“My best friend, a guy named Tom Paris, spent the first year of our service together teasing me incessantly. I got used to it, but I never enjoyed it, if you know what I mean,” Kim said.
“I think I do.”
“He and his wife, B’Elanna, had a baby a few months ago. His name is Michael too. Personally, I like that name a lot.”
“My mom used to call me Mike.”
“Is that what you prefer?”
“I guess.”
“Mike it is, then,” Kim said as a shrill screech began to pierce the air around them.
“The hell?” Kim asked, rushing back to the ops station.
Drur’s hands moved swiftly across the panel. “We’ve got something,” he said.
“Can you turn it down?”
Drur did so.
“What is that?”
“That’s the data from the first signal, isolated on a single band,” Drur said, a true smile finally breaking on his face.
Kim smiled back. “You know what else it is?”
“No, sir.”
“Progress,” Kim said. “And you should call me Harry.”
One thought ran ceaselessly through Nancy Conlon’s mind as she stared at the tiny bean floating in the gestational incubator before her. How am I going to do this? Ready or not, she was a mother. Her daughter—at some point I’m going to have to talk to Harry about names—still had months of development ahead of her before she would be able to leave the incubator, but she was alive and healthy and growing, and soon enough would need to be held and fed and taught a million things. Even if Conlon managed to get the ship moving again, her days would likely be quite full. But this little one was going to need more time than regular duty shifts were likely to allow. For a moment she thought of B’Elanna Torres, carrying Michael through the ship in a sling while arranging lessons for her daughter, Miral. Torres made it look easy, but Conlon knew the strain that defined B’Elanna’s existence since her children were born. It wasn’t a bad thing. But it was a hard thing. It required everything a person had to give and then some.
And Conlon had no idea how she was going to manage all of it. In her darker moments, she wondered if she would even have to face that challenge.
When the Doctor entered the room and Conlon tore her eyes from the incubator to greet him, her unease intensified. “You’re not walking in here with good news, are you, Doc?” she asked.
“No,” he replied.
“I take it this means the degeneration continues, despite your recent surgical interventions?”
“Yes,” the Doctor said simply.
“Neurological?”
“Yes. How did you know that?” the Doctor asked.
Conlon knew it was time to come clean, but to say it made it real in a way she would have preferred to deny a little longer. “There have been a few times in the last several days when I haven’t heard things quite clearly.”
“Because they are too soft?”
“No, it’s more like the words don’t make sense in my brain.”
The Doctor nodded. “Auditory processing difficulties. Has your speech been affected?”
“Once or twice,” Conlon admitted.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could say it was surprising, but given these results, it is to be expected.”
Conlon bowed her head, absorbing the blow. When she lifted it again, her eyes were bright, but dry. There was no time now for self-pity. “How long do I have?”
“If we do nothing, a few months at best. I suspect you will find your neurological functions further impaired, perhaps seriously, within the next few weeks.”
This new reality stiffened Conlon’s spine. “Is there anything you can do?”
“There is a possibility I could buy you a little more time, but the treatment regimen, so to speak, is somewhat radical.”
Conlon was intrigued. “When you say radical…?”
“It is a procedure I have successfully completed once before but under our current limitations will be significantly more challenging than last time.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Would you like to sit down?”
“No. I’m done facing this particular demon on my knees or on my back. It wants me, it’s going to find me on my feet,” she replied.
“Good,” the Doctor said. “The days ahead will be a struggle. But I’m glad you’re prepared to fight.” He paused, collecting his thoughts, then continued. “Essentially, I am proposing that we prepare a holographic matrix, transfer your consciousness into it, and place your body in a coma while I continue my efforts to repair your DNA.”
“That’s possible?” Conlon asked, dubious.
“As I said, it has temporarily but successfully been done once before.”
“Can I review your files on the previous transfer?”
“Of course.”
Conlon turned away, tried to take a few steps, but decided the room was much too small for pacing. She settled for placing her hand on the back of a chair resting near the incubator.
“How long would I have to live in a holographic body?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know,” the Doctor replied. “Doctor Sal’s intended treatment regimen depended upon the existence of easily mutable cells to which I do not have access. I will be starting again from square one. I do have her work on Vega Nine to use as a guide, but it could take months to duplicate.”
“And during that time, I would still be able to work?”
The Doctor nodded. “Yes. That is the one upside of our presence on the Galen. There are active holographic projectors throughout the entire ship. As long as the matrix remains stable, you would have free rein.”
It was a lot to process. But one question quickly outpaced the others. “What would it… I mean, can you tell me how it feels to be a hologram?” she asked.
“I cannot tell you precisely what your experience of it would be. It would depend entirely upon the nature of the integration of your consciousness with the holomatrix. There would be obvious differences. You would no longer require rest or need to ingest nutrients, for example.”
“We’re going to be surviving on emergency rations for a long time, Doctor,” Conlon said. “Not needing to eat is a net plus.”
“Then
