A/N: An anonymous reader pointed out a possible way for Icheb to get in touch with Seven of Nine. I thought the person had a good point, so I'll address it in this chapter. Sadly, I cannot respond to reviews left by people who don't have accounts on the website, so I can only hope they get the message here.
Also, this story is deliberately filled with homage's to movies made in, or about, the 1930s and '40s. So if you think you've seen a line or a gag somewhere before, you probably have.
The idea had come to Icheb in a dream, while he was regenerating. Upon waking up, he was astounded that he hadn't thought of it earlier. He hurried down to sickbay, hoping the Doctor wouldn't be too busy to hear him out. When Icheb entered, the Doctor was working at a consol, with Ensign Vorik. Both looked up, cutting off their conversation. Icheb's expression was as flat as always, but his panting gave away his urgency.
"Forgive my intrusion," Icheb said, approaching them. "But I've just thought of a possible way to make contact with Seven in the holodeck."
Vorik, being a Vulcan, betrayed no reaction to this news. But the Doctor's lack of surprise really threw Icheb off. The hologram looked like he already thought Icheb's idea would fail.
"A neural interface," Icheb said. "You have Seven's code, Doctor. If I can form a mental link with her, I may be able to 'awaken' her, for lack of a better word," he trailed off, seeing the Doctor's expression.
"Lt. Vorik and I already discussed utilizing your Borg physiology, Icheb. We ran into several problems. For starters, there's the simple matter of the dampening field around the holodeck. We've tried every form of communication we could think of—"
"Except the interface," Icheb pointed out.
"—except the interface, and nothing could get through to them. From the looks of it, the dampening field would likely harm you if you tried it, maybe even leave you with brain damage. And second of all, you may not even be capable of a full neural interface anymore, without a cortical node."
Not long ago, Icheb had donated his cortical node to Seven of Nine, to save her life. Since Icheb himself had never become a full Borg drone, his body had been able to adapt without it.
Vorik added, "If an interface were successful, the outcome would be unpredictable. It may worsen Seven's mental state."
Icheb looked at the Vulcan. "We certainly wouldn't want to be in a situation that's unpredictable, would we."
The Doctor looked mildly impressed by Icheb's sarcasm. The young former drone had observed the art in the Doctor, Lt. Torres, Naomi, and even Seven, and had been waiting for an opportunity to utilize it.
"If we could get around the dampening field," Icheb asked the Doctor, "Would a partial neural interface be possible?"
The Doctor made a face. "It's possible. But I'm not sure how much you'd be able to job her memory, with such a weak communication. Seven's already aware of parts of her real life, and the brainwashing is simply working around it."
"I could remind her of the Borg, space anomalies we've encountered, things that couldn't be explained in that historical program."
Vorik raised an eyebrow at the Doctor, as if he liked the idea.
The Doctor sighed. "I'll give it some thought Icheb. But before we even cross that bridge, we have to find a way around the dampening field."
Kitty Indiana stood at the end of a long wooden dock, watching the sky turn a dark sapphire blue over the Pacific Ocean. It was a chilly evening, but she was plenty warm in her fur-lined coat. Beneath her wide-brimmed hat, her hair was pulled up into the bunch of curls she'd worn the day she'd met her driver, Tommy Chicago, in person. Along with it, she had the same red, lacy eye-patch, to match the outfit she wore under the coat. She took out her cigarette and exhaled, watching the smoke coil around in the air.
The wood creaked behind her, but she didn't turn around. She kept one gloved hand on the dock's railing, the other fiddling her cigarette.
His low voice still held his subtle Irish accent. "Nice place for a rendezvous, Kitty."
Kitty allowed herself a smile. "I figured you'd like it, Mayhew."
He came up next to her, removing his bowler hat. In all that those years, Mayhew hadn't seemed to age a day. He still looked a few years older than Kitty, with a full head of perfectly combed gray hair. Under his opened coat, she could see he still dressed simply, sporting a white shirt and gray vest. The closest thing to color on him was a dowdy bowtie the hue of dried blood. Mayhew Sullivan was a simple, down-to-Earth man, and Kitty loved him for it. Loved him for it, and suffered for it.
"The businesswoman's life seems to suit you." Mayhew admitted. "The more I think of it, the harder I have, picturing you quitting your café to settle down on a farm."
"I never did like messing around in the dirt." Kitty admitted. "But I've had my fun, Mayhew. I think I just might be ready to settle down."
"You've been saying that for neigh ten years, Kitty."
Kitty's eyebrows turned up. Almost whispering, she said, "What could I do, Mayhew? If I abandoned that club, all of those boys and girls would've been out of work."
"Lots of people were out of work, Kitty. They made it through."
"No, Mayhew, they didn't. What about your own uncle, who jumped out of a skyscraper when he lost his life's savings, the day after Black Tuesday?" she looked over the darkening ocean. "All those people I collected over the years—runaway gangsters, orphans, widows, Colored people, no one else would hire them. And they're good people Mayhew, good workers. A lot of them would be street puppeteers if I didn't stand by them."
"You're heart's too big, Kitty. Seems you've got room for everyone in it but me. Once, long ago, I proposed to you. Now you've kept me waiting for over a decade. I can't hold out much longer. And neither can Clara."
Kitty blinked, still staring out at the ocean. "The girl back in Ireland."
"Aye." Mayhew looked down, fiddling his bowler hat. "She's getting close on to thirty. She knows about you and me, Kitty. If I chose you, she won't hold any grudges. She wants me to be happy. But, she also wants a husband, before…before mother nature tells her time's up."
Kitty felt his eyes on her.
"Maybe you're willing to wait forever Kitty, but Clara and I, we ain't."
"I've just made a break, Mayhew." Kitty turned to face her former fiancé. "I've gotten a hold of a very valuable artifact. In a few days, I'll be selling it for more money than anyone at my café's made in all the time we've worked there. And then," she waved her cigarette with a smile. "Aidyo, Los Angeles!"
Mayhew's face brightened. "You're saying you're finally hanging it all up?"
"I'll have enough money to give each of my best workers enough to be set for at least a few years, until they can make a new start. And there'll be plenty for our farm—if you'll have me."
"Kitty," he put his arms around her. "I really hope you mean it this time."
Tim Excelsior checked his watch. "It's getting close to five, Mr. Felix. We'd best close up shop." He removed his green elf hat, and dropped his charity bell into it.
Felix was about to take one last child onto his lap, before suddenly pointing out the window. "There he is again!"
The dark man with the tattoo strolled by, lighting up a cigarette.
"He was sitting here eating lunch for over an hour, and he's passed us maybe five times since then!" Ned squinted, as the man walked out of sight. "He's some kind of Italian or something."
"Working for Miss Indiana, perhaps?" Tim whispered. "He was speaking with her singer earlier. He arrived around the same time she did, in fact."
"I don't trust him." Felix said.
The little boy standing by Felix cleared his throat.
Dipping back into his jolly Santa voice, Felix laughed, "Oh, all right! One more, one more."
The boy's mother looked as much in a hurry for her and her son to leave as Felix and Tim were. "Go on Ralphie, tell Santa what you want."
The boy was struck speechless, staring up at Felix's odd face.
"Little boy," Felix urged, "What do you want for Christmas?"
Tattoo Man was across the street now, taking a seat on a bench. He wasn't looking directly at them, but he was doing that pathetic scan around the scene, that people did when they were trying to catch a glimpse of you without looking like they were staring. Tim agreed with Felix; he did not trust this fellow one bit.
Desperately, Felix suggested to the child, "How about a nice, eh, football!"
Slowly, the boy nodded, half in a daze, and his mother pulled him off Santa's lap.
"So," Tim whispered as he and Felix made their way towards the door, "What we need to find out tonight is, where is Indiana keeping the bird, and whether or not Tattoo Boy is an ally of hers, ours, or some third par—"
"Wait!" the little boy hollered, just before they exited the coffee shop.
Grabbing Santa's coat, the boy rambled at the speed of lightning, "I want an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle!"
Tim and Felix looked at each other, and then back at the child.
Tim didn't bother reverting to his cheerful elf voice, and instead, replied in his usual deadpan manner, "You'll shoot your eye out kid."
As they left the dumbstruck boy and his laughing mother behind in the restaurant, Felix called over his shoulder, "Merry Christmas! Ho, ho, ho!"
While they were crossing the street, their stalker shifted and took another drag from his joint, determinately looking ahead. He was a big guy, but Tim was confident he could take him in a fight—for reasons he couldn't quite put his finger on.
They hurried into the café and made to the restroom, to change into their work uniforms. Ned emerged in simple pants and shirt, covered by an apron, and headed for the kitchen. Tim adjusted the top of his gold suit, and headed downstairs to the basement, where the not-quite-legal gambling took place.
The basement was decorated much like the ground floor, with a design that called back to the speakeasies of the Roaring Twenties. A radio was on, playing some news updates. It was early yet, and the room looked to be empty. The gambling room would open up for business in about twenty minutes. As Tim finished descending the stairs and strode into the room, someone in the corner moved, making him jump. It was Tommy Chicago. The driver was sitting in a little chair near a decorative mirror, where the little red radio sat on a shelf underneath. Chicago was actually dressed halfway decently this time, wearing a red pinstriped suit made from some light, baggy material.
"Tim!" Tommy gasped, then laughed. "I think you took two years off my life!"
Tim watched, unmoved, as Tommy quickly stashed a half-empty bottle of whiskey inside his large suit. "My apologies Mr. Chicago. I didn't realize anyone was down here yet."
Tommy shook his head. "It's fine. So, Ned's got the kitchen, you have the roulette room, and I'll take the main floor."
Tim nodded. "Don't make it look obvious that you're looking for information on the bird."
"Hey, relax. I'm a natural." Tommy assured him.
Tim approached the mirror Tommy sat near, and checked behind it. He explained to Tommy, "I'm searching for any hidden safes that Indiana might not have informed you about."
Tommy shrugged. "I've already checked this place twice over, but go ahead." He sat lazily in his chair, watching Tim move around the room, checking all the mirrors and paintings. "So, who's watching Kaaren tonight?"
"Ned's arranged for some neighbors to look after her." Tim said. "Though I'm certain she's capable of keeping herself safe. From what he's told me about her, she's seen worse times."
Tim felt a sense of protectiveness for the young woman, for reasons he wasn't certain of. She reminded him of someone he'd once known, had once looked after. It was almost driving him crazy that he couldn't remember who it was.
Tommy hauled himself up from his chair and stretched. Along with his baggy suit, he wore Mickey Mouse necktie. He grabbed his signature fedora off the counter next to the radio, adjusted the joker card stuck in the brim, and put it on.
"Is that a zoot suit?" Tim asked curiously.
"Yeah." Tommy said. "What of it?"
Zoot suits were popular among youths of African American and Hispanic descent. Seeing it on a skinny white boy was…strange. Tim made a face that might replace a shrug, and continued checking the room.
"Another question Chicago," Tim said, glancing under the table. "Does Kitty Indiana have any friends or enemies with facial art?"
Tommy, who'd been sneaking another swig from his bottle, stopped and made a face. He sloshed the booze in his mouth a second before swallowing and replying. "Big Indian fellow, tattoo over his eye?" Tommy placed three fingers over his forehead, mimicking the tattoo.
"Yes." Tim said. "He seemed to be spying on Felix and me." Tim briefly summed up his and Ned's encounter with the man, over at the restaurant.
"I know that guy. His name's Charles Liberty." Tommy confirmed. "We served in the same troop in the War. I just ran into him earlier today. He hates me. I've got no idea what he'd want from you or Ned, though. Maybe he just fancies you," Tommy laughed.
Uncertain whether Tommy was joking or not, Tim said, "He seemed to 'fancy' Miss Indiana's singer, Annie Hanson. He—"
The radio made Tim stop.
"…Mickey Kazon, suspected to have ties with the Mafia, was found dead in his home this morning…"
Tim and Tommy both watched the radio.
"You, uh, heard about that murder this morning?" Tommy asked Tim.
"Yes." Tim noted Tommy's attempt to look "cool." "Did you know him?"
Tommy shook his head. "Me, no. I never met him, directly."
Tim understood the subtext. He shouldn't be surprised, he realized, that Mickey Kazon would have come in contact with Kitty Indiana's gang. Tommy had probably run across some of Kazon's underlings.
"This murder doesn't involve us," Tim asked Tommy, "Does it?"
Tommy ran a hand through is hair. "I…don't think so…I hope not…this is kind of a messy business, so it's sometimes hard to…" he stopped, to listen to the rest of the report.
"One suspect is already behind bars. John Torres, age 49, allegedly had an argument with Kazon the night before, and threatened to…"
Tommy's eyes widened slightly.
"Someone you know?" Tim asked.
Tommy gave his head a tiny shake. "Don't think so. It's a common enough last name."
"…may now be a second suspect, who witnesses described as a short man with gray hair, and unusually large eyes."
Now it was Tim's turn to freeze.
"Witnesses say he wore a long coat and a stripped scarf. One witness said that the man was at the bar with Kazon, along with Torres, but did not interact with Torres. The witness described the man as 'staring at Kazon, like he hated him,' and left the bar only minutes after Kazon left. Anyone who sees this man is urged to contact the police…"
Tim stared at the radio, as the report ended, and switched to a jazzy tune.
"Tim?" Tommy looked at the detective. "Someone you know in that report?"
Tim thought it over. "Not likely…"
That was impossible. Or at least so improbable, it wasn't an idea even worth entertaining.
And yet, every bit of that description…
"Mr. Excelsior! Mr. Chicago."
Tim and Tommy both turned at the sound of Indiana's voice.
"Miss Indiana!" Tim flashed a toothy smile. "It's good to see you."
The café owner was standing at the top of the stairs, smiling down at them. She wore that same red, pirate-like outfit she'd worn the day he'd met her. Staring down at them from the top of the stairs, with that lacy collar and eye patch, Indiana looked more than ever like a pirate queen. Tommy was reminded of what she could do to him and Excelsior, if she found out about their agenda.
"You about ready to set up shop, Mr. Excelsior?" Indiana asked.
Tim nodded. "Indeed."
"Good. I think tonight's gonna be busy." She looked at Tommy. "You gonna try to make some money tonight, Chicago?"
Tim realized she was asking Tommy if he planned on gambling tonight.
Tommy shrugged. "I think I'll socialize for a little while first."
Kitty and Tommy headed back up the stairs, to the main floor. Tim turned back to the roulette wheel, his mind racing. Mickey Kazon, a gangster Kitty had some interaction with, was dead. The suspect in jail might be related to someone Tommy Chicago knew. One of Tommy's old war buddies was spying on him and Felix. And the other suspect to Kazon's murder, out on the loose, sounded for all the world like someone Tim had dealt with and ultimately "put away," two years ago.
Annie was shaking as she dressed herself for the night's performance. She slipped into a long gown of an iridescent, dark blue material that would've been a tube top, if not for one thick strap of fabric cutting across her chest. She hesitated to step out from behind the changing wall, frightened she'd see Bruna Rike sitting in the room waiting for her. To her relief, the monster of a woman wasn't there. She sat at her mirror to do her jewelry and makeup. She left her hair as it was, with the roll over her forehead and the rest sitting over her shoulders. As she put on her diamond chandelier earrings, she was painfully reminded by her reflection in the mirror of her connection to Bruna Rike.
All the men thought her metallic blotches, gold hair, and blue eyes were alluring. That quiet Indian, whose name she didn't even know, found her alluring. If he knew who else had once welcomed her "Aryan" looks, and given her a place to fit in despite her disease—the thought of him finding out made her sick.
He'd probably be at the café tonight. And she had a strong feeling Bruna Rike would be there too.
When the curtain opened, and Annie began her first number—"Why Don't You Do Right"—she saw him at a table close to the stage. He was conversing casually with some other patrons at a table next to him, but his black eyes kept wandering back to her. Her voice wavered slightly, which the crowd seemed to interpret as deliberate inflections in her song. She forced her eyes away from him, and scanned the rest of the crowed as she sang. (Multitasking was something Annie was unusually good at.) Tommy Chicago was by the bar, flirting with a couple of women. Harry Kimitsu was behind her of course, among the band. Kitty Indiana was making rounds around the tables, socializing with her customers.
She was almost finished with her song, when she saw the Nazi enter the café. Bruna strode in wrapped in a silver fox skin coat, carrying herself like she owned the place. She didn't make eye contact with Annie, but marched on smugly as if she knew Annie was looking at her.
"Seven looks so pretty," Naomi lamented, leaning on the consol in Astrometrics.
While the Doctor and Vorik discussed how to get through to the crew, some of Seven's assistants in Astrometrics were keeping tabs on the holodeck. The showing had been moved from Engineering to Astrometrics, as the Engine crew needed to focus on getting the dead warpcore and other systems up and running again, without distractions. Tal Celes and both of the Delaney twins were on duty in Astrometrics, and allowed Naomi to eavesdrop, in part because the girl knew Seven of Nine so well. While the women did the scientific work, Naomi's job was to keep an eye on the senior officers in the holodeck, and note anything significant that might hint to what was going on.
"She looks gorgeous." Jenny Delaney agreed.
Naomi knew it was Jenny, because she was wearing the green uniform. Since the twins were identical, and changed their hairstyles too often to go by that, their uniform colors were the only way Naomi had ever been able to tell them apart.
"But," Jenny Delaney went on, "why she's on that stage is driving me up a wall. What's the point?"
Her gold-uniformed sister Megan shook her head. "Just part of the program. I'm still not convinced anyone did this on purpose. We've had malfunctions lead to catastrophes before, just a chain of events…"
"Like what?" Tal Celes, the jumpy Bajoran crewman, asked.
"Well," Megan stared up at the ceiling. "That Fair Haven program, for starters. The aliens entering Tom's Captain Proton program…that Beowulf thing way back in year one…"
"But in those cases," Jenny pointed out, "the malfunctions weren't so…complete. I mean, this like someone anticipated us trying to get in and communicate with the crew, and blocked every possible way they could. It reminds me of when Seska's hologram took over Tuvok's Insurrection Alpha program, but the senior staff deleted her from the program for good."
Naomi looked at the three women. "Maybe Seska had a backup hologram somewhere."
Megan shook her head. "We've checked all the holodeck files upside-down and inside-out. There's no trace of that program anywhere on the ship. Believe me, after that incident, a lot of people went to extra lengths to make sure that bitch wouldn't be coming back to haunt us again."
Megan was a former Maquis, and like most of the others onboard, held a deep personal hatred for the Cardassian spy. Tal and Jenny seemed to empathize with Megan's distain for Seska. Tal had not appreciated learning that one of the other Bajorans aboard—one who'd claimed to have lived through the same horrors Tal had under Cardassian occupation—had turned out to be a Cardassian herself. Jenny, who'd transferred to Voyager after learning about Janeway's mission to capture the Maquis ship her sister was on, was also sympathetic.
"I don't know," Jenny said finally. "That Seska hologram sure seems to know a lot more than she's letting on."
"That was always Seska's attitude." Megan said. "Before the big reveal I just thought she did it to sound smart. Now I think she did it to confuse us. It's just part of how Chakotay and B'Elanna and everyone else would remember her. Just like Kes acting sweet, and B'Elanna's father being a jerk."
Jenny shrugged, and turned back to her consol.
Naomi folded her arms on the consol and stared back at the screen. It was really maddening, watching Seven, Captain Janeway, Harry, and the others in such danger, and being unable to do anything about it.
God damn it.
He was supposed to be following Tim Excelsior, and finding that bird. Billie was counting on him. A lot of other people, who he hadn't mentioned to his secretary, were also counting on him. The couple Charles had been conversing with told him a Colored man with pointed ears had been hired as the new roulette wheel runner, and was probably downstairs. Charles should be down there. But he couldn't force himself to leave his table as long as Annie Hanson was singing.
Come to think of it, wouldn't it be a good idea to get to know another of the workers here? Find out about Excelsior that way?
But the girl might be onto him. The way she'd left so abruptly in the coffee shop earlier. The way she kept glancing at him now, without looking happy to see him. Of course, it could be that she was afraid to be seen with a non-white man. With that disease all over her face, maybe she was afraid he might drag her social status down even further. Yet she hadn't seemed to mind his heritage one bit, when he'd told her. And of all places in the country to have an interracial relationship, one could do far worse than California. No, he decided. It wasn't the race issue that bothered her. It was something concerning some business she had. This revelation brought a smile onto Charles' face, not only because it meant she still might be interested in him, but also because he now had an excuse to stay near her. He had to find out what she was up to, and what connections she had to the bird statue.
Her song ended, but her time on the stage didn't. She had another number, a slow tune with a steady beat, which Charles had heard on the radio a few times. It was usually sung by a man, but Annie put her own sultry spin on the tune.
"One more kiss dear…one more sigh…"
"Charles!"
No.
Charles glanced up, and saw Tommy Marsalis standing over his table, holding a drink. Was that a zoot suit he was wearing? With a Mickey Mouse tie? And a hat, indoors? Stuck in the brim was a joker card, a winged air force pin, and what looked like a seagull's feather.
"Can I have a drink with you?"
Tommy pulled out a chair, seating himself even as Charles said loudly and rudely, "No."
Tommy chuckled. "You despise me, don't you."
Charles stared at Tommy a moment, then lit himself a new cigarette. "If I gave you any thought I probably would."
"Casablanca!" Jenny Delaney suddenly explained.
Naomi, Megan and Tal stared at her.
"That line—that 'you despise me'—that's from an old Earth film, 'Casablanca.' Remember Megan, that's one of the films I downloaded from the ship's database, that we watched on my monitor? "
Megan was slowly nodding. "Yeah, that's the one we told Tom to watch, to get ideas for this noir program. What of it?"
"Tom hasn't seen it yet, Megan. He told me, two days ago when he was gonna take the senior staff to his program's premier. He said he hadn't gotten a chance to watch it yet, but might make changes to his program later if he got ideas. He and Chakotay are quoting movies they haven't seen, Megan."
Megan frowned with her eyes.
"So," Tal broke in, "what you're saying is, that movie quote didn't come from Paris's subconscious. The person in charge of this program brainwashed him with it?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying." Jenny said. "So that whole theory we had before, about Seska and Kes and all the other crazy coincidences coming from everbody's subconscious—I think it's targ maneuver now. This is not a malfunction. Someone is paying games with our senior staff."
Megan began typing furiously at a wall panel. "I'm gonna check to see if anyone's accessed our quarters' programs, Jenny. The films we've downloaded, our logs…" after a minute or so, she stopped, and said, "Well how about that."
Tal, Jenny and Naomi stared at her.
"How about what?" Jenny asked.
"It's encrypted." Megan turned back to the other girls. "Looks like someone did hack into our information, and then covered his or her tracks. I'll eat my words Sis, you were right. Someone's deliberately messing with us." She looked like she had more to say, and it looked like it was going to be bad news.
Jenny stood with her arms folded, and raised her eyebrows, urging her sister to continue.
"This should be impossible," Megan finished. "But I think it has Seska written all over it."
A/N: Spock's beard, I hate writing technobabble.
If you're frustrated by how slow-moving this story is, you're not the only one. I have a LOT of exposition to cram into the holographic scenario, before I can get the story in the "real" world moving. I'm hoping the next chapter will be the last for introducing the all the necessary characters for the scenario, so I can actually start to move the plot forward.
Also, the song "One More Kiss Dear" can be found on the soundtrack to "Blade Runner"—though I've no idea if it was a "real" song before that movie.