VOY - String Theory 2 - Fusion (c)

by Star Trek

  “Computer, belay that order!” the Doctor shouted as he rematerialized.

  Seven inclined her head as she replied, “It might comfort you to know that the computer would not have accepted your request, had you found the presence of mind to utter it before your patient locked your program out.”

  “The computer should have accepted it,” the Doctor replied with concern. “As chief medical officer I outrank all members of this crew in matters relating to their physical well-being.”

  “A distinction I have rectified so that Tuvok will no longer be able to disable your program,” Seven said simply. “The chief of security’s override capability has been taken offline for the time being, though I am certain that it was only put in place for your own protection.”

  “Protection from what?” the Doctor asked annoyed.

  “A hostile intruder who might wish to tamper with your program,” Seven suggested.

  “Well…thank you,” the Doctor said, then turned to examine the progress of the parasite, adding, “Although I realize it is impossible to be prepared for every eventuality, I would hope that when the hostile intruder and the chief of security are temporarily one and the same, someone would take the time to inform me that he can override my autonomous subroutines.”

  “I am certain the captain would have addressed the issue, Doctor, had she not been abducted shortly after Tuvok was brought back on board,” Seven replied.

  “I’d like to think you’re right,” the Doctor said caustically, failing to convince either himself or Seven that this was true. “Despite the progress we’ve made over the years,” he added bitterly, “I’m still usually the last to be considered, consulted, or informed until whatever crisis the crew was facing had gotten seriously out of hand.”

  Seven found that she could not honestly contradict him and decided that for the moment the Doctor’s energies were best spent addressing Tuvok’s condition, but as she started to return to the cargo bay and complete her work on the nanoprobes on her own, Chakotay called over the comm system, “Attention all personnel, we are instigating a low-level ion sweep of Voyager and the array. It is possible this action will antagonize the creatures we have detected aboard the array. Red alert.”

  As the computer responded, sickbay was bathed in a flashing red glow. Seven’s implants tingled as a barely detectable hum cut the air indicating the presence of charged particles.

  A few seconds later, the ion sweep was complete and Seven was halted at the door to sickbay by the sound of dismay in the Doctor’s voice.

  “Oh, my,” he said.

  Turning, Seven immediately saw the object of his alarm. Tuvok’s torso, neck, and head were engulfed in a mass of flowing translucent tentacles that pulsed with volatile energy at several points where the tentacles penetrated his skin.

  “Is that the parasite?” Seven asked.

  “It is. Apparently it shares the multiphasic properties of the creatures aboard the array.”

  Seven shuddered involuntarily. She knew all too well what it was to have her body’s systems invaded by a hostile entity. The Borg had perfected the technique. Though she was about to perform a similar procedure by infecting the Betasis with modified Borg nanoprobes, and was certain that the means did justify the ends in this particular case, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret for the neural network that would be compromised and overrun, just as Tuvok’s body had been violated by this parasite. For a moment, B’Elanna’s initial revulsion at Seven’s suggestion seemed not only comprehensible, but also appropriate.

  Nonetheless, Seven completed the modifications within the next half-hour and forced the regret from her mind as she returned to the Betasis to all but assimilate its neural network.

  Blessed be the All-Knowing Light. Through Him we are bound to what is and the beyond. Time cannot contain Him, but in its fullness will restore the harmony which was broken. Created in His divine image, we toil as one to expand our knowledge. We suffer as He suffered, oppressed by those who fear His truth. We will not raise our hands in violence against those who are blind. Our war is not with them, but within ourselves. The path to peace is lit by the fires of creation. We must strive daily to keep those fires alive so that when He returns He will find us ready to stand beside Him in Gremadia. Only there will we taste life beyond time. To walk in His presence is to know eternity.

  Neelix read these words aloud, pondering their deeper meaning. The Monorhan belief system contained within the poetic images of Dagan was beautiful, to be sure—more lovely than most, he had to allow. In his travels he had encountered many such mythologies. Most races in his experience grappled with a definition of self, and as many as not found it comforting to ascribe their existence to the efforts of some separate but benign entity. Neelix had no personal context for such a belief, as Talaxians had always framed their morals and values around personal responsibility and close family ties.

  It had been many months since Neelix had faced his darkest personal crisis of faith. A protomatter explosion had actually killed him, and only through the intervention of Borg technology had his life been restored. He had been raised on stories of the Great Forest and had believed fervently up until that day that when he died he would begin his afterlife at the base of the Great Tree, welcomed into eternity by those members of his family who had died before him. He had been revived with no such memory and for a time had struggled with the possibility that there was no afterlife. Although this belief had never defined his life, he found it almost impossible to continue living with the knowledge that at the end of one’s life there was nothing at all. In time he had come to see that whatever might or might not exist after one died, there was such goodness in life to cherish that to end one’s life prematurely would simply be a waste.

  Difficult as it was to relate to on a personal level, however, Neelix tried to put himself in the shoes of the Monorhans, particularly those of the Fourteenth Tribe, whose apparent suffering in Dagan’s time would be given meaning at some distant future date when they would participate in a great battle fighting on the side of their god.

  What struck Neelix most was that, if he was reading Dagan correctly, the Monorhans actually believed that they could interact with their supreme being while they were still alive. Turning his thoughts to the Ocampa, he considered their relationship to the Caretaker, comparing and contrasting it with that of the Monorhans and their All-Knowing Light.

  “…the harmony which was broken,” he said to himself, and images of Ocampa before the disaster that had forced them into the underground caverns sustained by the Caretaker flooded his memory. His first stolen moments with Kes had taken place the night he entered Jabin’s camp, as he had so many times before, and was introduced to the Kazon’s new servant. As Kes tended the fire, well out of earshot of her sleeping captors, she had spoken in a rich whisper of the Caretaker and her people’s love for him. Though Neelix had always given the Caretaker’s array a wide berth, he had known that a powerful and technically advanced alien or aliens had inhabited it. To hear this beautiful woman-child speak of his benevolence and special relationship with her people almost made him long to share the confidence and faith such a relationship nurtured.

  But even Kes had been wise or at least rebellious enough to see that the Caretaker need not be a divine being to enter into that relationship. What she had been less willing to accept at first, though had eventually made her own peace with, was that the entity she had been raised to believe acted only in the best interests of her people did so out of a tremendous sense of guilt. The Caretaker had been somehow responsible for the disaster that left the planet bereft of nucleogenic particles and unable to sustain life.

  …the harmony which was broken.

  That was it. The Caretaker had forever destroyed the natural balance and harmony of Ocampa. Perhaps the All-Knowing Light had been responsible for a similar disaster on or around Monorha. The battle that was to come was meant to restore that harmony. Monorhan space was an anomaly, much li
ke Ocampa after the Caretaker’s intervention. Perhaps the All-Knowing Light would return only when he had found a way to repair the anomaly that he had in part created.

  But Dagan’s visions were also filled with images of the “Others.” These beings seemed to be every bit as powerful as the All-Knowing Light, and for reasons that eluded Neelix, they seemed to stand against the All-Knowing Light in his desire to restore the harmony that had been broken.

  Neelix’s musings were interrupted by a call from Samantha Wildman. Naomi was restless and asking for a story. A few moments later he found himself perched at her bedside, softly relating the story that always calmed her the most, that of the Great Forest.

  Even if it was a lie, as big a lie as the All-Knowing Light and the Others, it was a lie that was at least filled with hope. The more Neelix turned the writings of Dagan over in his mind the less he found anything remotely comforting. Life itself was a battle, even if one did not involve oneself in the quarrels of beings who could destroy an entire planet or system. But the fate of the Monorhans seemed as intimately entwined with the fate of their All-Knowing Light as the Caretaker and the Ocampa. Dagan had obviously believed that his people were headed toward a cataclysm worthy of a Talaxian epic song.

  As Naomi fell into a restless slumber, Neelix reached beyond his doubts and silently asked the spirits of his mother, his father, and his beloved sister, Alixia, to watch over his goddaughter in the days to come. If they were truly as dark as Dagan had foretold, and if Voyager was now to play a part in those days, they would need all the help they could get. To know eternity might be a good thing, but for his sake, and the sake of the angelic little girl who now possessed the largest part of his heart, he hoped they would not have to face it for many, many years.

  For the exhausted Talaxian, bathing in the warmth of Naomi’s soft, rhythmic breath, only this moment mattered.

  Eternity could wait.

  Kathryn stood on the porch of her mother’s house. A replica of an ancient architectural form called “craftsman,” the home was extravagantly large by the utilitarian standards of the Federation. But her mother had taken such pride in her meticulous maintenance of the house, and filled it with so many loving reminders of the people who inhabited it, that few who ever entered were cognizant of its size. What was overwhelming was the coziness of each room, the subtle patterns in the wallpaper bringing out the framed images of seascapes and snowcapped mountains that were her mother’s favorites. Most of the furnishings were also antiques. There was no sofa as comfortable in the quadrant as the one in her family living room, which Kathryn had fallen asleep on countless times as a young girl and teenager, usually with a book or padd lying across her chest.

  But among the home’s most welcoming touches were the aromas that always lured one from the entry hall straight through the dining room to the large kitchen. It was filled with the best the past and present had to offer in terms of appliances.

  As Kathryn threw open the front door, she hoped that the first smell that would meet her nose would be Gretchen Janeway’s famous caramel brownies. If the fates were really smiling on her, Phoebe would also be visiting, and waiting with a pot of coffee made from freshly ground beans.

  The first thing she noticed, however, once she had closed the door behind her, was the absence of all sound.

  “Mother?” she called curiously.

  Only the stark incongruous silence answered her.

  Stepping past the foyer into the living room, she saw that her mother, wherever she was, must have been doing her spring cleaning. Long-forgotten drawings, toys, and padds from Kathryn’s childhood were strewn about amid half-packed boxes and plastic storage bins.

  As she moved toward a box that was overflowing with soft plush animals, her face broke into a wide grin of reminiscence. She pulled from the pile a small green and purple mouse she had once named Sneakers. A favorite toy, it had been a gift from her father when she was four…perhaps five years old. For many months, Sneakers had accompanied her everywhere, perching at her small desk while she played basic math games on her padd, sitting on her shoulder while she read her first stories, and nestled into the crook of her arm when she curled into a ball of sleep at night.

  The flood of pleasant memories was overwhelming. Turning toward the bay windows that lined the back of the room, she called again, “Mother, where are you?”

  But again, there was no answer.

  Instead, the panes of the window began to shimmer. Indiana summers could be ruthlessly hot, and on many occasions, seated beneath one of the shade trees in the backyard, Kathryn had watched fascinated as the heat rising from the earth became visible in flowing waves.

  But the windows weren’t the only things shimmering with heat. Turning to the closed doors that separated the living room from her father’s study, she saw a small figure emerge from the doors before her. Though at first glance it seemed that this delicate being had walked through the doors from the study, Kathryn was certain that somehow it had once been part of the door. How it had freed itself, she could not imagine.

  Kathryn’s first assumption was that this was a little girl. The figure had long, flowing locks of silver and blue hair, flecked with tiny sparks that reflected light in all directions. But there was a decidedly masculine character to the child’s face, and its soft gray smock betrayed nothing of its gender.

  The child said nothing, only gazed contentedly at her with its solemn little eyes.

  “Who are you?” Kathryn asked with friendly curiosity.

  The child opened her mouth to speak, but the sounds that flew forth were an incoherent babble that Kathryn could make no sense of.

  Undeterred, she tried another question.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Kathryn didn’t know whether or not she was more surprised by the fact that when the child spoke again she could understand the words perfectly, or by the words themselves.

  “I am holding up the doors.”

  Kathryn started to smile.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “What else is there for me to do?” the child replied.

  Kathryn looked around the room, considering the multitude of childhood riches that sat before her.

  “We have lots of toys. Would you like something to play with?” she asked.

  The child looked about, and said, “I should really stay here and hold up the doors.”

  “Don’t you ever play?” Kathryn persisted. “Here,” she continued, holding Sneakers out to within the child’s reach, “this mouse is one of my favorites. His name is Sneakers…why don’t you play with him?”

  The child cocked her head, considering the stuffed mouse. There was no innocent mischief in her eyes, only a cold calculating consideration that was too adult to belong on the small face.

  “Go ahead,” Kathryn urged gently. “We can play together if you like.”

  The child reached for the toy, and in a flash it was pulled from Kathryn’s hand on an invisible thread and landed firmly in the child’s arms. She petted it lovingly for a moment as Kathryn smiled. Then her head cocked to the side again in that strange quizzical fashion, and suddenly Sneakers was alive. Held in the child’s firm grasp, a purple and green mouse nestled and burrowed, his whiskered nose sniffing the air greedily.

  The child mimicked him, and to Kathryn’s surprise she saw tiny whiskers sprouting from the child’s cheeks at the base of its nose. The plain gray smock was streaked with wide swaths of purple and green, bleeding into existence as if they were sucked from Sneakers’s flesh.

  Then the child began to laugh.

  If Kathryn had ever found laughter comforting or pleasant, those memories were blotted out as the eerie, shrieking laughter of the child echoed through the house.

  Kathryn took an involuntary step back, suddenly feeling the urgent necessity of putting as much distance as possible between herself and the strange laughing creature. Her foot met something solid behind her. Turning, she saw another child reach
ing out to her.

  This one was definitely more feminine than the first. Long jet black hair was coiled atop her head in dozens of looping curls, and her face was painted with bright streaks of silver and gold.

  The girl reached past Kathryn and grabbed several wooden blocks painted with the letters of the alphabet and single-digit numbers. As Kathryn watched in alarm, the symbols on the blocks unhinged themselves at the girl’s touch and rose in the air above her head, flying about the room. For a moment, Kathryn saw complicated equations forming and re-forming, but within seconds she could make no sense of the strange girl’s game.

  The mouse-child was still laughing, scurrying about the room on all fours, chasing Sneakers around, and in the process knocking over anything and everything in her path.

  Instantly, there were children everywhere. Some emerged from thin air, others climbed out of the cushions of the sofa or the folds of the drapes her mother had made, others pulled themselves from the half-empty boxes and bins.

  Each child had its own color and look. And each was as different as the elements. Some, like the first child, took on vague characteristics of the items they touched. Others blended and melted into one another as they found an object of mutual interest and struggled with one another to gain full ownership of it.

  Within moments, Kathryn was standing in the midst of one of her worst nightmares. Many years ago, her sister had taken a position at a children’s summer camp, and on a short break from the Academy, Kathryn had visited her sister there and watched with a firm sense of her own deficiencies as Phoebe had gamboled and tumbled with her young charges in an open field on a hot summer afternoon. She had understood instinctively that while children could be adorable and magical in their way, she was not constituted for their care. Phoebe had taken such delight in their games, while Kathryn’s gut had cried out to impose some sort of order and discipline on their unstructured play.

  What had been her mother’s beautiful and cozy living room was now a full-fledged disaster site. The strange children were everywhere. Kathryn could not have cut a path through them even if she had wanted to. Finally, in a moment of desperate frustration, she cried out at the top of her lungs.