A/N: Warning: If you don't like when authors describe people's fashion/make-up…too bad. (Boss fashion and hair is as central to film noir as the cigarettes, gunplay, and cheesy slang.)
I also apologize to anyone who is British or Dutch. I hope you have a sense of humor.
Billie Torres slammed the alarm clock harder than she meant too. She sighed, pulling her hand away, examining the damage on the already bent clock. This time, she'd left a small crack in the glass. Billie collapsed back into bed, and spent several moments staring at the ceiling. She'd been having a good dream. Tommy had returned to her. He'd apologized for everything, and then she told him the news, and he was delighted. That damned alarm clock had forced her back into this reality, where she lay in bed alone, in a rundown apartment in Chicago, her rounding belly now beginning to reveal her illegitimate pregnancy.
She didn't want to get out of bed, but her child wanted breakfast—and presumably a roof over his or her head too. So she forced herself up, and into her morning routine. She ate her banana pancakes and coffee while reading the paper. (Updates on Pakistan, a new Humphrey Bogart movie, and the Brooklyn Dodgers taking a Colored man named Jackie Robinson onto their team.)
She dressed herself in a modest dark-blue suit dress with thick white trim. Her hair was always tricky, because it had to somehow compliment the unusual forehead she'd inherited from her mother. People always noticed the odd ridges than rippled down her forehead, but most were far too polite to say anything. A few friends had recommended cosmetic surgeons, but Billie distained snooty aristocrats who got surgeries just to look "beautiful." ("I'm a secretary, not a movie star," she'd tell those friends.) She tossed on the final touches: pearl earrings she'd managed not to sell yet; a little (fake) white flower pinned to her collar; and a plain, cheap ring she'd gotten at a pawn shop, a false wedding band she'd begun to wear, once her pregnancy started to show. After that, on with the trench coat, out into the cool November air, and on to the subway station.
Once on the train, Billie tried to entertain herself with the view out the window, but couldn't, not today. Against her better judgment, Billie unfolded out the letter she always kept in her coat pocket.
11 March, 1946
Hey there Billie. Not much time to write. Will make this quick. Love you. I love you too much to stay. I did something during the War, something bad. It wasn't killing enemy soldiers I was feeling guilty about all that time. It was killing my own. And lying about it. Long story, but to make short, I took wrong turn, drove us into a Nazi ambush. Got all three of the other guys killed. Got back and lied, said Johnson gave me wrong directions. Thought they wouldn't find out. But now Im getting questions from my old commanders, other soldiers pointing fingers at me. I wasn't a good soldier Billie. I wasn't brave. I was a coward. None of the men could ever count on me and neither can you. I'm getting out of here, to save you and me both. Im a coward and I don't want to go to jail. Don't want you to be involved. Don't try to contact me. Find someone else. Someone decent, who will take care of you and your children. And know that no matter what happens—
Billie stopped herself from finishing.
She folded the letter back up, before the tears came.
She didn't dare allow herself to wonder what Tommy might have done, had he known that she was expecting. Because in the back of her mind, she suspected—from the way he worded the letter—that Tommy did know, if only in the back of his mind. It might even have been the thing that triggered him to leave.
As Billie replaced the letter in her pocket, her fingers brushed against a few other folded bits of paper. Nuts, she'd almost forgotten about her… little "backup plan." Oooh, Tommy, don't worry about me, I've found a man who'll take care of me…financially anyway. Billie hoped things wouldn't come to blackmail. Charles was her friend. Maybe one of her dearest friends. But if that was what it took to keep her job, and keep food on her and her child's table, well…
Billie was a secretary to an archeologist named Charles Liberty. Self-employed and not particularly successful, Chuck made most of his living teaching at a small university, and bringing in extra dough fighting. Exactly how an American Indian who made no effort to hide his heritage—flaunted it, in fact, with that goofy tattoo over his eye—had landed such a respectable job in the "white" world, Billie didn't quite understand. But she was certain that his purple heart from the War had helped. And being up here in Illinois, rather than, say, Alabama, was also probably in Chuck's favor.
His good fortune had certainly helped her. When the Indian professional had happened upon the pregnant, half-Mexican, unmarried woman with abnormal facial features, his response had been pity, rather than distain. Then he'd asked if she'd come for an interview, and Billie had immediately said yes, uncertain what she was about to interview for. She'd improvised well though, and landed a job as Charles' secretary. For a brief time, Billie had fantasized about marrying him, to give her child a father. But Charles had subtlety made it clear to her that he wasn't going to cross that line. He wound up becoming something of a brother to her.
Charles was at his desk when Billie arrived, pouring over some newspaper clippings. His black hair was parted at the side, with some streaks of silver cutting through the sides behind his ears. He looked good in that white shirt and suspenders, with the sleeves rolled up…but not half as good as her Tommy had. Billie shoved the thought away, and greeted her employer.
"G'morning Chuck."
"Morning Billie." Charles smiled, before returning to his work.
The morning was good. But come lunchtime, things got…interesting.
Just as Billie was getting up to leave the office and go out for her lunch break, Charles said, "One moment Billie. You have a moment?"
"Sure." She smoothed her suit dress. "What is it?"
Charles looked at her, fiddling with his pencil. "You were excited to get this job. You stopped by for an interview just a few days after I put my ad in the mail box."
Billie nodded. "That's right."
Charles continued to stare at her. Then he opened his drawer, and pulled out two opened envelopes.
"This showed up in my mailbox this morning." He removed the contents of both envelopes, and tossed them onto the desk. One was a letter, in his handwriting. The other had been written on a typewriter. Charles pinched up the typed letter and read aloud: "We apologize; the address you've sent your letter to is no longer in service. Your money will be returned…" Charles dropped the paper on the desk. "Since my ad never wound up in the paper, I'd love to know how you found out I was looking to hire someone on. And why you lied about it in the interview."
Billie folded her arms over her pregnant stomach. "Well, since there's no more hiding it…I…just needed work." She shrugged. "You felt sorry for me, and then suddenly you were asking if I wanted an interview, and I figured, why not."
"You needed work." Charles gave a tiny nod. "Yet instead of being downtown job hunting, you were out here on campus, snooping around my office."
"Snooping? Charles I was going for a walk! I already told you,"
"Yes. You were looking in the windows because you'd always dreamed of going to college yourself and never had the chance. Believable enough at the time. But since I now know you've lied to me once already, I'm inclined to do another background check."
"Charles, please," Billie dropped into her winded, pleading voice. "I need this job."
"For?"
She looked down, realizing she wasn't going to fool him a second time.
Time for Plan B.
"All right." She met his eyes again, and spoke clearly and bluntly. "I'm looking for something that I think belongs to me. I tracked it to you, and decided to try my hand at the damsel-in-distress motif. When you mentioned the ad in the paper, I just smiled and went with it."
"What is it you're looking for?" he eyed her suspiciously, almost nervously.
"A silver statue of a bird." She held out her hands. "About so-long, and this wide. Covered in stones. See my grandfather, on my father's side…he wasn't exactly a law abiding citizen. He and some fellow desperados wrangled up a lot of treasures in the desert, and this was the most valuable. My father inherited it, but he was forced to pawn it when the stock market crashed."
Charles face became sympathetic. "To feed the family?"
She scoffed. "No. To fund his own relocation to greener pastures. He abandoned my mother and me during the Depression. Left us flat in the middle of the Dust Bowel, with no one to support us. The bastard took all the valuables with him. I want that bird as a sort of pension, for my mother. And yes, a bit of extra cash for myself and my baby would certainly make my life easier."
Charles gave Billie that look he used which often took the place of a sigh. He silently lit himself a cigarette, looking like he was pondering how to respond to her story.
"Sounds like a reasonable claim on the bird." He finally said. "In any case, you have a bigger right to it than those fat cats who just want it for the fame and fortune." He took a drag of his joint. "I've been tracking the bird for the same reason you have Billie. I think I have a claim to it. You know I'm not from Illinois, Billie, I'm from Arizona. That silver bird was crafted by my tribe. It got confiscated during some conflict with the American government." He smiled. "But it sounds like what goes around comes around, hmm?"
Billie grinned. "They robbed your great-grandfather, and then my gramps robbed them."
There was a silence, as Charles took another drag from his cigarette.
"So," Billie looked around awkwardly, dropping her hands to her sides. "Are we going to look for the bird together then?"
Charles exhaled. "No. You're fired."
Billie didn't react—partially because she couldn't tell if he was joking or not.
"I mean it. I like you Billie; I've never had a finer assistant. But I can't afford to have people I don't trust in here, and I can't afford to split the cost of that bird. I've got costs to pay off too. Big ones." He leaned back, shuffling some papers. "Go dig up one of your grandpa's other pirate treasures."
"I don't think I'm going anywhere."
Charles looked back up and her, almost amused. "You're in no position to argue."
Billie pulled a sheet of scrap paper from her shirt pocket, and read: "June 5, 1947: Round three, your ass goes down. The bread will be under your door."
Charles slowly removed his cigarette, and put it out.
Billie pulled out another slip. "May 3: Round seven, you go down…"
"Where did you get that." Charles voice and face were expressionless, as they usually were when he was under pressure.
"Your trash." She pulled out an entire handful of little slips. "August—I can't read that number—you win, but only after the ninth—" by now Charles had risen from the desk, and was approaching her, while she backed away from him, joyfully reading each slip. She let him snatch a few of them from her, and simply pulled more from her pockets. "January, '46: Round fiftee—you went fifteen rounds? My god your head must've hurt! Here, have them." She tossed the slips at Charles like confetti. "I have so many more at home—and you'll never find them."
Charles clenched the papers in his fist, and finally let them drop to the floor. He stared down at her sullenly.
Billie was giggling like a schoolgirl, not so much out of malice as humor. Professor Charles Liberty, by night known as the Tattooed Terror, looking like a pouty child caught with his hands in a cookie jar, was too adorable for words. Billie would remember that sight for a long time.
"Accepting bribes from gangsters, to lose at your boxing matches?" She shook her head. "Despicable. And then leaving the evidence in waste baskets, that get picked up by your secretary—who's a poor single mother who needs money bad? That's just embarrassing." She gestured to Charles. "You smoke, Chuck. You've got access to fire. Why didn't you just burn them?"
"That'd be more conspicuous, leaving a burning smell behind in my office. Anyone passing the window seeing me light up a sheet of paper, rather than throwing one out…"
"I guess it was too much work to just take them home and burn them there?"
Charles looked away, staring at the evidence that littered his floor with his hand on his hip. Billie swung her arms playfully.
"So…what kind of a raise am I looking at here?"
Charles gave her a look under his eyebrows, and moved back behind his desk. "Fine. We'll work something out. Find the bird together. But from now on, we're honest with each other."
Tommy and Harry stepped off the train and sauntered through the subway station, doing all they could to look like two buddies just heading off to work for the day. But the noticeable difference in dress between them made the charade hard to pull off. Neither had changed his clothes since the night before, but at least Harry had made sure to neatly fold everything up before crashing on Tom's couch in his underwear. Tommy's clothes were even more wrinkled than when they'd met. It had taken Harry almost five minutes just to talk Tommy into wearing a tie for Miss Indiana; when Tom had finally tossed on a red necktie with Mickey Mouse—or Steamboat Willie, or whoever that mouse at the boat helm was called—Harry hadn't argued. He hoped his own formal plaid bowtie would compensate for Tommy's bad taste.
As they came up the subway's steps and onto the street, Harry was reexamining their map. "Was this really the closest stop we could get to Indiana's place?"
"Los Angeles," Tommy Chicago laughed. "The best public transportation system in the world! If you think getting around here is hard, try Wisconsin. Those rubes don't even have a subway system."
"I've been to Indiana's club a few times," Harry said. "But I guess I always wound up taking a cab or getting a ride."
Kitty Indiana's café was just one of many joints in a string of buildings on the road. The vertical sign spelled the club's name, The Queen's Cabin, in a font based on Old English writing. When they were finally facing the club head-on, they could see the mascot standing above the horizontal sign over the doorway: a female pirate, black hair billowing in the wind, with one hand on her hip, and the other on a sword on her belt. Tommy eyed the logo curiously, as they crossed underneath and entered the club.
"Is that Anne Bonnie on the sign out there?" Tommy asked, stepping into the café.
"Grace O'Malley." The husky female voice made Tommy's head turn.
Harry's boss stood before them, with one hand on her hip. "Or Grania, if you prefer the original Gaelic."
"Tommy Chicago," Harry said, "Meet Miss Kitty Indiana."
Tommy began to dip his hat, and suddenly remembered to take it off indoors. Holding his hat to his chest, Tom said, "Miss Indiana, it's a pleasure to finally meet you in person."
When Kitty had hired Tommy to pick up Harry and the bird, she'd done it over the phone.
"Likewise." Kitty nodded, and gestured theatrically. "Welcome to my café Mr. Chicago."
Despite not being a young woman, Kitty Indiana carried herself regally, and was dressed in the height of fashion. She wore a long maroon dress that was modest, but flattered her figure, with blouse-like sleeves, a row of gold buttons, and a matching belt. Translucent white ruffles from an undershirt poked from the dress's neckline, dangling over her chest. A large white rose was stuck through the fabric over one breast. Her brown hair was yanked tightly up, cumulating in a bundle of curls that tickled one side of her forehead. Her make-up was smoky and dark, working with her age rather than trying to hide it. Most interesting, though, was a maroon eye-patch that covered her right eye, trimmed with tiny white lace, matching her outfit. One absolutely got the impression of a pirate queen.
"Grace O'Malley," Tommy repeated. "Was she real, or someone fictional like Long John Silver?"
"Oh, she was real." Kitty replied. "The Irish called her the Pirate Queen My father claimed a relation. I'm not sure if I believe him or not, but it's fun to pretend." She winked. "If you'll follow me gentleman, I'd like to offer you both a drink."
She turned, and they followed her across the café.
Miss Indiana ran a classy place, something resembling a gin-joint, cabaret, and restaurant all rolled into one. Directly ahead of them was a short stage, currently out of use, with red curtains shut behind it. Next to it, a beautiful blonde woman was playing a soft tune at a piano, while the sparse amount of morning guests ate their breakfast and coffee at round white-clothed tables. A bar lay against one wall. The tables were arranged around a large dance floor, where a silver mirror ball dangled overhead. The restaurant was divided by wide arches and smooth black pillars, decorated with gold geometric designs that shouted back to the Roaring Twenties. Potted palm trees, and other tropical California plants, stood around the corners and doorways, reminding Tom of Rick's Cafe from "Casablanca."
"Was this place a speakeasy?" Tommy asked, admiring the diamond chandeliers.
"One of the most popular in Los Angeles!" Kitty said proudly. "My mother ran the joint, while my father got the booze. Daddy worked Capone, Lansky, Siegel, and Luciano before any of them were famous."
"He went all the way to Chicago and the East Coast to get his booze?" Tommy asked, walking through the café with his hands in his pockets.
"On occasion."
As they approached the woman at the piano, Harry grinned and gestured to her with his hat. "Hi there, Annie."
The woman didn't stop her work at the piano, but gave Harry a short smile in return. She looked like a movie star, with her glamorous makeup and gold hair swept over one shoulder. She wore a long dress of deep blue, straight sleeves and with fashionably padded shoulders, and a plunging V-neck. While Indiana's makeup was misty and subtle, Annie's was sharp and bright. After her beauty, the most noticeable feature was a set of unusual metallic shapes, one curving around her eye, the other spread under her ear like a star. One of her hands was covered in a web of metal. Tommy tried not to be caught staring.
Kitty had led them up a narrow staircase and into the little sitting room. Only after she'd shut the door did Tommy dare to ask her about her piano player's appearance.
"What were those silver blotches all over her face?"
"Tom!" Harry hissed, his eyes bulging.
"What?" Tommy shrugged. "She looks like she walked off the set of 'Metropolis.'"
"It's a common enough birth defect, Mr. Chicago." Kitty yanked the chain of a ceiling lamp, giving them more light. "It's not contagious, and it isn't life-threatening, and I'd just as soon you didn't mention it to Annie's face; she's sensitive about her condition."
"'Course," Tommy lifted a hand diplomatically.
Harry said politely, "I think it makes her look…interesting."
Kitty Indiana gestured for the two men to sit on an elegant couch, and poured everyone a cup of coffee. She then had a seat across from them in a little armchair. Between them stood a little coffee table.
"All right," Indiana said, after taking an indulging sip of her coffee. "Let's see the bird!"
Harry opened his coat, and placed the package on the table. With an approving look from his boss, Harry un-wrapped it. The gem-encrusted bird was even more impressive sitting on the reflective coffee table. Indiana gently took the bird by its wings, slowly turning it around on the table to examine it from every angle.
"Gentleman," she said in a low voice, "We have all become rich."
"Who's 'we'?" Tommy blinked half-humorously. "Is your piano girl Annie in on this?"
Indiana looked up at Tommy. "Annie's not—is that 'Steamboat Willie?'"
Tommy glanced down at his tie. "Oh! Yeah." He shrugged. "Love cartoons. Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny, Betty Boop..."
Indiana smiled. "I remember when 'Steamboat Willie' was new in theaters. One of the first sound pictures I ever saw." She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. Annie Hanson, my piano player. Yes, she helped me track down the bird. Don't be fooled by her blonde hair and innocent smile; Annie's one of the most conniving minds I've ever known. All she needed was someone to point her in the right direction."
"Sounds like you two are close." Tommy observed.
"Annie's something of a surrogate daughter to me. She's an orphan. I ran into her, and helped her find her way."
Tommy sat there with his arms folded, waiting for Indiana to elaborate. When she didn't he said, "I guess you and her probably have a few interesting stories to tell."
"Not really." Kitty raised her mug. "Just the same doom-and-gloom song and dance you'll hear from everyone who tried to find work during the Depression. Now, let's discuss what exactly we're going to do with this bird."
Tommy looked at Harry, to see if he thought Kitty was leaving anything out. Harry was watching the bird eagerly, as if waiting for it to lay a golden egg. Tommy finally shrugged, and decided to let it drop…for now.
Detective Timothy Excelsior liked to work alone.
Tim had quite enjoyed the tranquility of the little Georgia farm he'd grown up on. But it wasn't very interesting, and lacked challenging puzzles to be solved. Rather than take over his pop's farm, Timothy had gone to college (a Colored university, of course), and eventually earned his P.I. license…just in time for Black Tuesday. With the stock market in shambles, the South was the last place for a Colored man to try looking for someone to hire him. So Tim did what a lot of Negros had been doing since the '20s; relocated to New York City, and taken residence in the neighborhood of Harlem. In a place where even the policemen were Colored, Tim had little trouble getting clients now. He was so good that even Whites often sought his assistance.
Like the woman who'd hired him for this job. Thin, pale, brunette, and with most unusual ridges on her nose, she had come to him in tears, and poured out her soul about her priceless family heirloom that had been looted from her home by vicious gangsters. A long, heart wrenching tale, which was without doubt a pathetic lie. For starters, she'd claimed to have lived in Iowa her entire life, and then talked about riding the subway regularly. Second, her tears became less sympathetic when he caught the strong whiff of onion on her. And finally, when he asked her why, of all people, she was seeking help from him, she'd "admitted" that he physically reminded her so very much of her dear, departed father. Tim could only imagine the expression she must've seen on his face, after pulling that card. She had told him that her name was Brigid Marquis, and by the end of their meeting, Tim hadn't even believed that.
But it didn't matter whether Tim believed her story or her name. What he did believe was the five-hundred dollars she paid him. And that was just the security deposited. She'd promised far more if and when he found her poor dead father's silver bird statue. Weeks of searching had taken Tim across the country, to San Francisco. There, finally, he'd admitted to himself that he needed help.
Ned Felix was another private investigator, who lived here in California. Tim had gotten a hold of Ned over the phone, and the two had agreed to work on this hunt together, and split the cost—with the permission of "Brigid Marquis." Ned lived in a small town on the outskirts of San Francisco, and agreed to meet Tim at a little saloon that catered to integrated crowds, where they could talk over their plans for chasing the bird.
Tim was sitting at the table now, waiting for Mr. Felix to arrive. He self-consciously pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and adjusted his gray fedora on the table. He checked his reflection in the rectangular mirrored pillar next to the table, making sure his pencil-thin mustache was still neatly trimmed.
Tim was a tad self-conscious about being one of the few people of color in this bar…until a man with a face colored like a goldfish and spotted like a giraffe entered the pub, waving at the unenthused bartender.
Tim squinted carefully at the creature, just to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. The man's clownish wardrobe was almost as bad as his facial features, sporting a yellow checkered suit and a red polka dotted bowtie, under a long trench coat. He had dreadful blonde muttonchops, and when he removed his bowler hat, a coarse main like a horse's was revealed. To Tim's horror, the monstrosity pulled out a chair at his table and had a seat, grinning as if they were best friends.
"You must be Mr. Excelsior!" the man picked up one of Tim's hands, which were both numb with shock, and shook it violently. "I'm Ned Felix, so glad to meet you in person!"
"The pleasure is entirely mine." Tim forced a smile.
For some reason, smiles always felt unnatural to Tim, even when he wasn't being introduced to anthropomorphic goldfish.
"If you'll forgive me Mr. Excelsior," Felix rambled on. "I figured, when you said you were from Harlem, that you'd be a Colored gentleman; but I don't think I've seen such ears or eyebrows on anyone before."
Tim was used to such curiosity from strangers regarding his ears and face. In fact, it had almost certainly contributed to his status as a loner, even in his own community.
"My grandmother," Tim explained, "Was Dutch."
"Aaaah, of course!" Felix said.
"If you'll forgive me," Tim attempted another small smile, "I've never seen anyone with spots or hair quite like yours."
"Well I'm not originally from here." Felix admitted. "I'm from England. My British skin probably isn't meant for this California heat."
The British origin would also explain the mutton chops and dreadful hair, Tim concluded, and he let the subject drop.
"This artifact," Tim pulled his notepad from his gray trench coat. "Was stolen by gangsters working for one Mickey Kazon. Whom you insist no longer has the bird."
"Doesn't have it." Felix confirmed. "Kazon had a hold of the bird for a time, but my sources tell me that he very recently, ah, 'punished' several of his underlings for 'losing his bird.'" Ned Felix chuckled darkly. "One of them turned up in a fisherman's net a few days ago. The other two are still missing."
Tim raised an eyebrow, taking notes. "Do you happen to know what organized crime Kazon was involved with? Italian, Jewish, Irish…?"
"Deltaslavonian."
It took a moment for the name to register in Tim's mind. "Of course. I might've guessed. The Deltaslavonian gangs are among the worst in California…"
The holonovel was playing on an array of wall panels in Engineering, like a twentieth-century surveillance camera. On one screen, Chakotay and Torres worked in an office. On another, Seven of Nine played a piano and chatted with patrons at a café. In another restaurant, Tuvok and Neelix were having a deep discussion over some drinks. Janeway was in a sitting room, talking to someone on an elegant ring-dial phone, while Paris and Kim played cards on the coffee table.
Just a few feet away, over a consol in a little corner, the Doctor was shown on another panel, seen from inside Sickbay. Vorik and Samantha Wildman stood at the consol, listening to the Doc's new findings.
"I was finally able to scan their brainwaves." The Doctor held his fist to his chin thoughtfully. "Their brains look very similar to the way all of yours did when you were brainwashed by the Quarrans. Their memories have definitely been tampered with. But their personalities—that is, their emotions, hormones, and reactions—those seem unaltered."
"Like in France," Sam said slowly. "Naomi and I didn't see much of what went on, but we caught enough of the action through the window, and from what Neelix told us about his friends in the 'Resistance.' Everyone had different names, and different lives. But Captain Janeway was still the leader of the group, Commander Chakotay was a military leader, Tom and B'Elanna were in love, Seven couldn't obey orders…"
Vorik cocked his head at the screen where Tuvok and Neelix were now strolling down the dark street. His eyes moved to the next panel, where Seven was fixing her hair in a restroom mirror. The holodeck's setting "moved" with the player; when multiple players were in different "places" at once, the holodeck had ways of dividing itself and keeping up the illusion for each set of players.
"They seem to get close, at times, to noticing that something is wrong," the young Vulcan observed. "Tuvok and Neelix were both surprised by each other's appearances. Yet all it took to dissuade them from questioning it were brief explanations."
"Like a dream." Naomi said.
She and Icheb were leaning against the warp core's railing, munching from a bag of blue, syrup-covered baltha-tree buds (a popular Ktarian snack, high in sugar and sodium).
"How so?" Vorik asked her.
"You know, how when you're in a dream, you see weird things, and you just don't question it. But sometimes you start to wonder if something's off. And then, you either realize you're dreaming and wake up, or, someone in your dream gives you some kind of random explanation, and you just accept it."
"I once dreamed that Mezoti and the twins were aboard Voyager again," Icheb mused. "I vaguely recalled them being adopted, and asked Mezoti for an explanation. She said…something about how…the adoption was only in effect during a 'mission for quartz.' At the time, it seemed a reasonable enough explanation, and I accepted it."
The Doctor nodded. "Their brain patterns do have a bit in common with someone who's dreaming. Now that I think of it, I'm also seeing something similar to when those aliens invaded your minds, and caused you all to share the same dream."
"So," Sam held up a finger, watching Seven putting on her coat and leaving the café. "Someone put them into these roles, and altered their memories, but their subconscious is sort of…helping the charade along?"
"It looks that way," the Doctor said.
"Their subconscious must have had a lot to do with it." A soft feminine voice cut in.
The speaker was a brunette woman with small dark eyes, in a gold uniform. Crewman Marina Jor, one of Chakotay's former Maquis. Jor was half-human and half-Betazoid. Her powers weren't strong enough to help Captain Janeway like the famous Deanna Troi had helped Captain Picard. But Marina Jor was known throughout the ship for her empathy, and was very good at reading people if she knew them.
"Their names," Jor said. "They're names aren't coincidences. Remember, when the Hirogen brainwashed people, they gave them variations of their real names. Kathryn Janeway became Katrine, B'Elanna became Brigitte…but this time they're even more detailed." She pointed to her old commander (having a midnight cup of coffee with B'Elanna at a café). "One of the holograms called Chakotay 'Professor Liberty.' The Liberty was one of Chakotay's Maquis ships."
Vorik turned to Jor. "The ship Voyager was assigned to catch was called the Val Jean."
"But Chakotay captained more than one ship in his time. Before the Val Jean, he captained the Liberty. I served aboard it, until it was destroyed in a battle and we had to abandon ship. The Maquis then reassigned him to the Val Jean."
Icheb was staring at the screens, fiddling with a half-eaten syrup-bud. "Captain Janeway is from a province called Indiana."
"State." Naomi corrected him. "Provinces are in Canada."
"Tuvok," Vorik noted, "Served aboard the U.S.S. Excelsior, under Captain Sulu."
"Chicago," Sam muttered. "Paris. Tommy Chicago, Tom Paris."
By now, a few other crewmen were listening in. One of them was Tabor, a male Bajoran, and close friend of Jor.
"So," Crewman Tabor eyed the screens skeptically. "The senior staff is essentially playing the game, making up their own identities and back stories, but they just don't realize it…?"
"If not that," Vorik looked at the Bajoran darkly, "Then they are being controlled by an individual who knows them personally, and well."
The group stared at the screens in silence. A few crewmen at work around the dead warp core, and other parts of Engineering, glanced up at hearing Vorik's last sentence.
"Why does the puppet master want them all to go after a silver bird statue?" Kao-Li Xiong, a human fresh out of Starfleet Academy, called down from the upper level.
"It's just a cliché," Crewman Abdul Hadaad shrugged. "The detectives and gangsters go after some valuable item, to drive the plot. It's called a Mick…oh…Mick-something-or-other."
"I like the captain's eye patch." Naomi said, before popping another bud in her mouth. "And Commander Tuvok's mustache."
Samantha's blond hair flew as she whirled to glare at her daughter. "Naomi, you are taking this far too well!"
"Why?" Naomi shrugged, another bud in her hand. "It's not like these things don't happen a lot onboard Voyager. A few weeks ago we were all brainwashed on Quarra. And before that we had a whole ship-full of Klingons beam aboard and start worshiping Lt. Torres' baby. If it was the Borg, or the Hirogen, or Species 8472, then yeah I'd be scared. But when was the last time someone actually died on the holodeck? I mean I'm not saying it couldn't happen, I had a few nightmares about being trapped on the holodeck and everything trying to kill me, but it's not like smoke is going up and there are Borg cubes out every—"
"Naomi!" Sam groaned, rubbing her temples with both hands. "Muzzle it."
Naomi shrugged again, and flicked her bud into her mouth, like Tom Paris had shown her.
A/N: A lot of online sources credit "Liberty" as the name of Chakotay's Maquis ship (although the episode "Repression" confirms that it was called the Val Jean—though he might have had more than one ship, who knows).
Janeway's eye-patch: people who have read my Mirror Universe fic ("Fairest in the Universe") have seen this shtick before. If you're tired of the Janeway eye-patch, I apologize. But I absolutely cannot have Janeway in an alternate reality, and not give her an eye-patch. Not after seeing Kate Mulgrew wearing it, in "NTSF:SD:SUV."
Crewmen Jor and Tabor appeared in the Season 7 episode "Repression." Jor's first name and species were not given, so I made them up. I didn't make her a full Betazoid, since Captain Janeway stated in "Dragon's Teeth" that she didn't have a Betazoid to help her tell if the aliens were lying to her or not. But, Jor's eyes and empathy seemed quite Betazoid to me.
In terms of the comical "explanations" for everyone's Klingon ridges, Borg implants, pointed ears, etc., I took inspiration from a hilarious episode of "Farscape" called "Won't Be Fooled Again."