For The Hologram Who Has Everything
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Star Trek: Voyager
Copyright: Paramount
"Lieutenant, I require your advice."
Reg swallowed. Seven of Nine's face on the viewscreen was as beautiful and formidable as ever. Not a hair was out of place in her sleek blonde French twist, the collar on her Starfleet uniform looked freshly starched, and the Borg implant on her left eyebrow glinted like silver. Behind her, the walls of her study were a spotless white, only interrupted by a window showing a gray San Francisco sky. Her expression was unreadable.
"Oh! Of - of course. If this is about the Doctor's program, I'd be happy to - "
"It is not. I wish to ask you about a suitable Christmas present for him."
If Reg were more adept at reading people's faces, he might have noticed the blush that touched her cheeks or the way she cast her eyes down toward the console. As it was, he was too startled by her request to notice anything else.
"You mean you don't have one yet?" It was December 20, and her efficiency was legendary.
She raised one silver eyebrow. "N-n-not that there's anything wrong with that," he amended. "My gift for Haley isn't ready yet either."
"What is it?"
He glanced ruefully at the pile of pads, data chips and small metal parts scattered around his desk. The Doctor had let him borrow his mobile emitter for only an hour during his last visit to Jupiter Station; Reg had scanned and recorded the thing and had a rough idea of how it worked, but the finer details were proving frustratingly difficult. He could project a hologram anywhere in the universe with what he had so far, but how to make it speak or move, let alone maintain its personality?
"A mobile emitter." He sighed. "If I can get it right."
"That is … an excellent choice, Mr. Barclay."
His head shot up. Even he could hear the sudden softness in her voice.
"You really think so, Seven?"
She smiled lightly. "Yes. You will give Haley a degree of freedom she has never had before."
"Hmm. That's the idea. I was thinking … she mentioned once she wished she could see the moons on C-Deck."
He could imagine Haley's pale, delicate features bathed in the light of Jupiter's moons, the smile that would light up her hazel eyes the first time she stepped out of Lewis' quarters. He could take her anywhere she wanted: Paris in the rain, Kyoto in cherry blossom time, a beach on Risa … provided, of course, that Dr. Zimmerman gave permission.
"The Doctor, however … "
" … shouldn't be a problem," Reg interrupted cheerfully. "Just download him a new classical music soundtrack. Or a holonovel. I hear they're bringing out another Three Musketeers remake. It's a Klingon co-production. It'll be excellent." He held back a sigh; ten years ago, he would have snapped that up himself, but Deanna had issued a ban on all holonovels after the incident at the Pathfinder headquarters. Haley and the Doctor were the only holograms he spoke to these days.
"It is our first Christmas as a couple." Seven spoke as stiffly as the Borg drone she had once been, fidgeting in her chair. Could she be embarrassed? Was that possible? "I … I wished to make it memorable."
He took a closer look. Her cheeks were redder than one of Haley's dresses. Good Lord, she was embarrassed. The most formidable personage he had ever met, excepting only Captain Picard, was only human after all.
Reg's shyness melted away like butter in a pan. "It will be memorable, Seven, I guarantee it. He's mad about you. You could give him an old pile of stem bolts and he'd treasure it."
Seven actually smiled. "Still, that is one recommendation I shall not take."
"Wait, wait, wait! I have an idea!"
He threw up his arms as if to defend himself, because it really did feel like that: like the idea had almost run him over, it was so strong.
"Tell me. Please."
"E-e-events!" He forced the word out in triumph. "Take him somewhere. N-n-not a holosuite – somewhere real. Somewhere beautiful. A concert maybe, or – or a dance hall. He's spent the f-f-first three years of his life in Sickbay. Even though he's used to the mobile emitter by now, he'll still … never take it for granted."
Her bright blue eyes unfocused dreamily, no doubt already trying to choose the place. "A wise observation. You know him well."
"I, uh, did help to design him."
"Thank you for the idea, Mr. Barclay. I shall consider it."
"You can call me Reg. If that's all right."
"Very well – Reg." She nodded, lending more respect to the nickname than many of his former colleagues had done to his Starfleet rank.
A dry cough in the doorway behind him made them both jump. Reg whipped his head around, then winced at the resulting pain in his neck.
"Dr. Z!" he yelped. "Wha – how long have you been - "
"Long enough," said Lewis Zimmerman, smiling crookedly.
"Is – is Haley - "
"Still in her quarters, reading that book you gave her. Cyrano de What's-his-name. I had to get my own dinner. Almost blew out the replicator, by the way."
Reg got up and stuffed his hands into his pockets like a schoolboy as Zimmerman shuffled into the room.
"You just reminded me of those tickets I had left, that's all," said the old man, waving a thin hand and avoiding both Reg's and Seven's eyes. "They came with some award or other. I can't abide opera – all that screeching and wailing. And the good characters always die. But you might as well take the tickets, otherwise they'll go to waste."
"Opera tickets, Dr. Zimmerman?" asked Seven, trying to sound impassive even as her eyes began to shine.
"Yes, yes. Two tickets. La Boheme, La Scala, Milan, January thirteenth. T'Penna's playing Mimi. God knows what possessed a Vulcan to take the role of a French seamstress dying of tuberculosis in her lover's arms, but she's supposed to be good."
"For someone who dislikes opera, you appear familiar with the casting and plotline," Seven remarked wryly.
"Well, of course." Zimmerman rolled his eyes theatrically in a way that would not looked out of place on Rodolfo. "Mark Two wouldn't shut up about it during our last comm. Said he'd go if he could only afford the tickets on Starfleet Medical's salary. Well, now he can. Backstage pass and everything. I'll transmit them now. Scoot over there, Reg."
Reg jumped out of his chair, leaving Dr. Zimmerman to send over the codes for the tickets.
Seven did not thank him. She only looked, but something in her face must have been too much for the old man. He turned away, wrapped his crumpled lab coat closer around him, and muttered, "All right, all right. Tell him not to bore me with the details later, that's all."
"He certainly shall not," replied Seven, with a touch of her usual acerbity. "Seven out."
Dr. Zimmerman chuckled quietly as he hoisted himself out of the cushioned chair. His illness had left him frail, but Reg knew better than to try to help him; having his head bitten off would be a poor way to spend the holidays.
"Oh, and Reg?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Try it like this."
Two bony, age-spotted hands, prone to spilling soup and missing buttons, rearranged the components on the desk as neatly as the conductor at La Scala would no doubt arrange the music. Reg's jaw dropped. He could now see precisely how Haley's mobile emitter should be built.
"Now stop gossiping, Lieutenant," he grumbled. "And get started on those blueprints for the new slipstream drive."
Reg's grin felt wide enough to split his face. "Yes, sir."