Star Trek: Voyager - 042 - Protectors

by Kirsten Beyer

  At last, the worry lines creasing Gretchen’s face opened into a soft smile. “Kathryn,” she said softly.

  “Yes, mother.” Kathryn nodded. “It’s me.”

  Gretchen brought her hands to her mouth, an obvious effort to contain the emotion ready to overspill them. Her eyes glistened as they remained glued to those of her daughter.

  Kathryn felt her own smile blooming as she reached for the sides of the screen in an unconscious desire to pull her mother closer to her.

  “Are you all right?” Kathryn asked.

  “You’re alive,” Gretchen managed, as if that were answer enough.

  It almost was.

  “I’ll be back on Earth in two days. I have to get settled in San Francisco first, but as soon as I’m able, by dinner at the latest, I’ll transport home.”

  “Give me a little warning?” Gretchen asked. “I can’t wait, but don’t just pop into the living room. I don’t know if my heart could take it.”

  Kathryn chuckled. “I won’t. I promise.”

  After a moment, Gretchen’s face fell into softer lines. She was the source of Kathryn’s emotional balance. No matter how extreme the circumstances she faced, Kathryn had rarely witnessed any that could conquer her mother’s resolve. “Admiral Montgomery notified me a week ago that I should expect your call. He did his best to explain the circumstances, but Kathryn, I still don’t understand. Were they wrong when they declared you dead?”

  Kathryn sighed. Her mother possessed a sharp intellect and had spent more than thirty years married to a Starfleet officer. But she had always been a civilian and was never inclined to dig too deeply into the scientific wonders that had claimed the hearts of her husband and oldest daughter. “They weren’t, as far as it was possible for them to know,” Kathryn replied. “They didn’t lie to you, or put you through this intentionally. The rest, I want to explain to you in person. Some of it, I’m still not sure I understand.”

  “It’s okay, my darling,” Gretchen assured her. “We’ll figure it out together. Whatever you need from me is yours.”

  “I know that, Mother. And I love you so much. I’m so sorry you had to . . .” But sadness too deep for expression stilled her words.

  “Don’t be,” Gretchen chided her. “You came back. That’s all I care about now.”

  Kathryn nodded.

  Wiping away her own tears with her palms, Gretchen said, “Phoebe is on her way home now. She’ll be in tomorrow night. Should I contact anyone else to be here when . . . ?”

  “No,” Kathryn replied quickly. “Not at first, please. I just want to see you, both of you,” she corrected herself quickly. “The rest can wait until I’m a little more settled.”

  “Of course.” Gretchen nodded.

  They spent the next few minutes chatting about more mundane matters, glorying in the simplicity of familiar concerns and events. Too soon, Kathryn realized that their communications window was about to close.

  “I need to go,” Kathryn said. “We’re still a ways out and can’t maintain a longer connection en route.”

  Gretchen nodded. “That’s fine. Please be safe for the next few days.”

  “You have my word,” Kathryn assured her.

  “I think I’m going to do a stew. That’ll keep in case you run late,” Gretchen decided, “and obviously, my caramel brownies.”

  “As long as Phoebe makes the coffee,” Kathryn teased lightly.

  “Kathryn, you aren’t still drinking more than a few cups a day are you?” Gretchen suddenly demanded. “You promised you were going to cut back.”

  Almost fifty years later, some things between mothers and daughters just never changed.

  “I am,” Kathryn replied. “But I really don’t think this is the time for me to make any other really big life changes, okay, Mom?”

  Gretchen’s disappointment was evident, but she held her peace.

  “I’ll see you soon,” Kathryn assured her.

  Gretchen nodded as she quickly, almost involuntarily, reached for the screen. Kathryn did the same, their fingertips touching though thousands of light-years remained between them.

  “Don’t worry,” Kathryn insisted as the image distorted and was quickly replaced by the standard insignia.

  Alone again, she took a few moments to bask in the comfort of their brief connection. So much of her life had been lived beyond her mother’s arms. Weeks, months, and, unintentionally, years had passed between conversations in the past. But it didn’t matter. When she was younger, Kathryn had believed that who she was had been shaped by her father. She had followed in Edward Janeway’s footsteps. She was with him on a shuttle test mission when he was killed. He had been the taskmaster little Kathryn Janeway had always striven to please. Only now did she begin to see how much of her intestinal fortitude had come from her mother. Challenging as it was to live among the stars, the greater challenge by far must be borne by those left behind, who waited.

  She could almost feel her mother’s arms around her again. There, she knew she was loved without condition or reservation. And whatever parts of herself Kathryn might have lost along the way, Gretchen would have kept safe in her heart.

  Two days, she reminded herself, knowing now that they would creep by.

  Forcing these thoughts aside, Kathryn turned her attention to unfinished personal business. She had already prepared a private message for her childhood friend and former fiancé, Mark Johnson. She didn’t want to see Mark via subspace. Too many of their conversations had happened that way. This one needed to happen in person.

  The other person she was most anxious to speak with was Tuvok. They had served together for more than twenty years. Duty had separated them for much of the last few. It was impossible to contact Tuvok directly now as he was on a deep-space assignment in the Beta Quadrant aboard the Titan.

  But she did not want more time to pass without Tuvok receiving word from her, and Kathryn did not doubt that as soon as he was able he would arrange for them to speak. She looked forward to it, just as she had her initial reunions with her former crew aboard Voyager.

  Having ordered the ship’s computer to transmit these messages as soon as Galen was in range of the next communications buoy, she left her desk and sat on her rack. Part of her wanted to rise and spend a little time touring the ship. She knew the Doctor was eager to acquaint her with the most minute details of the amazing creation he had helped design.

  But something stayed her. Kathryn was about to spend the next several weeks being dissected by counselors and her superiors; likely as not, her mother, sister, and old friends as well. She imagined the long hours she would spend talking and chose for now to seek refuge in a few hours of silence.

  The Doctor was annoyed, a state of being he had grown quite accustomed to in the last several days. For the first time, since he had learned of the existence of the Caeliar catoms and the crucial function they played in keeping Seven of Nine alive and healthy, he was actually able to see one. Understanding how they operated, assessing their limitations, hopefully learning how to re-create them would take months, perhaps years, but he was finally well on his way.

  Neither Icheb nor Reg seemed to appreciate the gravity of the moment or the magnitude of his work. Normally this wouldn’t have troubled the Doctor. He had been underappreciated for most of his existence. But the pair had chosen to come to his sickbay to commiserate, thus making it all but impossible for the Doctor to focus his concentration and best efforts on unraveling the technological marvel now before him.

  In Barclay’s case, this was nothing new. The man was brilliant. However, from the first days of their friendship, the Doctor had realized that too many years spent in his technological comfort zone at the expense of a normal, healthy attention to his emotional and social skills had left Reg stunted. His was a staggering intellect, paired with the emotional intelligence of an adolescent male.

  Icheb could be forgiven as he was just beyond his own adolescence. That he possessed any social graces at
all was admirable, when one considered that more than half of his life and his most crucial formative years had been spent in a Borg maturation chamber. Icheb was growing into a disciplined and sensitive young man, and normally the Doctor found his company quite pleasant.

  Today was proving an exception.

  “This is a waste of time,” Barclay opined. “Sometimes I find it impossible to understand Command’s priorities.”

  “As do I, Lieutenant,” Icheb added.

  “Do they not understand the threat posed by Meegan?”

  “If you have provided them with the same data you showed me, they would not have underestimated Meegan,” Icheb said sincerely. “But it is also possible that they are unconvinced that your investigation is likely to reveal further relevant information.”

  “There is no other reason for her to have abandoned the Starfleet shuttle she stole in favor of a mining vessel,” Barclay insisted. “No.” Shaking his head vigorously, he went on. “She took the mining vessel because it served a purpose. Meegan clearly intended to bury the other canisters she stole somewhere in that asteroid field to hide them while she plotted her next move.”

  “It is possible,” Icheb agreed. “But it is also just as likely that she simply wanted to make it more difficult for you to track her. Despite the damage she did to the shuttle, she had to know it would be easier for you to find than the mining vessel. The transfer might have been intended to buy her time.”

  “Don’t try to reason with him, Icheb,” the Doctor pleaded. “Reg remains wedded to his current course because it is the only one likely to produce meaningful information. If you are right, and odds are you are, we are no closer to determining her present whereabouts.”

  At this, both Barclay and Icheb turned to face him, mirroring each other’s puzzled expressions.

  Summoning the subroutine that contained appropriate chagrin when one has trespassed socially, the Doctor added gently, “Both of you might put this time to more productive ends by assisting me.”

  Icheb’s face lit up, while Barclay only crossed his arms and muttered something under his breath.

  “I would be happy to, Doctor,” Icheb enthused as he moved to stand behind the Doctor and immediately began studying his display.

  Though this increased the Doctor’s discomfort somewhat, it was preferable to disengaging his audio-processing subroutines to enable him to ignore their conversation.

  “That is a catom?” Icheb asked softly.

  “Yes.”

  “What aspect of it are you currently analyzing?” Icheb asked.

  “When this catom was part of Seven’s anatomy, it mimicked the organization of a molecule in a neural cell. Shortly after it was removed, its configuration altered completely.”

  “In what way?”

  The Doctor quickly altered the display view to show the catom’s molecular structure both before and after extraction side by side.

  “If I had to theorize, which is all I can do at this point,” the Doctor replied, “I would say that it became less specialized.”

  “That is not entirely unexpected, is it?” Icheb asked as he peered at the screen intently.

  “It was to me,” the Doctor replied.

  “This is programmable matter,” Icheb clarified. “It is possible that it takes its essential coding from the matter that surrounds it, in this case, Seven’s neural tissues. In the absence of any input, it might revert to a neutral state in preparation for receiving new input and reorganizing itself appropriately.”

  “That would suggest a degree of mutability I had not anticipated,” the Doctor noted.

  “Why not?” Icheb asked sincerely.

  The Doctor shrugged. “I supposed I assumed that once programmed to replace Seven’s cortical array, these catoms would not be capable of performing any other function.”

  “As long as they remained within her body, they might not be,” Icheb suggested. “But as with Borg nanoprobes, these catoms must be capable of performing a wide variety of functions. Rather than create them specifically for each function, on their most basic level, the catoms could have been designed to assimilate data from their immediate environment and adapt accordingly.”

  The Doctor looked up at the young man, suddenly glad he had asked for Icheb’s input. As a former drone, Icheb had intuitively seen a connection between the Borg and Caeliar that the Doctor had not yet considered. Given what he understood of the Borg’s origins, the Doctor believed Icheb might be right. Clearly nanoprobes and catoms were unique technologies, the Caeliar’s much more powerful and elegant. But as the Borg had been spawned by the Caeliar, the nanoprobe might be the crudest possible descendent of the catom.

  This explosive train of thought was diverted by the voice of Captain Glenn as she entered the sickbay. “Oh, good,” were the words that drew the Doctor reluctantly back to the present.

  “Good morning, Captain,” Barclay greeted her immediately. “I was just . . .” But here, he was suddenly at a loss.

  “Both Reg and Icheb have been assisting me this morning, Captain,” the Doctor interjected quickly. Annoyed as he was with Reg at the moment, his instinct to protect him was greater than his ire. In Icheb’s case, the statement was actual fact.

  “A happy coincidence for me,” Glenn replied, “as I can now advise you simultaneously of our new orders.”

  “New orders?” Barclay asked, clearly distressed at the thought that this development might further delay his return to the Delta Quadrant.

  Glenn nodded briskly. “As soon as we reach Earth and offload our passengers, we will depart immediately for Starbase 185.” Approaching the Doctor, she continued, “Within the next few hours, you will receive several files from the base’s sickbay on a patient they are currently attempting to treat. They have requested you specifically, Doctor.”

  The Doctor felt himself beaming at the compliment.

  “Do you know anything more?” he asked.

  “You are the only medical officer in Starfleet with first-hand knowledge of Caeliar catoms,” Glenn went on. “While the specifics of your work with Seven of Nine have remained segregated in your personal files, Starfleet is aware of the basics of her transformation. Until now, they have furthered their own studies based upon the sensor readings gained during the Enterprise, Titan, and Aventine’s brief exposure to the Caeliar, as well as the physical evaluations of Seven just after her implants disappeared. That will no longer suffice.”

  “Why not?” the Doctor asked, suddenly alarmed. From the day she had joined the fleet, Seven had specifically requested that the Doctor classify his work on her catoms. Necessity had required that Doctor Sharak be granted access to those files. Counselor Cambridge understood their nature in the broadest possible strokes, but the Doctor understood Seven’s fear that wider dissemination would make her an object of inquiry.

  “Because it appears the patient they are attempting to save is Caeliar,” Glenn replied. “Until we reach the Starbase, you are ordered to suspend all other projects and devote yourself entirely to studying the data they will transmit. I will provide you any assistance I can. I’m sure that once we arrive, they’re expecting a miracle.”

  “The Doctor will not disappoint them,” Icheb said.

  For his part, the Doctor hoped the cadet was right.

  Chapter Five

  VOYAGER

  Tom Paris was catapulted into alertness from a deep sleep. Somewhere nearby, a steady, persistent beeping had begun. The adrenaline rush was likely a result of the combined loud whoosh he associated with fire-suppression systems and the acrid fumes now assaulting his nostrils.

  He was on his feet and at the door separating the family’s sleeping quarters from the main living space in an instant. The deep pounding of his heart ricocheted throughout his entire body.

  Their quarters were filled with smoke, and he could faintly make out the figure of his wife in the middle wielding a hand-held flame suppressant. Surprisingly, Miral slept soundly.

  Lungin
g into the fray, Tom stumbled toward B’Elanna, who was ordering the ship’s fire-response system offline for their quarters. “Stay back!” she ordered Tom, focusing the canister in her hands on what Tom believed was their replicator.

  Tom began to cough violently. B’Elanna ordered the room’s environmental controls to maximize the venting systems to clear the smoke. His wife then turned to him, frustration rolling off her, while he waited for his heart to steady itself. It left him quivering from head to toe: an unpleasant sensation.

  When the room’s air was again clean, Tom asked, “What happened?”

  B’Elanna tossed the empty canister to the deck and moved back to the replicator. “Nothing,” she replied, disgusted. “Go back to bed.”

  “I’m not even sure I’ll be able to sleep tomorrow,” Tom said, joining her before the mess she had just created. Just beneath the viscous fluid now covering the replicator’s surface, he thought he saw exposed control panels. “And the rest of the night is out of the question,” he added. “So what gives?”

  B’Elanna was clearly attempting to figure out the quickest way to clean up the mini-disaster, and she was in no mood to answer questions. “I was hungry,” she replied roughly.

  On the one hand, this was good news. Tom hadn’t heard his wife utter these words in a week. Perhaps the acute morning sickness was beginning to subside.

  On the other hand . . .

  “Did the replicator malfunction?” he asked as gently as possible. Or attack you?

  B’Elanna turned back to him, mortification overtaking indignation. “No,” she admitted.

  Seeing her like this, Tom wanted only to make whatever was wrong better. He tenderly reached out for her, ignoring the acrid fumes and sticky spots, and pulled her close. “Want me to head down to the mess hall and get you something?”

  B’Elanna shook her head against his chest. Finally a muffled explanation met his ears. He had to pull back a little and ask, “You wanted what?”

  “A ghabjebaQ joqngogh,” she repeated.