Star Trek: Voyager: A Pocket Full of Lies

by Kirsten Beyer

  Sormana was like a cancer: a growth that could be contained, never eliminated. That it had not metastasized was encouraging. Whether or not it might one day prove fatal had yet to be determined.

  Despite the fact that after such a dispiriting history lesson they could have used a little release, Cambridge and Lieutenant Url were duty-bound for the moment to restrain themselves. Several hours prior to Cambridge’s arrival, O’Donnell and Chief Elkins had joined the local elders in a massive tent that occupied the center of the field. They were attending a ceremony that was part historical re-enactment, part spiritual observation. While waiting for this ceremony to conclude, Cambridge had initially attempted to engage those who approached him in simple conversation, inquiring about their costumes and dances. The sad fact was that most of them were already too intoxicated by constant helpings of a concoction that smelled like refined deuterium to speak intelligently.

  The horizon was a riot of orange, purple, and deep blue when O’Donnell and Elkins finally emerged from the tent, arm in arm with three farmers who appeared to be helping them to stand upright. Both had removed their uniform jackets and tunics. At least they’d had the good sense to affix their combadges to their belts. Their pasty chests and bellies had been decorated with wide green markings. They laughed loudly at some inside joke, O’Donnell staggering toward Elkins as he doubled over with mirth.

  If they both weren’t blind drunk, Cambridge would eat his socks.

  The alderman led their small procession, winding his way through the crowd to the raised platform. Elkins disengaged himself unsteadily from two of the farmers who hurried to follow the alderman. Lieutenant Url moved swiftly to keep the engineer from falling flat on his face.

  “Chief Elkins,” Url asked softly, “do you require medical attention?”

  Elkins laughed, slapping Url much too hard on the back. “That’ll be the day, son,” he replied cheerily.

  Cambridge moved toward O’Donnell, who held him at arm’s length as he waited for a dizzy spell to pass before peering at the counselor through narrowed eyes. “Counselor,” he began, before breaking into a chuckle at what had to be a joke only he understood. When it had subsided, he said, “How nice to see you again. Would you be so kind as to return to venerable Griveth’s tent and retrieve my jacket for me? It’s a bit chilly out here, isn’t it?”

  “Of course, Commander,” Cambridge replied. “As I sincerely doubt you could find it in your current condition,” he added under his breath.

  “I’m not so very drunk,” O’Donnell said with a wink. “When you return, we’ll be ready to leave.”

  “Url, keep an eye on these two. I’ll be back momentarily,” Cambridge said.

  Cambridge hurried into the tent and paused briefly to allow his eyes to adjust to the brightly candle-lit interior, a stark contrast to the dusk he had inhabited moments earlier. He paused, his breath catching in his throat, as he began to study the walls of the tent. Dozens of panels were painted with various scenes, most of them battles. Alien script ran beneath each panel and Cambridge automatically pulled out his tricorder and began to scan and translate them. He had assumed that the history now before him must be Haverbern’s, or Rilnadaar VI’s. He had been wrong. The oldest panel, located at the rear of the tent, opposite the entrance, featured a view of the planet Sormana resting in the dark vastness of space. Crudely rendered above the planet were two male figures facing each other with their arms outstretched. Whether they intended to embrace or strike each other was unclear.

  After scanning each panel thoroughly, a task he could have completed only in the solitude he currently enjoyed, Cambridge turned his attention to the center of the tent, where a large, low stone table sat. Dun-colored cushions surrounded it: fourteen in all. Cambridge searched among them for O’Donnell’s uniform. He noted that on the table before each cushion sat a small dish with partially eaten chunks of bread, cheese, fruit, and a few pickled vegetables with sour stenches. Beside each cushion sat a cup that had been turned over onto the dirt floor once it had been emptied. Next to each cup, a small, leather-bound book rested. Hundreds of pages of the small script filled these books, and Cambridge wondered at their significance. They might be letters, myths, legends, or recipes, for all he could tell.

  He toyed with the idea of borrowing one indefinitely, but hesitated to steal from such gracious hosts. Hopefully, O’Donnell and Elkins had learned more than the limits of their tolerance for alien moonshine during whatever ceremony they had experienced in this tent.

  He finally located two cushions behind which his fellow officers had abandoned their uniforms and their dignity and he bent low to retrieve the rumpled clothing. As he lifted them from the dirt, a single leather-bound book fell from inside O’Donnell’s jacket.

  Either O’Donnell had less compunction about acquiring the data they needed, or possibly, this book had been a gift from their hosts. Cambridge decided to assume the latter, folded the book back into the jacket, retrieved Elkins’ jacket, and exited the tent.

  He emerged into a crowd so somber it was almost unrecognizable. The entire assembly had abandoned the fires and moved to sit and stand near the platform. They all held small flickering candles. The alderman had clearly been speaking for some time, and rapt faces gazed at him reverently from the crowd.

  “. . . we cannot know if the brothers will return. We believe in the promise they made to our ancestors. We believe the time of peace is at hand. We eagerly await the day when we will be reunited with our families, when Sormana is free.”

  “When Sormana is free!” the crowd chanted in aggressive unison.

  “Until then, who will rise to defend what is ours and to secure the blessings of future generations?” the alderman asked.

  “I will,” a voice responded from the crowd, followed by dozens of others. Cambridge watched in morbid fascination as a small group of young men and women, their faces flushed with the exertions of the last several hours, moved to the platform to form a line behind the alderman.

  “Children of Rilnadaar VI, inheritors of Sormana,” the alderman shouted.

  “Inheritors of Sormana,” the crowd responded, lifting their candles as one and cheering with a rabid intensity that Cambridge feared could erupt at any moment into something much darker and more frightening.

  A song began somewhere in the crowd. Soon every voice was raised. It was largely unintelligible, but Cambridge got the drift. It was a dirge of sorts, mourning those who had sacrificed themselves on Sormana’s red hills.

  “Are we ready to go?” a clear voice demanded.

  Cambridge turned to see O’Donnell, Elkins, and Url standing behind him. To his astonishment, both the captain and chief engineer stood steadily, their eyes clear and their faces quite somber.

  “I believe I have acquired the data you wanted,” Cambridge replied to O’Donnell.

  With a brisk nod, O’Donnell tapped his combadge, requesting immediate transport. He did not slur, nor did he stumble. The last image Cambridge saw before the transporter took hold was the face of Liam O’Donnell, etched with unutterable sadness as he gazed at the crowd before him and those who had just volunteered to join the ongoing slaughter on Sormana.

  CELWINDA

  The pilot Seven had met at Jewl’s might have been anywhere from forty to ninety years of age. Her name was probably not Rukh, but that was the only designation the woman had offered when they had begun their negotiations, along with the name and location of her vessel, a small cargo ship called Celwinda.

  Seven did not recognize Rukh’s species. Deep-brown flesh was covered with fine white hair. Incredibly narrow eyes rimmed with black lids and a small, pale nose gave her a feline appearance. Her hands were hairless and their flesh was deeply lined. Her eyes darted around nervously whenever she deigned to speak. Rukh seemed constantly on alert.

  Once they had boarded for the journey to Zahlna II, the Doctor had attempted to engage Rukh in light banter, to no avail. Seven had encouraged him to join her near
the rear of the passenger cabin and to speak only when absolutely necessary.

  It was somewhat shocking as they began to approach their destination’s orbit when Rukh invited Seven to join her in the cockpit. There was only a single chair for the pilot, and Seven had to bend at the waist to avoid hitting the overhead panels, but she did so, unwilling to insult their current host. Rukh had demanded a small fortune in local currency for their passage, which had been easy to obtain through trade on Lillestan, and a few medical supplies, which Commander Glenn had been less willing to part with. She relented only when it became clear that the light analgesics and antibiotics would seal the deal in obtaining anonymous passage to a Zahl colony.

  “Is there a problem?” Seven asked.

  “Once we make orbit and obtain clearance, we’re going to land at the Port of Ngbel. I have cargo to offload and will be on the ground for six hours at most. Is that enough time for you?” Rukh asked.

  “Depending upon how far the port is from the city’s other municipal facilities, that should be more than sufficient.”

  “You’re looking to make contact with a local official?” Rukh asked. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “We are not. We require specialized information that should be readily available in any public records or library facility.”

  “Public library . . . you mean that anyone can use?” Rukh asked.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s no such thing here. The germschled is about five klicks from the port. That’s the center of education for all Zahl. But you won’t be able to access their research buildings without identification. You’ll need visitor’s credentials.”

  Seven sighed, understanding where this was going. “Would you be able to acquire those credentials for us?”

  “For another ten thousand Zelcheks.”

  “That’s outrageous,” the Doctor said. Seven turned abruptly to see that he had joined her at the cockpit’s doorway.

  “Do you have a better suggestion?” Seven asked archly.

  When the Doctor did not respond immediately Seven said, “You’ll have twice that when we return to Lillestan, assuming the credentials you provide us with prove effective.”

  “Oh, they’ll work,” Rukh said. “Funny thing, though, I never figured you two for students.”

  “Really? And what did you figure us for?” the Doctor asked.

  “Spies.”

  LILLESTAN

  “I’m telling you, we’re being followed,” Lieutenant Reginald Barclay insisted.

  Lieutenant Velth sighed. This was his fifth tour of the station in two days and he was already comfortable navigating its crowds and commercial establishments. While escorting Commander Glenn, they had discovered that the sigkn bar’s unusual live appetizers were dense with nutrients and well-seasoned. Lieutenant Benoit had spent more than an hour in earnest conversation with a local cargo pilot who claimed that his vessel was powered by protomatter. Ensign Drur had managed to lose his uniform jacket in a friendly game of haskik. Velth had stepped in before the ensign had succumbed completely to the wiles of a Rubenesque alien female with whom Drur had appeared willing to bet the Galen in order to impress.

  Velth had no such issues with Lieutenant Reginald Barclay. The ship’s resident holographic specialist had refused to contemplate shore leave until Commander Glenn had ordered him from his lab. Organic officers were in short supply aboard her ship and she wanted the widest possible array of personal impressions gathered as she prepared her report on her ship’s stay at Lillestan.

  To say that Barclay had been uncomfortable from the moment they had stepped foot onto the docking platform would have been an understatement. Velth’s constant reminders that thus far, everyone they had encountered had been friendly and respectful, and that Velth was more than capable of subduing any attacker even without his phaser, had done nothing to calm the lieutenant’s nerves. He had complained of debilitating stomach pains three times in an obvious attempt to cut their visit short before becoming spooked by an individual he was certain was now trailing the pair of officers.

  Velth had taken note of the single Zahl male, tall and fleshy, dressed in nondescript civilian clothing. While he had maintained a safe distance, and paused on several occasions near enough Velth’s position to stand out, he did not appear to be paying the Starfleet pair any heed. His eyes had a glazed, unfocused look. He might be intoxicated. He was not, however, a threat.

  “Why don’t we move to the third platform?” Velth suggested softly. “We can check out the transport facilities and try to get a sense of the frequency of local traffic and typical crew complements.”

  “That would require us to utilize the public lifts,” Barclay moaned.

  “You think your stomach can handle the stairs?” Velth asked.

  “I don’t like small, confined spaces,” Barclay said.

  “This way,” Velth replied with a shrug. The narrow, dimly lit staircases situated in the far corners of the arena were probably a greater tactical threat than the lifts, but Velth saw no reason to point this out to Barclay. The echoing of their footsteps as they ascended added to the eerie atmosphere and Velth was about to activate his SIMs beacon when the unmistakable sound of an additional set of footsteps entering the stairwell below them caused him to reconsider. Instead, he glanced toward Barclay’s bulging, alarmed eyes and said, “Double-time.”

  The lieutenant nodded vehemently and quickened his pace. They exited the stairway at the third level without incident only to find themselves in another equally dim but slightly wider corridor. Velth didn’t pause to consult his tricorder. He knew the general direction of the transport offices and given that the station was constructed in a circular orientation figured that either direction they chose would take them to their destination eventually.

  The hallway was carpeted, so Velth did not hear the individual behind them exit the stairwell. But as he and Barclay reached a T-junction, a pain-filled grunt sounded behind him, followed by the muffled thump of a large form impacting the deck.

  Velth paused, looked to Barclay, who was lifting his hand to his combadge, probably to request emergency transport, and pulled Barclay’s arm down, whispering, “Stay here.”

  Barclay nodded and Velth hurried to retrace his steps. Moments later he came upon the Zahl male Barclay had spotted earlier. The alien was in no position to threaten anyone, lying on the deck, curled into a ball and moaning softly.

  “Sir, do you require medical attention?” Velth asked, stepping closer but on guard in the event of a ruse.

  The man continued to moan, but said nothing.

  Velth risked a few more steps and his nose was assaulted by a rank odor. The man was tearing at his tunic and beneath his fingers rotting flesh was clearly visible.

  Velth retreated, tapping his combadge. “Velth to Galen. Can you lock onto my signal along with that of an alien within one meter . . .” he began. Before he could complete his request, however, a shrill whine sounded and the unfortunate soul before him vanished in a whirl of red particles—a sight Velth already knew indicated the activation of Lillestan’s transporter system.

  Velth turned to see Barclay approaching. “Don’t get too close,” he ordered. He then ordered both of them transported immediately to Galen’s sickbay behind forcefields, hoping against hope that whatever their pursuer suffered from was not contagious.

  12

  VESTA

  Captain Regina Farkas had grown accustomed to Admiral Janeway’s presence at her right hand on the bridge. It rarely felt intrusive, though Farkas had initially worried that it would become so. Commanding a Starfleet vessel was challenging enough without a member of the brass literally looking over your shoulder.

  But Janeway was proving to be an exception to common mythos about Starfleet admirals. Her rank came with privileges she chose neither to flaunt nor abuse. She rarely questioned Farkas’s orders and never in front of her crew. The admiral seemed content to observe when she chose to appear on the bridge.
Conversation was frequent, discussion enlightening, and she never made Farkas feel that her opinions were not both welcome and duly considered. The captain couldn’t help but feel that many of Janeway’s peers could learn from her example, were it possible to teach an admiral anything.

  However, it was painfully clear that the closer Vesta drew to the source of the Starfleet signal, the more anxious Janeway became.

  The starscape visible on the main viewscreen had not altered for several minutes when Jepel advised her from ops that they were essentially right on top of the signal.

  “Have you identified the source?” Janeway asked before Farkas had the chance—a rare impolite interjection.

  “No, Admiral,” Jepel replied. “Altering sensors now to broaden the search of local subspace bands.”

  “What do you think it is, Admiral?” Farkas asked.

  “I have no idea. A message buoy, perhaps?” Janeway replied.

  “That would make sense,” Farkas agreed.

  “Captain,” Lieutenant Kar advised from tactical, “long-range sensors have detected a vessel approaching. It is Krenim and at current speeds will intercept us within the next ten minutes.”

  “Yellow alert,” Farkas said. “Raise shields but be ready to drop them if we can lock onto the signal’s source.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Kar replied.

  Janeway rose from her seat and moved to stand behind Ensign Jepel at ops. Farkas didn’t think that was going to make the young man work any faster, but one never knew. After observing in silence for a full minute the admiral said, “Try scanning for antichroniton residue along the fourth and fifth bands.”

  Jepel dutifully altered his search parameters, and Farkas was pleased to hear a faint series of trills erupt from his control panel.

  “That did the trick, Admiral,” Jepel said.

  “Bryce and Icheb were right,” Janeway said as she moved back toward Farkas. “Its temporal shielding has begun to decay. Otherwise, it might have taken us days to find.”