Star Trek: Voyager - 043 - Acts of Contrition

by Kirsten Beyer

  If all had gone as planned, the container was now at rest within storage room CLCP-004. Gathering his courage, Icheb released the container’s internal locks and emerged into a dimly lit room lined floor to ceiling with shelves containing numerous boxes of various shapes and sizes. He quickly removed the biohazard suit and returned it to its container. Only then did he activate his tricorder and scan the adjacent hallways.

  Once he had satisfied himself that they were clear, he grabbed a small box from the nearest shelf and left the storage room.

  He moved at a sedate pace, hoping to attract as little attention to himself as possible. Everything depended on him looking like he belonged there. A right turn at the next juncture and an immediate left should take him to the living quarters for the quarantine area.

  His second turn brought him face-to-face with a Bolian female. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  Icheb tried to swallow the lump that had just appeared in his throat.

  “Um . . .”

  That was when the screaming began.

  Seven?

  A breath later, an alarm klaxon began to shriek directly above him.

  The woman turned, and Icheb took that as his cue to begin running toward the screams.

  Despite the care with which he had planned this mission, he never really had a chance.

  Liaison did not possess a face well suited to subterfuge. The moment she entered the clean room where the Commander was quickly discarding his biohazard suit, she knew he knew.

  “What the hell is going on out there?” he demanded.

  “An intruder,” Liaison began.

  “In quarantine?” the Commander asked in disbelief.

  “We don’t know how he entered the area. He swears he got lost. I don’t believe him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He is an Academy cadet assigned here for his first-year internship, but he is also a friend of Seven of Nine. His name is Icheb.”

  Tension rippled over the Commander’s jaw.

  “He requested that she contact him several days ago,” Liaison added.

  “Did she?”

  Liaison shook her head.

  “He knows her very well,” Liaison apologized.

  “Where is he now?”

  “Decontamination. From there he will be returned to the Academy under guard,” Liaison replied.

  The Commander nodded. “It doesn’t matter. Seven’s catoms have proven completely resistant to programming. We’ll likely have more success with our new arrivals.” After a moment, he added, “Return to data management, Ensign.”

  “Sir?” the ensign said, as a rush of blood rose to her cheeks.

  “We will have to assign a more skilled Liaison.”

  The ensign refused to allow her chin to fall. The Commander believed weakness to be almost as great a sin as failure.

  “Understood, Commander.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  VOYAGER

  The Doctor stood on the precipice of greatness.

  The fact that none of the viral agents the Doctor had detected thus far possessed Caeliar molecular tags was a minor detail. With painstaking effort, the Doctor had completed a genetic analysis of each virus and found twelve likely candidates for the plague. The key now was to determine how known catomic molecules would react in the presence of these devious little organisms. He suspected the virus would integrate the catoms, enhancing its effectiveness.

  The Doctor’s supply of catoms that Seven had provided had dwindled precipitously, given the amount he had transfused into Axum. Those that remained had maintained their neutral state in the absence of organic material. That was about to change.

  Given the nature of the virus, at least as he theorized its functioning, the Doctor had chosen to make an unusual request of Voyager’s crew. Several dozen crew members had donated blood for him to use in his tests. He could have replicated the necessary tissue, or taken some from the sickbay’s reserve stocks, but it was essential for him to have complete baseline readings on all of the donors prior to beginning. Only six samples would be used for this initial experiment.

  Each blood sample was free of any viral or bacterial agents. Each sample was injected with a replicated version of one viral candidate based on the initial victim’s records. Each was then injected with a single catom from Seven.

  The reaction upon injection was instantaneous and unexpected. Once the Doctor had confirmed his results he repeated the procedure with six additional candidate viruses.

  The results were identical. In each case, Seven’s healthy catomic particles immediately took the form of healthy blood cells, and the response of those cells to the presence of the virus was aggressive, to say the least. Every single viral candidate was neutralized within seconds.

  Perhaps greatness was going to take a little more time.

  FIRST WORLD

  Within a few blocks of the market, the streets of the capital city changed subtly. Commercial buildings gave way to dwellings. Most of them were tall, multiunit constructs and well maintained, though quarters were definitely close. Foot traffic had dwindled to almost nothing, making it relatively easy for Glenn and Velth to follow the men carrying the injured boy, but that changed as they entered another small public square.

  Here dozens of men and women meandered past more small carts. None of the displays were as appetizing as those Glenn had seen near the café. There was more good-natured shouting, as vendors hawked their wares and the locals bartered for better prices. The area had a rough feel to it. The stares Glenn noted as she struggled to keep pace through the jostling crowd were harder and warier.

  Finally the small group she was trailing ducked into a wide alley. A deep scarlet sun sat low on the horizon, blinding Glenn temporarily as she turned the corner. She shielded her eyes from the glare in time to see them entering a large double doorway beneath a low, metal awning.

  Glenn felt Velth’s hand grab her upper arm as she moved toward the doorway.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Commander?”

  “That boy needs medical attention,” she replied.

  “His mother didn’t want that. You saw the way the medics scared her. This is her problem to solve, not ours.”

  “I know my duty as a Starfleet officer and a doctor,” Glenn said. “If they refuse my help, that’s the end of it.”

  “You don’t even have a medkit on you, sir, or a tricorder,” Velth said. “You know you can’t transport one down.”

  “You think that’s what it takes to practice medicine?” Glenn asked as she moved toward the doors.

  Glenn stepped back as they swung open. One of the Djinari men who had carried the boy brushed past her without comment. His vest was covered in viscous white fluid. Glenn started to call after him, as Velth said, “Commander.”

  Now that the interior of the building was visible, Glenn understood. She stepped into a very large open room. To her right, dozens of Djinari, Leodt, and unidentifiable aliens nursing a variety of ailments stood along the walls, sat restlessly on low metal benches, or lay on the dirt floor. Along the far wall, five tables were staffed by men and women in plain clothing. Long lines formed before each table.

  Several official-looking individuals in gray smocks moved among the assembly, checking the status of the waiting, directing them to lines or toward a wall of partitions that began to the left of the waiting area. Moans, sobs, and the occasional scream punctuated the low din of conversation. Infrequent loud shouts came from the partitions, which Glenn concluded must be examination or treatment rooms. The partitions were rudely constructed of thin wood and, in some cases, curtains suspended from rods attached to the ceiling.

  “Is this a hospital?” Velth asked in dismay.

  “I think so,” she replied. Searching among the faces, Glenn caught sight of Jent’s mother. She stood at the end of one of the longer lines, holding herself with arms crosse
d over her chest. Her face was a mask of shock, but the tendrils extending from the back of her neck jerked and flailed in a motion Glenn now associated with physical or mental distress.

  Jent was nowhere to be seen.

  Glenn picked her way carefully through the crowd. Few were in any condition to glance at her, let alone question her. When she reached the woman she placed a gentle hand on her upper arm. The woman looked up slowly.

  “You?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Glenn said. “My name is Clarissa Glenn. I’m a doctor, visiting your world. Is Jent being cared for here?”

  The woman nodded. “He didn’t do anything to those boys,” she said. “We were just walking down the street.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t,” Glenn said kindly. “When we were in that alley, medics arrived. They could have taken your son to the central hospital immediately, but you ran. Why?”

  “We’re nonszit.” The woman shrugged.

  “I don’t know what that means,” Glenn said.

  “We’re not cleared for medical care. They didn’t come to help him,” she added.

  “Why did they come?”

  “To get him off the street. To shut him in some dark room so no one would hear him die.”

  Horrified, Glenn asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Neecah.”

  “Neecah. That’s lovely.”

  The line began to move and Neecah shuffled forward.

  “We need to go, Commander,” Velth said softly.

  Glenn’s face set into hard lines. “We came here to tour the First World’s medical facilities, Lieutenant. And that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

  “We gather together in the sight of the living Source and invoke its blessings on all those who seek out the streams.”

  Kathryn Janeway stood next to Presider Cin in a secured area at the front of a vast, ornate hall. Cambridge stood beside her. Decan was in the row directly behind her. First Consul Dreeg was conspicuously absent. The contemplative energy of those who had assembled for evening services filled the space with quiet dignity.

  The presider’s personal guards stood at either end of the rows designated for Cin and her guests. Two of Psilakis’s men stood behind them. Psilakis and Lasren had been stationed at the rear of the hall, nearest the doors. Seventy rows filled with worshippers stood between them, their heads bowed.

  “We gather to acknowledge all that the Source has given us. We gather as one people who were divided in space and time until the Source, in its wisdom, carved the Great River that carried us to one another. We gather to give thanks.”

  As the celebrant continued to list the many accomplishments of the Source, Janeway allowed her eyes to wander. The walls and ceiling were decorated with luminescent mosaics of glass in rich hues. Directly behind the celebrant, a massive, perfect circle of gold against a black field obviously represented the Source. From its outer edge, hundreds of individual streams extended: first white, but breaking into various reds, oranges, yellows, greens, and indigos as they flowed into the obsidian field, dispersing into blackness. The effect should have been enchanting.

  Why such fine and careful artistry left the admiral cold, she could not say.

  As Glenn and Velth began to pass through the lines toward the partitions, few bothered to glance at them, let alone speak to them. Everyone who had a job to do was clearly overwhelmed, and patients who had come to utilize this crude facility’s services were in too great a need to care.

  When they reached the first set of partitions, Glenn stepped past the open doorway and listened for a few moments as the patient inside spoke to the nurse attending him.

  “The wheel came loose before I could move my hand,” the man said. He groaned loudly as the nurse applied gentle pressure on the limb.

  In the next partition a Djinari woman struggled alone, clearly in the throes of heavy labor. Another nurse brushed past Glenn as she entered and wordlessly sat at the end of the cot and checked the woman’s progress.

  Several partitions down the row, an urgent voice shouted, “I need a donor, Djinari, Type 6G-alpha, and a pair of hands!”

  Motioning to Velth, Glenn moved quickly toward that voice.

  “The streams of the Great River flow endlessly from the Source, like blood flowing through our body. All that we have is a gift of the Source. All that we are reflects its bounty. All that we do repays its generosity. The Source calls us to remember that, as individuals, we may toil, but unified by the power of the Source, we will achieve our true potential.”

  As the celebrant droned on, Lieutenant Lasren tried to keep his eyes focused on the bright, beautiful image before him. But as he opened his empathic senses to those nearest him, he found his gaze drifting to the black sphere within the golden circle as a pit slowly opened in his stomach.

  Initially, the sensation was all too familiar. The fear was a living thing in the center of almost everyone he had encountered on the First World. It began as a hunger and inevitably grew to something that could not be filled, a darkness that seemed determined to wipe him from existence.

  Forcing his breath to slow, Lasren leaned his back against the rear wall, noting the worried look Psilakis threw in his direction. Closing his mind to the darkness, Lasren forced a vivid image into his consciousness: a mect tree that had stood near his family home on Betazed for more than a thousand years. As a boy he had often tried to embrace its trunk, but the width of his outstretched arms barely spanned a tenth of its circumference. His face lay against rough, lavender bark. The lowest branches were fifty meters above. The top was hidden from the ground by countless five-pointed, rich magenta leaves that turned pale pink before they fell each winter. Lasren had believed for most of his early years that it must touch the sky. The roots might reach all the way down to the center of the world. Heedless of the pull of the darkness, Lasren held tight to all he had ever tasted of eternity.

  Glenn found Jent lying on his back on an elevated cot in a larger partition. A doctor stood over him, a Djinari female. Her gray smock was covered in sticky white fluid and grungy stains. Her hands, a deep shade of crimson splattered with Jent’s white blood, worked with a skill Glenn immediately appreciated, gently cleaning the open wound to the boy’s chest cavity.

  A single metal pole stood beside the bed, with a sack of fluid suspended from a hook at the top. A clear line ran from the sack to Jent’s arm, where a hasty puncture had been taped over. His respiration was weak. No other scanning devices were present to attest to his vitals. But the doctor’s tentacles extended over her right shoulder and the tips gently touched Jent at several places on his head and neck. Glenn wondered silently what that touch was communicating to the doctor.

  “I said I needed a donor!” the Djinari doctor shouted again as she glanced toward Glenn. Instantly she demanded, “Who are you?”

  “I’m a doctor,” Glenn said.

  “From what colony? Ritella?”

  “I come from the United Federation of Planets,” Glenn said, stepping closer to the bed.

  “Federation? What Federation?”

  A white spurt of fluid shot up, and the doctor immediately returned her attention to Jent.

  Glenn moved to the opposite side of the bed. At the doctor’s left hand sat a tray of supplies. There was a stack of small, clean square cloth bandages beside a set of metal instruments. Glenn didn’t want to think about the last time they might have been sterilized. Many used cloths littered the floor at the doctor’s feet.

  “Do you have extra gloves?” Glenn asked.

  “We don’t have extra anything here,” the doctor replied, then added, “The sealant is behind you.”

  “Sealant?”

  “For your hands. If you’re here to help, make it quick or get out!” Turning her head toward the doorway, the doctor shouted again, “Donor! Djinari! Type 6G-alpha! Now!”

  Glenn turned around and saw a cabinet stocked with more haphazardly arranged supplies. On top of it rested a low basin filled with a cr
imson fluid, reminiscent of but thicker than human blood. Glenn suddenly realized why the doctor’s golden hands had appeared red when she first saw them. Gingerly, Glenn dipped her hands into the fluid and felt her skin tighten as a fine layer of film surrounded it.

  “Are you sure you’re a doctor?”

  Turning back to the cot, Glenn lifted her hands, now coated by the liquid gloves. “I am,” she said more confidently. “My name’s Clarissa.”

  “I’m Kwer,” the Djinari said. “Can you hold this? I can’t see a thing in here,” she said, handing Glenn a small tube. Glenn recognized its purpose immediately: suction.

  Glenn worked carefully around Kwer’s fingers, removing the fluid so Kwer could properly visualize the wound. As soon as one area was clear, another began to leak, pooling more fluid in the center of Jent’s chest.

  “Was the Source good enough to send me a doctor and a nurse today?” Kwer asked, nodding toward Velth, who had remained just outside the room.

  Glenn motioned to Velth. “Dip your hands in that basin and get over here, Lieutenant,” she ordered, reaching over Jent to grab a few of the cloths and applying pressure to one leak as she suctioned another.

  Velth didn’t look happy about it, but he did as he was told.

  A stocky Leodt nurse entered, holding a scrawny young Djinari by the arm. “Your donor, Kwer.”

  Kwer glanced at him and said, “He’ll do. Run the line.”

  The nurse guided the young man to the foot of the cot and sat him on a stool she pulled from beneath it. She then scuttled past Velth, who was lifting blood-red hands from the basin, and tossed several instruments aside until she found a coil of tubing terminating in a long, sharp needle.