact.

"Who's that with you?" Lewis demanded.

"J-just me, Doctor," the Lieutenant replied. "I, uh, I just showed her a new project I'm working on."

"At this time of night? Hmph. You have some explaining to do, young woman."

She could hear the smile in her creator's voice.

"I'll be happy to explain everything, Lewis," she said. "Just as soon as I finish making your salad. Haley out."

As they ended the program and headed for the exit, she realized two things: firstly, that Mr. Barclay was still holding her hand … and secondly, that she did not mind in the least.