Paris spared a moment of regret for Hugh Cambridge but quickly shook it off. Seven had every right to make her own choices, though this one surprised him.
“Well, if they don’t need her further, I’ll put in a request for us to return to the fleet as soon as my hearing is done.”
“When will that be?” Sharak asked.
“I honestly don’t know.”
“More than a few days?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“I have come because I require your insight.”
“You’d be the first, but go ahead,” Paris said.
“I need to go to Coridan,” Sharak said. “I cannot tell you why. But I believe the trip to be necessary if I am to complete the work I have been assigned.”
“Tell your superiors at Starfleet Medical,” Paris said. “I’m sure they can accommodate you.”
“I do not believe they will. The data I require is there, and it cannot be accessed remotely. However, those in charge of the project have already resolved the question I seek to answer to their satisfaction, and I doubt they would appreciate my questioning them. I do not believe they think me capable of offering significant insight. I believe they are assigning me a task that will occupy my time while they continue to hold Miss Seven.”
“That’s quite an accusation,” Paris said.
“It is my belief. But despite their assessment, I know my capabilities and I know what I must do. The question is: Can you help me get to Coridan?”
“I’d take you there myself if it weren’t for this damned hearing,” Paris replied. “But I don’t know . . . wait,” he said.
“Commander?”
Paris smiled. “I take it back. I know exactly who can get you there. Just give me a minute to contact her. Take a seat.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
As Paris moved back to his comm station, he suddenly realized that sending Sam Wildman to Coridan with Sharak might make her unavailable to testify on his behalf. Hers was the first name on the list he had given to Shaw. But there was no one else Paris could trust with a request like Sharak’s, no one else he knew would understand.
“Just promise me one thing?” Paris asked.
“Of course.”
“Hurry back.”
“If you will agree to check in with Seven daily while I am gone.”
“Consider it done,” Paris said.
Chapter Eleven
VESTA
Captain Roberta Farkas didn’t like speaking over a comm channel, even an encrypted one, with her counterpart on the Sixteenth Hadden, General Deonil. The Leodt officer had assured her that the cloak provided by the protectors surrounding both of their vessels hid them completely from the sensors of the ships they had come to recon. When their comm channels were open, the protectors merged, adding an extra layer of stealth. Still, Farkas couldn’t help but think that if she were playing for the other team out here, any strange signal would have been cause for investigation. Captain Chakotay’s reports spoke to the effectiveness of the ancient protectors’ cloaking mechanisms, but it had taken Voyager less than half an hour to detect them. The alien armada reassembling at the Gateway must suspect by now that they were being monitored, and an open comm channel could easily betray the Vesta and the Hadden.
Farkas’s only comfort was the fact that her ship and the Hadden were almost a light-year away from the Gateway. Vesta had spent the better part of the day traveling a dizzying course through more than fifteen streams before emerging within two light-years of their present position. She’d had no idea that there was another access to Confederacy space anywhere near the Gateway. The ingress point of the final stream they had traveled was as well reinforced on the Confederacy side as the Gateway, but only because of its proximity to the network of other streams. Dozens of CIF ships held position there, but no inhabited planets or systems were near its entrance. Deonil had advised her that they would return to the First World when their mission was done via an alternate route. Several of the streams they had used to get here flowed efficiently in only one direction, so no alien force could simply retrace their footsteps. A successful attacker would have to possess an accurate map of the Confederacy streams.
That didn’t mean she felt any less naked.
“We confirm nine ships grouped within ten million clicks of the Gateway, Captain Farkas.”
A nod from Jepel at ops told Farkas that Deonil’s count was right.
“Two of the nine are Turei,” Farkas said. “One is Devore. But I don’t recognize the other six.”
“Three are Karlon,” Deonil advised. “They are tenacious in battle, but their weapons do not possess sufficient range or power to pose a true threat.”
“Jepel?”
“I have added the Karlon specs to our database, Captain.”
“Good,” she said. “What about the big fellow in the middle?” Farkas asked.
“The Skeen,” Deonil replied. “Lack of maneuverability in close quarters is their greatest weakness.”
“Thankfully, an issue we do not share,” Farkas said, though the Skeen vessel was almost as large as the Vesta.
“The last two are new additions to their forces,” Deonil said. “Perhaps we will pick up a designation in the next few hours.”
“I’d like more than that,” Farkas noted, “but we’ll take whatever we can get.”
“Agreed,” Deonil said, his mouth widening in what Farkas hoped was a smile. In her limited experience, the happier a Leodt was, the more he looked ready to bite you.
“How often have you engaged these folks?” Farkas asked.
“For most of my career with the CIF, it was rare for any alien vessel to approach the Gateway, let alone breach the stream. A year or more could go by with no contact. Occasionally, someone who knew us and knew what to look for would make an attempt to enter the Gateway. I’ve studied encounters from the first three centuries of the Confederacy’s existence where outsiders were brought by the ancient protectors, but none of them proved their worth as allies or potential members.
“That changed about a year ago. Small groups of vessels, two or three at the most, began to appear and work diligently to open the Gateway. None were accompanied. But it has only been in the last three months that we’ve seen numbers like what we have here.”
“How recently did the Turei, the Vaadwaur, and the Devore join these hostiles?” Farkas asked.
“Their specifications were first added to our databases approximately two months ago,” Deonil replied.
“To what do you ascribe their actions?” Farkas asked. “What do they want?”
“Access to the streams, possibly the Source,” Deonil replied.
“But no one has ever seen the Source, have they?” Farkas asked.
“No. But it would not surprise me if those attempting to breach the Gateway had experienced its power in some limited capacity. They might be pilgrims. But if they truly understood the Source—if they were of it, as we are—they would know that knowledge does not come through force. It cannot be taken, it can only be freely received.”
“You don’t think they’ve heard of the wealth of your Confederacy and might be looking to share that?” Farkas asked.
“To steal it, perhaps,” Deonil acknowledged.
“You’ve never just asked?” Farkas asked.
“Our government has chosen not to open diplomatic relations at this time. They do not pose sufficient threat to warrant the risks involved.”
That sounded incredibly shortsighted to Farkas, but she held her peace. “Worst-case scenario, General,” Farkas asked. “If these invaders could assemble sufficient numbers to force access to the stream, how would the Confederacy respond?”
“We have the capacity to destroy the Gateway,” Deonil replied. “To preserve the First World, we would not hesitate to do so.”
“The First World is ten thousand light-years away, but obviously there are other streams that can get you there. Would you destroy all of them?”
Farkas took that as a yes.
“Captain,” Jepel said.
“Yes?”
“I’m picking up some comm traffic between the Turei and the Skeen.”
“Anything useful?” Farkas asked.
“I’m going to need some time to clear up the signal.”
“Do it,” Farkas said. “We’re not going anywhere for a while. As soon as we have anything solid, General, we’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you, Captain. Hadden out.”
Farkas rose from her seat and crossed to the ops panel. “If you get even a hint that they have detected us . . .” she began.
“Aye, Captain,” Jepel said, understanding her perfectly.
DEMETER
“Well, Atlee?” Commander O’Donnell asked as his first officer returned to Demeter’s bridge, after six hours spent on Femra, the planet Overseer Bralt had been most anxious for the Federation’s preeminent botanical geneticist to see. O’Donnell had been grateful, for one of the few times in his career, that Starfleet regulations made it possible for him to refuse Bralt’s request to join the rest of the away team. Nothing would have ended the hopes of an alliance as quickly as six uninterrupted hours in Bralt’s company. Commander Fife, on the other hand, seemed genuinely thrilled by his experience on the planet.
“It will take me several hours to complete my formal report, Captain,” Fife replied.
“Were you impressed?” O’Donnell asked. It wasn’t a huge leap. Fife’s eyes were lit with first-contact infatuation. O’Donnell had never seen the condition listed among communicable illnesses by Starfleet Medical, but it should have been. For those with little experience of alien cultures, a day spent touring their natural and technological wonders nearly always produced this heady effect. Even the most hardened Starfleet officer usually listed “exploring the unknown” at the top of the list of reasons they entered the service. Atlee had just learned why.
“I was, sir,” Fife replied. “Nearly every square meter of arable land has been efficiently allocated to optimize production of yint and hrass. Their infrastructure for transporting the raw grains to their local processing facilities is state of the art, as are the refineries. The producers and technicians take great pride in their work. They enjoy a standard of living comparable to those on the First World. Their weather-control satellites mitigate unfortunate natural occurrences and have brought the rate of loss below one percent each season. I cannot speak highly enough of the people I met today, or the work they do for the greater good of the Confederacy. They are exceptional.”
O’Donnell nodded. “What percentage of land is devoted to the production of yint, Commander?”
“Seventy-two percent,” Fife replied.
“And what is yint used for?”
“The manufacture of cloth.”
“Any old cloth?”
“Sir?”
“Do Confederacy citizens wear clothing made from yint every day?”
“No, sir,” Fife said, understanding. “When properly refined, yint yields a fabric of surpassing beauty. It appears almost liquid to the naked eye.”
“And those who purchase it pay quite a premium for it, don’t they?” O’Donnell asked.
“It is exported to fifty of the fifty-three worlds of the Confederacy.”
“Would you consider it a necessity?”
Fife sighed. “No, sir. It is definitely a luxury item.”
“Which explains the quality of life of those who produce it?” O’Donnell asked.
“It does, sir.”
“And what is hrass?”
“A less nutritious grain, used mainly for the sustenance of livestock,” Fife said. “Several developed worlds in the Confederacy still make use of beasts of burden. The hrass is a necessity for them, particularly in times of extreme weather variances.”
“Drought?”
“Or flooding, yes,” Fife said.
“Does anybody on Femra, one of the Confederacy’s most productive agricultural centers, grow anything people can eat?”
Fife considered the question. “Not that I saw,” he finally replied.
“So where does their food come from?”
“I,” Fife began, then admitted, “I don’t know.”
“It comes from the Consumables Exchange, a very profitable branch of the Market Consortium,” O’Donnell said. “Were the soil here fit for growing nothing other than yint and hrass, it would make sense for the residents to trade with other worlds for the resources they need. But for tens of thousands of years before Femra joined the Confederacy, they did not engage in trade. They sustained themselves by conserving their own livestock, fish, and fowl, and growing their own produce.”
“But the markets for yint and hrass are more profitable than any other products they could grow,” Fife said. “Why shouldn’t they devote the majority of their resources to the product that will reap them the greatest rewards?”
O’Donnell shrugged. “You tell me.”
Fife considered the question. “If supply lines were cut off for any length of time, it could leave the residents in difficult circumstances, depending on how much stored food they hold in reserve. Rationing might be necessary.”
“Think bigger,” O’Donnell suggested.
Fife took a moment to do so. “I can’t see the market for hrass falling for any reason. It is essential to the existence of too many member worlds.”
“Various breeds of livestock survive because of ready access to plentiful food sources. A drought or flood can do some damage, but it’s not going to wipe out entire populations. It would take planet-wide catastrophes to do that, in which case there probably wouldn’t be enough people left to worry about feeding their animals,” O’Donnell said.
“But even if the market for hrass failed, yint is in high demand,” Fife said.
“For now,” O’Donnell agreed. “Do you know what the well-heeled Confederacy citizens wore before yint was all the rage?”
“I don’t, sir,” Fife replied.
“Vincent, open a channel to the Fourth Jroone,” O’Donnell ordered.
“Aye, Captain,” the ops officer replied.
Within seconds, Overseer Bralt’s teeth filled the screen.
“Commander O’Donnell, so good to see you again.”
“And you, Overseer,” O’Donnell said. “Commander Fife has reported that his visit to Femra was both instructive and impressive. I look forward to reading about it in its entirety.”
“You do us great honor,” Bralt said.
“In the meantime, I wonder if you and the Jroone would show us another agricultural planet your office manages.”
“If we have the time, I would be delighted to accommodate you,” Bralt said.
“I don’t think it’s far, Overseer. I’d like Commander Fife to see Vitrum.”
Bralt’s face betrayed obvious discontent. The bony ridge above his eyes crept upward with surprise and most of his teeth disappeared into his mouth.
“Vitrum is not on our schedule, Commander,” Bralt said. “The local officials would have to be apprised and it would put them to great difficulty to accommodate our party. Without notice, I feel it would be an unfair imposition.”
“No advance arrangements are necessary, Overseer. You’ve already wined and dined us off our feet. Your generosity does you great credit. But Vitrum is one of your larger food producers. I’d like Fife to see how those operations compare to Femra’s.” When Bralt appeared ready to refuse, O’Donnell added, “It is my understanding that should our alliance progress, you intend to petition the Federation to review your entire agricultural portfolio with an eye toward increasing productivity.”
“That is true, however—” Bralt began.
“The reports I’ve read of Vitrum suggest they might be an excellent candidate for increased productivity.”
A low hiss escaped Bralt’s mouth.
&nbs
p; “Thank you, Commander. I will ask EC Irste to plot a course and we will transfer it to you as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Overseer. You are, as always, generous to a fault.”
When the image on the main viewscreen was replaced by Femra, O’Donnell turned to Fife.
“What’s on Vitrum?” Fife asked.
“Another world,” O’Donnell replied grimly.
GALEN
As soon as Admiral Janeway’s shuttle docked, she dismissed Counselor Cambridge and Lieutenant Lasren for a few hours of rest. Decan accompanied her to the bridge where she found Lieutenant Cress Benoit, Galen’s chief engineer, still in command.
“Admiral on deck,” Ensign Drury, the ops officer, announced as soon as the lift doors had opened. Benoit rose as Janeway stepped the few meters necessary to stand directly in front of him on the small bridge.
“Where is Commander Glenn?” the admiral asked.
“She is still on the surface of the First World with Lieutenant Velth,” Benoit replied. “She is due to return within the hour.”
“Very good,” Janeway said. “Notify me as soon as the commander returns.”
“Aye, Admiral,” Benoit said.
“We spent some time today touring the capital city’s central library. The presider has agreed to allow us to access every public record within that library in order to better acquaint ourselves with the Confederacy’s history.”
Benoit nodded, clearly not understanding what the admiral was getting at.
“Among those records is what the Confederacy calls their ‘material ownership decrees.’ We call them ‘patents.’ Contact the library’s administrator at once and establish an interface that will allow us to research those decrees. They’ll give us the best possible sense of current Confederacy technology and what they might have in the works.”
“Aye, Admiral,” Benoit said.
“Assign as many engineers as you can spare to review them,” the admiral ordered.
Benoit hesitated. “If you mean actual living engineers, Admiral, at least aboard the Galen, there’s only me and three others.”
“Your duties to the Galen take priority, Lieutenant,” the admiral said. “When the Vesta returns, I’ll ask Captain Farkas to provide us with extra eyes. Until then, automate as much of the process as you can.
Star Trek: Voyager - 043 - Acts of Contrition Page 18