Star Trek: Voyager: A Pocket Full of Lies

by Kirsten Beyer

  “If you still want to find out, we’re going to have to do this the hard way,” Farkas said.

  “I know,” the admiral replied dismally.

  VOYAGER

  Commander B’Elanna Torres had kept her word to Lieutenant Conlon. She had thoroughly reviewed the proposal to enhance the security of their computer systems and while they were brilliant and testimony to the Starfleet Corps of Engineers’ fabled reputation for outside-the-box thinking, Torres was standing by her initial assessment. Modifications like this didn’t happen in the middle of a long-term deep-space mission. They happened in Starfleet labs and were tested to death before they saw the inside of a starship.

  Breaking this to Conlon was going to be a difficult conversation. Torres set this aside when Ensign Icheb entered her quarters for his daily report. He stood at attention until she had greeted him and asked him to take a seat beside her workstation.

  “I’ve completed my review of your evaluation of the Vesta,” Torres began. “You can’t take this to Bryce.”

  “I know,” Icheb replied. “But I wanted the evaluation to exist in its proper form before I revised it.”

  “You’re learning,” Torres said approvingly.

  “Perhaps,” Icheb allowed.

  “How do you intend to approach the Vesta’s chief engineer?”

  “I have observed his interactions with his crew for two days now. He usually begins by praising the efforts of his subordinates prior to pointing out their shortcomings.”

  “You cited him for over two hundred violations. Did you also take note of areas in which he excels?”

  “Yes. Most of the violations are a result of rushing to completion. Small but sometimes critical steps are ignored that may have no discernable immediate effect but they could result in system disruptions or failures. The speed with which he evaluates problems and addresses them, however, were critical to Vesta’s survival at the time.”

  “So he’s on the right track, but he needs to cut fewer corners?”

  “A fair assessment.”

  “And a better approach,” Torres pointed out. “Report back to me after his review.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “What else?” Torres asked.

  “As you requested, I have reviewed all of the duty logs of each member of Lieutenant Conlon’s staff over the last few days. She pulled Ensign Mirk from magnetic constrictor realignment and ordered him to synthesize a dozen separate molecular compounds and to introduce them into test samples of our bioneural fluid.”

  “What were the results?” Torres asked.

  “Mirk’s station logs show that he has only completed his analysis of the first three. All destabilized the medium and showed probable adverse effects to the bioneural filaments.”

  Torres nodded. The addition of the amebocyte Conlon had proposed—a cell-like structure capable of encasing any unknown infiltrate in an impenetrable solid shell and preventing further transfer or corruption to the ship’s bioneural gel packs—was an intriguing one, and something Starfleet should definitely explore. But it was not a task Voyager’s engineers should undertake. The fleet chief engineer had ordered Conlon to refrain from pursuing her theories but Torres believed Conlon might choose to intentionally limit her understanding of that order to installing the modifications she had proposed. Experimenting with their component parts was harmless enough and avoided the appearance of flouting a direct order.

  Torres had ordered Icheb to study the engineering logs in order to see the depths of Conlon’s devotion to her pet project. Torres’s initial skepticism had not derailed Conlon. If anything, it seemed to be driving her to prove her theories.

  Which was a problem.

  “It might also be noted that Ensign Mirk’s assignment was not recorded in Lieutenant Conlon’s official duty log. Shall I continue my observations?” Icheb asked.

  “Yes,” Torres replied. “And please advise me of any further similar requests.”

  “Aye, Commander.”

  “Where do you stand with Demeter? Have you submitted your revised report to Commander O’Donnell?”

  “I have. He glanced at it and told me to ‘try again.’ ”

  “Try again?”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  Torres considered this development. Finally she said, “I want you to let it go. I’ve reviewed the violations and while it’s clear that Elkins has less regard for Starfleet protocols than I do, which is something I wasn’t sure was possible, nothing he is doing is endangering his ship or the crew.”

  “But shouldn’t he be made aware—”

  “What’s critical to me is that you are able to function as my representative on all fleet ships for the next few months. I’ll deal with O’Donnell and Elkins. They’re no longer your concern.”

  Icheb appeared ready to argue further when a man, roughly Paris’s height and build, with light-brown skin, shoulder-length black hair, a single cranial ridge, and a small growth at the bridge of his nose, entered her suite. The sides of his head and temples were mottled in a way that suggested scarring, similar to but not exactly the same as the Zahl’s. He wore a nondescript green uniform and scuffed black boots.

  “Hi honey, I’m home,” this stranger greeted her cheerily.

  Torres rose from her desk, crossed to him, and searched for any sign of her husband behind the newly blackened irises and alien visage. It was faint, but present. Tom had just completed the surgical reconstruction required for his upcoming mission to Sormana.

  “Amazing,” Torres declared.

  “What do you think, Icheb?” Paris asked.

  Icheb rose from his chair, his discomfort clear.

  “It’s not that bad, is it?”

  “No, sir,” Icheb replied quickly. “The Doctor has done his typical exemplary job. It’s just . . .”

  “What?” Paris demanded.

  “It is unsettling, sir. I would prefer making contact with these aliens openly rather than by using subterfuge.”

  “So would I,” Paris agreed. “But the direct approach isn’t always best.”

  “Good luck, Commander Paris,” Icheb said, extending his right hand.

  Paris took it, grinning gamely. Even with the prosthetics, there was no mistaking his smile. “Thanks, Icheb. Don’t worry. We’re going to be fine.”

  “I know, sir.”

  The ensign looked to Torres, who dismissed him with a nod, saying, “Let me know how things go with Bryce.”

  When Icheb left, Paris took his wife firmly in his arms. “Come back to me in one piece,” she ordered when their embrace ended.

  “I promise,” he said.

  “And let me say good-bye to the kids for you.”

  “Aw, come on. Miral will love it.”

  “I don’t think so, honey.”

  “You’ll see.” Stepping into the hall between his son’s and daughter’s bedrooms, Paris said, “Miral, come say goodbye to your daddy.”

  He stepped back as the child came rushing into the living room, her face alight. The moment she saw him she stopped so abruptly she nearly tripped over her feet. Her mouth opened in a perfect oval and a shriek of terror flew toward Tom. Miral darted back into her bedroom and ordered the door closed as her brother began to cry in alarm from the opposite room.

  Paris looked back to his wife, who shrugged. “You broke it, you fix it,” she ordered before hurrying to Michael’s room to comfort him.

  SHUTTLECRAFT TUCCIA

  “Stop scratching, Counselor,” the Doctor ordered Hugh Cambridge.

  “It itches,” Cambridge replied petulantly, continuing to rub his new nasal ridge.

  “You will only further irritate the surrounding epidermal cells.”

  “Can you give me something for the pain?” Cambridge pleaded.

  “No.”

  “Do you two want to keep it down back there?” Commander Paris asked from the cockpit. “We’re almost to the front of line.”

  The Doctor glowered at Cambridge, hop
ing to shame him into silence.

  “This shuttle is stocked with medical supplies,” Cambridge whispered vehemently.

  “Actually, Counselor, that is inaccurate,” said Ensign Ti’Ana from the seat beside Commander Paris. She was one of the Vesta’s science officers who had been added to the away team given her telepathic and empathic abilities, inherited from her Vulcan father and Betazoid mother. Like the counselor and commander, she had been surgically altered to pass for Rilnar. The Doctor’s appearance had been altered by less radical means, a simple modification to his matrix.

  “The vast majority of those cases marked supplies are empty,” Ti’Ana continued.

  “There’s nothing in the others to help you,” the Doctor added. “At the admiral’s request, they contain only the most basic first-aid items. She was concerned that should the shuttle be captured and our cargo confiscated, we will not be accused of providing significant material aid to either side of this conflict.”

  “A wise precaution,” Ti’Ana agreed. “Despite Lieutenant Bryce’s belief that the holographic projectors installed on the exterior of the shuttle to project the image of a Rilnar medical supply transport will fool any advanced sensors, I rate this mission’s odds of success at no more than thirty percent.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ensign,” Paris commented wryly.

  “Ow!” Counselor Cambridge shouted, grabbing his right ear in pain.

  “Oh, what now?” the Doctor demanded, exasperated.

  Paris turned his seat back to cast a disparaging eye on his away team. “You both understand this is a covert mission, right?”

  “My apologies, Commander,” Cambridge replied. “Captain Chakotay just made contact with me through the subaural transceiver the Doctor implanted in my auditory canal and the signal was only a few decibels shy of shattering my ear drum.”

  “What did he say?” Paris asked.

  “That we should continue this conversation after we have passed through the Rilnar checkpoint.”

  “Motion seconded and carried,” Paris said.

  VOYAGER

  Most of the time, Captain Chakotay thanked the unknown gods of his father profusely for the crew that he led. They were dedicated, experienced, and brave.

  Then there were moments like this one when he wished fervently that he were free to abandon Starfleet disciplinary regulations momentarily and apprise them of his displeasure in the Maquis way: a swift punch.

  The captain had monitored the camouflaged shuttle’s progress since they had entered the line of ships approaching the Rilnar checkpoint from an open channel on Voyager’s bridge. When the bickering between the Doctor and Cambridge had begun to make his bridge crew struggle to hold back their laughter, he had ordered Lasren to open a channel to Counselor Cambridge’s transceiver to put an end to the unproductive exchange. What he’d actually said to Cambridge was, “Stifle it, Counselor. That’s an order. I don’t care how much your prosthetics itch. Suffer in silence, or so help me I’ll have Lasren patch the first act of Gav’ot toH’va directly into your transceiver and run it on a loop until you land on the surface.”

  Cambridge’s report of his comments had been accurate in substance, so Chakotay had let it pass. He assumed all of them were blowing off a little steam. Ti’Ana’s estimate of their probable success rate was likely accurate and they all knew it. It was also not what they needed to be focused on at this moment.

  The turbolift doors opened and Chakotay turned to see Commander Torres enter. She wore a soft cloth sling wrapped over a shoulder and around her waist that held her infant son.

  Torres nodded to Kim as she passed him and paused before the open chair to Chakotay’s right. “Got a minute?” she asked softly.

  Chakotay nodded.

  “Mister Kim, the bridge is yours. Advise me the moment the shuttle reaches the second position in line.”

  “Aye, sir,” Kim replied.

  Chakotay gestured for Torres to precede him into his ready room and as soon as the door was shut, crossed his arms. “Problem, Commander?”

  “Conlon,” Torres replied.

  “I thought she was doing fine. Our engineers seem happier than they’ve been in weeks.”

  “She is,” Torres conceded. “She seems to be. She came to me with a request to consider major modifications to our gel packs and computer security protocols. Her ideas are innovative. I like them. But they are too labor-intensive considering our mission profile and too dangerous to risk installing in the middle of the Delta Quadrant.”

  “I assume you told her as much.”

  “I ordered her to set them aside until I had completed my evaluation. I had a feeling she wouldn’t. Icheb confirmed that. She’s already started working on one of them.”

  “Sit her down and make sure she understands that she was given a direct order, not a suggestion.”

  “I would . . . I will. But I wonder if she might need this right now.”

  “Need?”

  “She just recovered from a serious trauma. I know Counselor Cambridge signed off on her return to duty, but I have a feeling that’s what’s driving this. She doesn’t want what happened to her ever happening again. I understand that.”

  “And you understand what happens, even to the most dedicated officers, when they attempt to solve complex emotional issues alone, rather than asking for the assistance they really need,” Chakotay added, grasping intuitively why Torres would be sensitive to a situation like this. A very different trauma had once led Torres to incredibly self-destructive choices. Chakotay had ultimately been able to reach her and force her to confront the source of her behavior. The injuries she had done to herself along the way were still painful to remember. If Torres believed there was more to Conlon’s actions than devotion to her duty, Chakotay wasn’t going to second-guess that.

  “Yes,” Torres agreed. “So what do I do?”

  “Nothing that will endanger her or the ship.”

  “I’m not sure I see a solution that can guarantee both.”

  “If she wants to run a few experiments on her own time, would there really be any harm?”

  “Depending on how far she gets, ultimately refusing to allow her to implement the modifications might be more troubling than if I shut her down immediately. For now, she’s at least directing her energy toward something productive. Is that such a bad thing?”

  “B’Elanna, you know her better than I do. If your gut says she is using this project as a means to work through some emotional issues, I’d give her some space. If you think her issues will cloud her perspective and allow her to unintentionally put the ship at risk, you have to put an end to it.”

  “What if I’m wrong? I’ve been kicking myself pretty hard the last few weeks for some glaring personal oversights that might have prevented our last mission from devolving into chaos. I’m no counselor. Maybe I’m seeing connections that aren’t there because I’m afraid to miss anything.”

  Chakotay nodded thoughtfully. Finally he said, “When our instincts try to tell us something, we rarely regret acting on them. It’s the ones we ignore that usually end up biting us in the ass. The counselor should be back in a few days at most. Why don’t you run this by him before making a decision? But keep your eye on her, obviously.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Chakotay was about to return to the bridge when he caught his distorted reflection in the ports that lined his ready room. For a second, he flashed back to the image of the shattered mirror, hearing Kathryn’s voice in his head. “You missed it.”

  “Chakotay?” Torres asked.

  Returning his attention to her, he shook his head. “Sorry. I had a really weird dream last night.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  Chakotay did, but before he could reply, his combadge chirped. “Bridge to Captain Chakotay. The Tuccia has almost reached the checkpoint,” Kim reported.

  “Acknowledged.”

  TUCCIA

  This is taking too long, Tom
Paris thought. He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to. The tense silence of his away team indicated clearly that they shared his misgivings.

  When he had hailed the vessel monitoring the checkpoint, the Rilnar Colonial Force officer had demanded his identification, cargo manifest, and clearance codes. Voyager had been monitoring comm traffic at the checkpoint for almost two days and had acquired what they believed to be the most current codes available. The intelligence they had gained had been used to modify the shuttle’s appearance, falsify its registration, and concoct its manifest.

  Worst-case scenario, he could turn and run. He’d already plotted an escape vector that would be risky, given that they were in-system, but not nearly as dangerous as engaging any of the Rilnar ships patrolling the blockade.

  What Paris didn’t know was how long he should wait before pulling the trigger on Plan B.

  Voyager was observing comm silence until the shuttle reached orbit and the first sensor scans were taken. Paris wondered what Chakotay would do. It didn’t really matter. The captain wasn’t leading this mission, Commander Thomas Paris was. His was the only opinion that counted right now.

  Paris inhaled deeply. If he received no response by the end of a slow exhalation, he was going to abort. His lungs had begun to tighten when the voice of the Rilnar officer blared over the comm. “Transport T-199, you are clear to proceed. Transmitting course now. Do not deviate under any circumstances.”

  “Confirmed,” Paris replied. In his relief, he almost offered the officer a cheery, “Have a good day,” but refrained. No reason to press his luck.

  Paris entered the course he had just received into the shuttle’s navigation system and engaged at low impulse. When the ship was a few thousand kilometers closer to the planet Paris said, “See, no problem.”

  “Yes, these last twelve minutes have been incredibly relaxing, Commander,” Cambridge quipped.

  “Did you get anything while we were waiting?” Paris asked the science officer.

  “No, sir,” Ti’Ana replied. “It took seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds longer for them to clear us than ninety-two percent of the ships that have passed this checkpoint while under our surveillance, but I cannot tell you what prompted the additional scrutiny.”