Atonement

by Kirsten Beyer

  Ensign Gwyn had perfected the bouncing technique to both Commander Torres’s and Lieutenant Conlon’s satisfaction. She had spent the previous day refining her skills in simulations and demonstrating the particulars to the Calvert’s helmsman, EC Pluek.

  In the final hour, Lasren and his counterpart on the Calvert synched their comm systems to allow for continuous contact. Lieutenant Aubrey reinforced Voyager’s shields with as many power sources as Lieutenant Conlon was willing to divert. Kim took the ship to yellow alert. Finally, both ships engaged their impulse engines at one-quarter speed and entered the wastes.

  Within minutes, Voyager was bucking and jolting intermittently as Gwyn adjusted to the many new obstacles now in her path. The subspace ruptures in the area were easy enough to navigate, but the distortions of normal space where they intersected were more difficult to predict. Gwyn was flying more by feel than data.

  The first two hours of exploration yielded little meaningful information apart from a few ancient pieces of debris and the certainty that at their current pace, they would be lucky to reach the coordinates Lsia had given them for Seriar within the week.

  Kim was seated to Captain Chakotay’s left, Admiral Janeway to his right. They spoke in low tones, interrupted frequently by the sound of General Mattings alternately encouraging and dressing-down his helmsman when he drifted too far from the course Gwyn was forging for them.

  Just three hours in, Lasren detected a relatively stable section of subspace corridor. No key was required to open it. A point of ingress was clearly visible to sensors. Chakotay ordered Gwyn to execute her bounce. The flight controller, who had chosen a vivid shade of lavender for her hair this morning, set her approach course.

  The sensation was similar to riding rough rapids. A certain amount of momentum was required to thread the needle between space and subspace, and for the first time since entering the wastes, Voyager reached full impulse.

  Lieutenant Conlon was seated at the bridge’s engineering control station and monitored her systems carefully as the ship bucked and rocked.

  “Ensign Gwyn, hull stress is climbing,” Conlon noted.

  “She’ll hold together,” Gywn assured her chief engineer. “I need a little more speed for thirty seconds.”

  “Rerouting additional power to the impulse engines,” Conlon advised.

  “All hands, brace yourselves,” Kim ordered.

  With shocking suddenness, the constant tossing ceased in a single, violent whiplash-inducing impact. The force would have thrown several crew members from their seats had the momentum Gwyn had generated not eased the ship toward the currents of their targeted corridor.

  In an odd moment where all motion on the bridge seemed to expand in slow motion for a fraction of a second, Kim felt his stomach lurch. The sensation passed and he was thrown back against his seat as Voyager began to accelerate.

  Just as Gwyn had intended, they were riding the seam, still in normal space but propelled forward at speeds approaching maximum warp across the edge of the subspace corridor.

  The flight controller eased them out of the maneuver as carefully as possible. It was a bumpy ride, but considerably less so than anticipated.

  Finally she reported triumphantly, “We have cleared the corridor.”

  “All stop,” Chakotay ordered. “Lieutenant Lasren?”

  “Sensors indicate we are now four light-years from our last coordinates,” the ops officer reported.

  “Lieutenant Conlon?” Chakotay inquired.

  “All systems nominal, sir,” she replied.

  “Shields holding at maximum,” Lieutenant Aubrey offered from tactical.

  “Excellent work, Ensign Gwyn,” Chakotay noted as a short round of spontaneous applause erupted on the bridge. “One-quarter impulse, heading one-nine-one mark four. Let’s clear the area for the Calvert.”

  “Astrometrics to the bridge,” Torres’s voice came over the comm system.

  “Go ahead, B’Elanna.”

  “Sensors read some sizeable chunks of debris out here. Some of it is younger than the pieces we detected when we first entered the wastes.”

  “Commander Torres,” Lasren asked, “are you picking up—”

  “It’s impossible to miss,” Torres cut him off. “Bearing two-six-nine mark three-one. We’re getting some very unusual energy readings roughly one point eight light-years distant.”

  “How unusual?” Chakotay asked.

  “It appears to be a massive radiant field, but the nearest edge doesn’t show the natural dispersion you would anticipate. It’s almost as if the entire area is somehow being contained,” Torres replied.

  “It has to be massive for us to pick it up at this distance,” Janeway mused. “B’Elanna, can you extrapolate its composition from here?”

  “It’s all over the spectrum. We’ll have to get closer for a detailed analysis.”

  “Do we want to get closer?” Chakotay asked.

  “Our intended coordinates are beyond the field; it appears to surround an area of several million kilometers.”

  “Are the readings being generated by a planet or star?” Janeway asked.

  “None like any we’ve ever seen.”

  “Captain,” Lasren interrupted, “the Calvert is incoming. We lost our comm signal just after we impacted the edge of the subspace corridor.”

  “On-screen,” Chakotay ordered.

  There was little to see until a faint, bright speck began to grow larger at a rapid pace. Almost as soon as it became easily identifiable as the Calvert, its motion altered radically, shooting directly up off the edge of the corridor, accompanied by two large, brief explosions.

  “What the . . .?” Janeway said softly.

  “Lasren, was the Calvert just destroyed?” Chakotay asked.

  A pregnant pause followed. Finally Lasren reported, “No, sir. I’ve got her. She’s holding position bearing three-one-eight mark six.”

  “Distance?”

  “Two point four million kilometers,” Lasren replied.

  “Set intercept course,” Chakotay ordered, “maximum safe speed.”

  “Aye, sir,” Gwyn acknowledged.

  By the time they reached the Calvert, almost an hour later, it was clear that her first attempt at “bouncing” off a stream had not gone as well as Voyager’s. Her belly was scorched and several small hull breaches were in evidence. Emergency force fields were holding.

  General Mattings seemed shaken when his face appeared on the main viewscreen, his bridge officers even more so.

  “What happened, General?” Chakotay asked.

  “We caught a bad break,” Mattings replied. “A piece of debris from inside the corridor breached the seam and impacted us. We lost helm control temporarily, but EC Pluek pulled us out and stabilized our course. The good news is, we’re still in one piece and within a few hours will have completed repairs sufficient to start heading back. The bad news is, we won’t survive any additional shortcuts and cannot continue forward at this point.”

  The general’s disappointment was clear.

  Janeway rose to her feet and approached the screen.

  “Voyager will continue on, General. We have detected an unusual energy field surrounding the planet’s coordinates. We can investigate and report back to you.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Admiral. If all goes well, you’ll probably make it back to the rendezvous coordinates before we do.

  “One more thing, Captain.”

  “Yes, General?”

  “With our power systems in flux, I’m concerned about our prisoner. He appears to be behaving himself, but I’m not sure how long that will last if our anti-psionic field falls.”

  “We’ll move into position and transport him aboard, immediately,” Chakotay offered.

  “Thank you.”

  Chakotay exhaled sharply, then turned to Janeway. He didn’t say anything, but something clearly passed between them. Janeway smiled faintly and nodded to him before returning her gaze to the v
iewscreen.

  “General,” Chakotay said, “this was meant to be a joint operation between the Federation and the CIF. I understand if you feel the risk is too great to your ship. I’d like to return the courtesy you extended to us several weeks ago. The officer exchange program you initiated has only gone one way. I think we should remedy that.”

  Mattings smiled, his sharp teeth exposed to the fullest.

  “Whom did you have in mind, Captain?”

  “You, General.”

  Mattings bowed his head. Finally, he said, “Give me a few hours to see if I can take you up on that offer.”

  “Voyager out,” Chakotay said.

  • • • • •

  The Doctor waited outside the doors to the brig for confirmation that Emem’s transport from the Calvert was complete. Lieutenant Barclay stood beside him, shifting his weight from one side to the other nervously, cradling a small silver canister. The Doctor had been asked to confirm the prisoner’s physical well-being. Barclay would transport the canister into Emem’s cell. Similar devices already resided in the cells of Lsia, Tirrit, and Adaeze.

  The Doctor hesitated to enter prematurely. He had already said everything he needed to say to Lsia. There was no reason to further salt the wounds.

  He had always assumed that once Meegan was found, it would be a simple matter to purge the alien consciousness and restore her program to its original settings. It had been difficult not to speculate about what might happen next. As much as he hated the idea that Meegan had been created to be his perfect mate, the longer he had contemplated her existence, the more curious he had become. It would be pleasant to pass the time with a kindred being. There was so much he could teach her.

  That thought triggered a correlative fragment, and a recent memory was propelled from his short-term memory buffers into his primary processor. In their first session, Counselor Cambridge had accused the Doctor of seeing Seven as his “creation.” While the notion was arguable in principle, the Doctor had dismissed it with relative ease. Seven had learned from every member of the crew in her early months on Voyager. The Doctor had certainly taken a primary role as her social guide, but he had never seen himself attempting to craft her into something she was not. Rather, he had used the experiences gained during his difficult early days of activation to ease Seven into her new life.

  He had taken pride in her development. He had enjoyed their interactions. But he could no longer pinpoint the moment when his detachment had failed and Seven had become more to him than a student.

  Would I have done the same to Meegan? he suddenly wondered. Was this the only way in which he was comfortable relating to women, or men, for that matter? How much of his sense of self had come from the belief that he was superior to those with whom he shared his existence? How would that change, given the permanent alterations to his program that Doctor Zimmerman had imposed upon him?

  Was he even capable of meeting a potential partner on equal terms? Denara Pel came to mind, but she had been his patient—a patient for whom he had created a perfect holographic body with which to interface rather than her actual phage-ravaged form—before they had briefly explored a deeper relationship.

  Horrified, the Doctor realized that Cambridge might have had a point.

  “Riordan to the Doctor. Transport complete. You are clear to enter.”

  The Doctor shunted these dispiriting musings back into his memory buffers for future contemplation, nodded to Barclay, and led him into the brig. Ensign Riordan stood just inside the door, monitoring the energy fields that kept their prisoners secured.

  Emem’s cell was the third one on the Doctor’s right, directly across from Lsia’s. He noted Tirrit and Adaeze both seated in their cells as he passed them.

  As soon as he came face-to-face with Emem, the Doctor was surprised by his initial response. It was easy enough to think of Lsia as herself, given the form she now wore. He had never known the Turei or Vaadwaur individuals the other Seriareen had taken. But the Doctor had gotten to know Kashyk rather well, and it was disorienting to see him again while knowing he was now an entirely different being.

  “Ah, the Doctor,” Emem greeted him.

  “Welcome aboard,” the Doctor said perfunctorily, raising his medical tricorder and performing a quick scan.

  “I do hope the food on Voyager is as delicious as Kashyk’s memories promise. The paste I was offered on the Calvert thrice daily was not worthy of that designation.”

  “What it lacked in taste, it made up for in nutritional value,” the Doctor replied. “You’ve lost a little weight since the last time the inspector was aboard, but otherwise, you are the picture of health.”

  “I could have told you that.”

  “Reg,” the Doctor said, nodding to the lieutenant.

  Barclay placed the canister before the force field and stood back. “Go ahead, Ensign Riordan.” It dematerialized seconds later and rematerialized inside Emem’s cell. As soon as it did, the lid opened with a pop and a hiss.

  “What is this?” Emem demanded.

  For the first time since they had arrived, Lsia spoke. “Your new home, Emem, should you be foolish enough to die in that cell.”

  Polite, condescending Kashyk vanished as anger too great for the circumstances to warrant suffused his features. “Get it out!” he shouted. “We gave our assurances to your admiral that we would not seek new hosts among you. But you would force us against our will? Was this always your intention?”

  “N-n-no,” Lieutenant Barclay stammered. “This is a precaution, nothing more.”

  “Calm yourself, Emem,” Lsia ordered. “We all have them. You’ll find it gives you something quite stimulating to contemplate beyond the bare walls and energy field.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Emem shouted. “They have lulled you into complacency with false promises.”

  “We are closer than we have ever been to Seriar,” Lsia insisted.

  “You have forgotten, haven’t you?” Emem said. “They are all Nayseriareen now.”

  “You have always been such a coward,” the Doctor said as Emem’s visage morphed before his eyes into that of a man with bronze skin, long, fine black hair, and chiseled, hard features, not unlike Lsia’s.

  The Doctor stepped back as all around him, warning alarms rang out. The deck rocked beneath his feet and shouted reports confirmed his imminent destruction. A control panel was beneath his hands. Bright red lights assaulted him, indicating multiple hull breaches and power drains.

  “Release me.”

  The alien from his memory, Obih, stood before him, dagger in hand. “The hax must survive.”

  “Doctor, are you all right?” Barclay asked, placing a hand behind the Doctor’s back to steady him.

  The Doctor turned to Reg in confusion. He did not recognize the ship on which he stood. But it felt familiar. It was his. Emem was beside him and Lsia sat at a forward panel. And he was . . . he was . . .

  “Doctor,” Barclay said more urgently.

  The Doctor closed his eyes, willing the sensation to pass. He tried to force his mind back to the tranquil lake Commander Glenn had helped him visualize. By focusing on the small details, the feel of the earth beneath his body, the sound of lapping water, the heat of the sun, he slowly blocked out the unwanted memories. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Reg standing in the brig and Emem, once again, wearing Inspector Kashyk’s face.

  He turned to face Lsia. She considered him with clinical eyes, the same eyes that often evaluated his patients.

  “Who is Xolani?” the Doctor asked softly.

  Lsia smiled.

  “Doctor?” Barclay asked again.

  “Reg,” he replied, “take me to sickbay and ask Counselor Cambridge to join us.”

  • • • • •

  General Mattings was torn. He wished to personally guarantee the safety of his crew. But his direct EC, an experienced leader named Ralle, was capable of overseeing Calvert’s repairs and guiding her slowly out of the wastes, an
d as a ranking general, his responsibilities to his ship had to be balanced with those he owed the Confederacy Interstellar Fleet. Had Chakotay not offered, the general might have found himself begging for permission to join the Starfleet crew. His ego was grateful it had not come to that. It was absolutely necessary that at least one representative of the Confederacy participate in this expedition. He’d hoped to do it while aboard the Calvert. Now Mattings would be doing so as an observer, with almost no ability to act in the best interests of his people should theirs and the Federation’s diverge. This was hardly optimal, but better than nothing.

  These concerns were relegated to the rear of his mind the moment he was ushered into what Lieutenant Kim called the “astrometrics lab.” The screen that dominated the room, and its vivid rendering of a vast quantity of local space, was stunning. The general had never considered his own tools crude or wanting. The more he learned of Starfleet’s capabilities, the more he mourned the fact that a genuine alliance was now politically impossible.

  There is so much we could learn from these people.

  Admiral Janeway and Captain Chakotay welcomed him as he entered the lab. The fleet’s chief engineer, a female called Torres who was clearly with child, was ordered to brief them. Mattings had become accustomed to the sight of Starfleet’s female officers. The CIF did not have nearly as many, and none so young as most of those he’d met from the Federation. This was the only cultural idiosyncrasy of the Federation that the general found difficult to wrap his brain around, but he knew better than to suggest that any of the female Starfleet officers he’d met were less than capable of fulfilling their duties or might be better employed in other capacities until they were no longer fertile. Obviously the people of the Federation did not consider potential extinction a serious threat, even after the Borg had wiped out tens of billions of them. The Confederacy knew better, to their credit. Mattings genuinely hoped the Federation did not eventually learn how wrong they were the hard way.

  “The first thing I’d like to bring to your attention,” Commander Torres began, “is the composition of the debris we’ve detected. Most of the pieces we scanned were ancient—thousands of years old. These are not.”