Holodeck Program 3462: Heart Heist

Description

Settling in for some downtime, you decide to investigate the holodeck program archives. You discover a program simply titled “Heart Heist”. The program claims to test your mental and physical prowess. Not one to back down from such a challenge, you engage the program. Its description reads as follows:

You are in 1913 London, known in that period as “Earth”. In three days, wealthy debutante Isabella Fenton will be hosting a gala where the famed Sacred Heart Ruby will be on display. The ruby is valued at $50,000. You are to infiltrate the manor, steal the ruby, and make a getaway. How you achieve this objective is ultimately at your discretion.

For this competition, you are tasked with writing a heist story. Your character will have to use the three days to prepare for the heist however they choose. This can include (but is not limited to) things like reconnaissance, bribing guards, or gathering equipment. Let your imagination run wild, it should be fun and… maybe a little bit dangerous. If you wish to have additional information outside of the holodeck experience in your post, place the portion to be graded in a block quote.

Criteria

  • Submissions should be sent through BFMS, and a link to the story should be included with your entry.
  • All submissions must be at least 1,000 words in length.
  • Posts must be written by a single author.
  • Submissions will be graded based on the Bravo Fleet Fiction Rubric. The usage of obvious anachronisms (stunning guards with phasers, transporting into the manor, etc.) will factor negatively into the grading process.

Winners

Submissions

User ID Content Date Entry
Andreus Kohl 2374

https://bravofleet.com/story/86949

 2023-08-17 01:05:51
Complis Libran 2216

Day One

The holograms assumed she was from India, which was fine enough. It allowed her to move about the city freely — at least freely in the physical sense.

It took her a moment to find her way there, though. When the arch disappeared and the cold, sterile smell of the starbase corridors morphed into the putrefied warmth of horse manure and the acrid, strange aroma of gasoline engine exhaust. The aural swirl was no less of an assault than the waves of scent. Indeed, Libran wasn’t sure she had ever heard such and unbridled cacophony. Children screaming, barkers barking, horses whinnying as they pulled the groaning and squealing hulks of ancient carriages. It all would have been rather frightening had it been real.

Since it wasn’t, she dove in. She exalted in the crinoline embrace of the dress that she had allowed the computer to pick out. All around, the people seemed effervescent, loud, all living publicly in the vast commons of the disorganized street. Here, a man in a top hat and greatcoat strode as if he were Chancellor of the Klingon Empire, full of wordless swagger. There, a ragged match girl thoughtlessly poked into the holes of her sooty dress.

As she walked, Complis Libran took it all in with quiet delight. This was an uncanny version of so many recreations she had seen, like a museum turned movie. Advancements in holo-tech allowed researchers to reconstruct what they called “scenes” — small spaces from specific times. In her field of work, Libran had seen these recreations several times, but they were all constructed from archeo-forensic information, records, and imaging. One could stand in the Colosseum as it looked in the Earth year 80 or 1880.

What these recreations could not do, however, is invent places, embellish them, or imbue them with people. Holographic people, at least. To do so was generally considered a professional overreach, and agreeing, Libran had often reinforced the wall between holonovels and other sims and the kinds of professional, historical recreations that academics created with exacting detail and no guesswork. For a long time, LIbran had neglected the far side of the wall, where all the down-time, casino-suite holographic adventures thrived. But for all their wonder and genuine cultural value, the scenes created by scholars were comparatively dull. No historian, archivist, or other professional past-knower would deign to guess at who might populate these places. They certainly had their ideas, which they sometimes even wrote about voluminously, both in fiction and nonfiction, but which they would never put into a public exhibit, lest they suffer the worst of all fates in their present society — a dip in professional renown.

And all of this is why Libran practically hugged the woman shouting at her as she approached the corner of Caxton and Palmer streets. Above her stood a looming red brick building ornamented in a way that reminded Libran of some Bajoran designs. And below the edifice was the young woman, red-cheeked and hoarse, bearing a silk sash that identified her as a suffragette. The idea of not being able to vote struck her as a storybook-level oppression, laughable, so she stopped to chat with the woman and buoy her spirits. Without thinking, Libran has given her real name, which she thought might confound a 19th-century Londoner. Instead, the woman, who was herself called Emily Davison, simply commented on the novel music of “Oriental names.”

For all her study of the past, all her work to organize, connect and make accessible the tangible and ephemeral artifacts of the past, she had assumed that Emily would have treated her as being just as out-of-place as she was; an alien being from the Heavens, and from the future, standing on the cobbles of Caxton Street. Instead, the computer, with its own kind of historical memory, gave Emily a set of assumptions appropriate to her time and place.

Libran was not a half-Bajoran, half-Human who grew up under military occupation and started a life on a disputed colony world. No. Though what she was was just as bizarre and wondrous: A woman from the far reaches of the empire, follower of a religion seen as strange, backwards and perhaps dangerous.

Actually, she thought, it’s pretty close to the truth. And so now she was totally free to move around in what to her was the truly alien world. It was a past brimming with people, their passion and proclivities, their politics and parties.

As coachmen bellowed and cracked their whips behind her, Libran listened to Emily harangue first the social system of the time, and then the specific culprits she had in mind, describing them in minute detail and with terms that were by turns vulgar and erudite.

“And Miss Complis,” Emily intoned. “The worst of them all is the little vicious lioness they call Isabella Fenton and her wretched parents.” Then she turned away from Libran and spit in the street, a behavior Libran knew was beyond the pale for a Victorian woman.

Of course this piqued Libran’s interest, and of course, she also knew the name from the brief description of the holoprogram.

“Call me Libby.”

She decided to insert herself into the drama, an act that felt as foreign as it did exhilarating.

Day Two

It was fun to be part of a little conspiracy, one that didn’t involve, say, existential threats to entire quadrants. When the program’s second day started, Libran was to meet Emily in front of the red facade of Caxton Hall and together, they would make their way, by train, to a place in Surrey where a horse derby, whatever that was, was taking place, and at which Emily would cause scandalous embarrassment to a certain Miss Fenton, ruining her reputation on the eve of her debutante ball, whatever that was.

The journey surprised Libran with its length (interminable) and comfort (non-existent). But the slog gave Emily plenty of time to outline to Libran the folkloric breadth and ferocity of her career as a professional rabble rouser. Emily went into great detail solidifying her dissent bona fides. There had been beatings and imprisonment, hunger strikes, forced feedings on 49 occasions, postbox fires, bombs and three separate break-ins to the Palace of Westminster, all overnight stays.

In between visits to the various ports-of-call in her militant voyage, she swam into the eddies of polemic, lulling and heaving with impassioned rhetoric. Christ extolls us, she proclaimed, to embrace women as social and intellectual equals, to embrace the commonwealth of socialism, and to reject the oppressions of the age.

This all sounded quite good to Libran, if a little quaint. The religious fervor and radical sense of justice, however, was intoxicating. Libran’s eyes lingered on Emily’s for a moment, somehow calm but fiery. The burn of an ember, not a flame. For a moment, as the train lurched on its simulated track, she remembered an office, a man. The dean. Suspending her for her protest. Then Emily made her confession.

She would, she affirmed, make a spectacle of young Miss Fenton, which seemed to Libran satisfactory. Surely Fenton’s response to this would advance the story, and perhaps give Libran some way into the ball. The possibility of turning Emily over to Fenton to curry favor flickered through her mind. But during the race, Emily said, would be her great “coronation.”

Two revelations came fast. First, a derby was, in fact, some kind of horse race. Second, Emily intended to storm the racecourse and disrupt the race.

Libran could not hold back her laughter. And again, the holoprogram did her a favor. Emily grinned and said “It will be triumphant, will it not?” before bursting into her own fit of laughter. As it subsided, Libran wondered if this patently silly plan might be more dangerous than at first blush. Emily was a known quantity to the police. Don’t kings have elite guards? Don’t those who act against the king get the sternest of punishments in this dark age? And aren’t horses rather dangerous anyway?

When they arrived at the place — huge, mobbed with white-frocked masses, stinking — Emily led Libran and a small group of suffragettes that had met them at the train station to the promenade outside the grandstands. As the passersby passed by, one of the suffragettes procured a literal, hand-to-the-Prophets soap box, upon which Emily stood as another pair of the group unfurled a stark white banner. It was printed in the center with an image of a a young woman, a girl really, and around it in fine, sweeping, hand-painted letters: “Miss Isabelle Fenton Invites You To Her Greatest Affair — The Pillage of India!”

A lump formed in Libran’s throat. Suddenly, the eyes of the crowd seemed to be boring into her as she stood with the little group of suffragettes. One of them, a tall dark-haired woman, stood next to Libran, and hooked her arm under Libran’s, giving her a stoic but supportive look before turning to the crowd. Libran realized that she recognized this woman from the train. She had been sitting nearby, but hadn’t interacted with Libran or Emily during the long ride. Curious.

As a canopy of wide-brimmed hats and lacey parasols converged around the group, Emily began her vicious homily. The people of a far-flung region of India, she said, had been taxed into starvation as the colonial masters grew wealthy from their toil. When they resisted by withholding their labor, she claimed, the authorities cracked down with deadly violence. This, she noted, bore some clear resemblance to the treatment of suffragettes, who, even here in the gilded capital of empire, were treated no better than animals. This, Emily said, was part of a global struggle for freedom.

Then she homed in on Miss Fenton. According to the tale, Isabella and her parents, the Colonel and Mrs. Edith Fenton, had just returned from India, where the colonel had helped put down the local rebellion, and who would be, tomorrow night, displaying his greatest jewel.

“It is not his sweet daughter,” Emily hissed, “but the Sacred Heart Ruby!” This was an invaluable treasure, Emily said, a glittering heart ripped right from the bosom of India.

Libran felt as if she would pass out. She briefly considered calling the infirmary. The picture of Isabella — could it be accurate? She looked to be just a child. And this business about India? Libran's paternal grandmother had been from India, but she had never known that side of her family. She hardly knew her father. But to these people, she was India, whatever that meant. It was from her bosom, they reckoned, that the heart had been plucked.

She was palpably relieved when the group moved inside the grounds, to the infield of the racetrack, as the derby was about to begin. The dark-haired woman stood with her and leaned into her.

She said her name was Cloris, and that she was going to help Libran “reclaim” the Sacred Heart Ruby from the “vile” Fentons. She slipped a little card out from the folds of her dress, an invitation for Miss Cloris Collier and a guest. Libran protested, but not much. Wouldn’t the livid and experienced Miss Davison be a better choice?

The deep sadness that passed over Cloris’ face was fleeting. Standing at the turn before the final straightaway, they heard the thunder of hooves as the dusty wave of animal power came around the bend. In a flash, Libran saw Cloris look over to Emily. Davison’s steely gray eyes gave Cloris a look that Libran had only seen allies give each other in the grips of violent conflict; the look of comrades in arms. Then, fleeting, an impish smile. Finally, clutching the flag of the suffragette tricolor, Emily ducked under the railing and onto the track.

It was only a few seconds of horrid violence. Emily sped over to one straggling horse, still moving swiftly around the turn. Libran heard a voice cry “the King’s horse!” and then the dull, wet sound of a hard hit to a soft body. As Emily tried to somehow pin the green, white, and purple onto the horse, its jockey reined it ferociously, and a swirl of dust consumed the scene.

When it cleared, the men in straw hats converged and confirmed that Emily Davison was dead.

Day Three

Libran had left the holodeck for a few minutes. She drank some tea and ate something. She wasn’t thinking much anymore, just running on autopilot. When she returned, it was the next night, and finely dressed people were parading into a vast mansion of a London townhouse. Cloris was there, quiet but resolved. Libran inspected the costume she’d been provided: an elaborate Indian sari in vibrant pink and green silks, embroidered with delicate gold thread. It was very comfortable and, Libran thought, rather flattering. Still, it felt like what it was: a costume.

The climax was upon them. Libran could tell that the program was hoping to up the tension. Cloris was dark and determined, clearly there to push the player along. The grand ballroom was comically ornate, like an old Klingon sarcophagus ship. The room was studded with soldiers sweltering in their stiff, buttoned-up uniforms. And in the loggia next to the ballroom, under the glow of the gaslights, set on a velvet pillow under glass, was the heart.

Cloris chattered throughout the evening, inventing impromptu scenarios for Libran to steal the stone; distractions, speechifying, or a straight up fight with the guards. Libran mostly nodded along. This wasn’t the caper she was interested in anymore. A little rock of photons and force fields wasn’t nearly as compelling as the many little rocks hiding in the cargo holds and museums of the galaxy’s contemporary empires — sometimes including the Federation’s. She caught a glimpse of an Indian soldier in his turban, and she realized she didn’t know what it signified. The Sikh religion, of course, but what did that mean?

From the ballroom, she gazed at the illuminated jewel case through an arched walkway. At the front of the ballroom, Miss Fenton, as bright and delicate as the gold strands of Libran’s sari, stood placing her gloved hand to the lips of a never ending parade of men in tops and tails. At the side of the room, there was a long table bedecked with elaborately wrapped gifts.

What am I here for? she wondered. To ruin a kid’s birthday party? To avenge Emily? For justice? Why, she wondered, do we fight? Why do we kill for stones? It wasn’t their rarity, she concluded. It was the meaning we gave them.

Cloris was now at peak anxiety, practically begging Libran to act.

So she dove in. She took a glass of brandy from a waiter. She approached the first man she saw and asked him for a cigarette. He proffered it obediently, lifting a match to it as she held it in front of her lips. Once it was lit, she poured the brandy on the gift table and set it all alight.

She barely noticed the simulation now. Her mind was busy imagining a biographical entry: Born 2326, Jaipur, Earth. A jeweler by trade. One son, Maury Morris. One granddaughter, Complis Libran. Then another: Born 1886, Udaipur, Earth. Seven daughters and two sons.

People began to scurry immediately. Libran walked through the throng coolly, deterring the panic growing around her as people fled to the exits. She walked into the now-empty loggia as smoke crept along the ceiling. She looked at her beautiful sari once more before ripping a long length of it and wrapping it around her first.

She punched through the glass in one confident swing — the safety protocols were on, after all — and simply lifted the heart from its resting place. She walked out the front of the mansion and through the crowd, sweating in a mass and writhing with fear. As she cleared the mob, she saw a familiar silhouette perched under a streetlamp. It was Cloris. The heavy gem was still in Libran’s hand. She had never hid it. She shouted Cloris’ name, and Cloris shouted back, her voice stuffed with happiness she couldn’t quite express. Libran didn’t know what to say.

She tossed the stone to Cloris.

“For Emily,” Cloris said in a strained voice.

“For Emily,” Libran repeated.

She walked a few more meters, called for the arch, and walked back into the ascetic corridor of the starbase. She had some research to get to.

2023-08-16 16:03:16

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