Star Trek: Voyager - 043 - Acts of Contrition

by Kirsten Beyer

  “Be that as it may, I cannot force Seven to contact you.”

  “Are you saying Seven refused to speak with me?”

  “No.”

  “Good, because I know that would be a lie.”

  “Commander Paris, please . . .”

  “I’ve actually lost track of the number of times Seven has been essential to a mission that resulted in the salvation of many lives, including mine, and probably yours. Were you here a couple of years back when she made contact with an alien weapon and turned it against an evolved Borg cube that was minutes away from destroying Earth?

  “When the Borg Invasion began, the Federation president asked Seven to advise her throughout those dark days. Seven was in the Monet room when President Bacco watched the Caeliar transform the Borg. The president was holding Seven’s hand when she returned to consciousness. I’m pretty sure Seven still calls her ‘Nan.’ I wonder if Nan would be interested to know that an individual who has done so much for the Federation is now being held incommunicado by Starfleet Medical. I don’t know the president personally, but my sense of her is that, at the very least, she’d be curious as to why.”

  “The president’s office is aware of our work and has offered us all the latitude we require to meet the threat we are facing. She will not question us or our methods,” Frist said.

  “Her office, maybe,” Paris said. “But her? Personally?”

  “You expect me to believe that you could contact the president of the Federation and demand she intercede on your behalf? You’d be cashiered out of Starfleet before the day’s end for your insolence.”

  “If I’m wrong, maybe,” Paris allowed. “But if my concerns prove well founded, that’s another issue entirely. I do believe that if I were to bring President Bacco word that Seven might be in danger, she would start interceding immediately.”

  Frist stared at Paris for almost a full minute in silence. Finally she said, “A moment, Commander.”

  It took less than five minutes for Frist to return to her office. When she did, she rotated the display screen on her desk to face Paris and said, “The Commander will speak with you shortly.”

  “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Paris asked, as Frist left the room, shaking her head in frustration.

  Moments later, the face of a younger man than Paris expected to see appeared before him. He was human, with fair white skin and a cleanly shaven scalp. A dark shadow visible above his ears and ending well before his forehead suggested that what hair had yet to recede was black, but he’d already accepted the inevitable. His nose was bulbous, his lips full, and his chin weak. They did little to convey a sense of authority. That task was left to his dark eyes, which held Paris’s coldly as soon as they found them.

  “Commander Paris, I am Commander Jefferson Briggs.”

  “A pleasure to speak with you,” Paris said. “Where’s Seven?”

  Briggs wet his lips quickly before replying. “I regret to inform you that yesterday, there was a security breach in the quarantine area. At that time, Seven was exposed, briefly, to a live and very deadly virus. It will take us several days to confirm infection, but our best hope of slowing its progress, should our worst fears prove correct, was to slow all of her body’s systems as much as we dared. We have placed her in stasis, and she will remain there until we can pronounce her healthy or are able to find a cure for the virus.”

  Paris believed him, but that didn’t mean he trusted him.

  “You will transmit confirmation of what you have just told me to this station and I will retain that record until Seven is released from quarantine,” Paris said.

  “That confirmation will be classified. You are not authorized to share it with anyone.”

  “I will share it with Doctor Sharak when he returns.”

  Briggs ran a hand over his scalp. “That will be acceptable.”

  “And as soon as Seven is able, I expect to hear from her personally,” Paris said.

  “Understood.”

  “In the meantime, I expect regular reports on her status.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. In the future you may request those updates from Doctor Frist.”

  “You will return Seven to us in perfect health, Commander.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Briggs assured him.

  “Paris out.”

  As the screen shifted to the insignia of Starfleet Medical, Paris sighed. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. But at least the last few hours now made sense.

  When Cadet Icheb emerged from the office of his academic advisor, he was amazed he was still attached to the Academy. Commander Treadon had wanted to believe Icheb’s story about losing his way while attempting to trace a lost inventory requisition from the classified division. Had she suspected how thorough he had been in hiding any trace of his whereabouts from the facility’s internal records she would have been forced to convene a disciplinary panel.

  According to the computer, Icheb had been correctly located in an inventory room prior to a three-hour, eleven-minute contact loss, after which he had been located again in the classified area. That “contact loss” was blamed on sensor malfunction along the route Icheb claimed he had taken between the inventory room and the classified area. The viral algorithm Icheb had planted in that, and several other area sensors, had erased itself and any trace of its origin within seconds of its deployment. The discovery of several other affected sensors had, as Icheb intended, corroborated his story.

  Most students who entered the Academy were proficient in the basic skills required to execute a mission such as the one Icheb had assigned himself. Some had the requisite nerve to carry it out. Few also possessed the sterling record of Icheb or the reputation for scrupulous honesty and social naiveté unique to the former Borg drone. Treadon had wanted to believe him. But his internship with Starfleet Medical had been terminated at their request, and Treadon had seen no reason to fight it. There were other positions available that would have been more challenging and better suited to one of her brightest cadets.

  Naomi Wildman was not yet as tall as Icheb, but she had entered a somewhat gangly, awkward stage of her physical development that made her gait easy to pick out as she hurried through the morning crowd on the quad toward him.

  “What happened?” she demanded as soon as she fell into step beside him.

  “Nothing.”

  “Ambrose said you were escorted back to the grounds last night by security officers,” Naomi insisted.

  “It is not his or your concern,” Icheb said.

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “No.”

  “Then why weren’t you in morning PT?”

  “I had a meeting with my advisor.”

  “Icheb,” Naomi hissed, pinching his upper arm a little too hard as she grabbed it.

  “Ow. Let go,” he said, shaking her off.

  “It has something to do with Seven, doesn’t it?”

  “Don’t you have class right now?”

  Naomi stopped, planting her feet firmly in front of him and crossing her arms at her chest. “I’ve sent more than twenty messages to Seven at Starfleet Medical since she arrived. She hasn’t responded to one of them. That’s not like her.”

  “She is working on a very important project and cannot be disturbed at this time.”

  “Maybe not by most people, but us?” Naomi demanded.

  “Perhaps you overestimate her emotional attachment to us,” Icheb said, and he knew he had erred as soon as the words left his mouth.

  Tears sprang to Naomi’s eyes and her cheeks flushed crimson. “You told me the doctor you met on Voyager was named Sharak. My mom left yesterday to take Doctor Sharak to Coridan, at his request. Coridan is one of those worlds that has been getting a lot of coverage lately in the news feeds. People are saying there’s something going on there. A lot of people are sick. Seven is at Starfleet Medical. It doesn’t take a big brain to connect the dots.” Naomi’s face contorted briefly as she said, “She’s sick, i
sn’t she?”

  Icheb shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t think so, but I don’t know.”

  “Did you try to help her?”

  “No.”

  “There’s nothing I can do, but if I know you’re trying, I’ll feel better,” Naomi said.

  “There’s nothing I can do either,” Icheb admitted.

  Naomi’s hands clenched into fists. She looked ready to punch him. Sadly, it wouldn’t be the first time Icheb had been assaulted during his time at the Academy.

  “We have to try,” Naomi insisted.

  “We have to get to class,” Icheb corrected her. His shoulder knocked hers as he brushed past her, overwhelmed by his failure and determined to do nothing to jeopardize Naomi’s future in the same way he had just risked his own.

  Chapter Fifteen

  GALEN

  The most comfortable, warm, and inviting space available on board the Galen was the Doctor’s private office. The rich earth tones he had chosen for the wall colors and trim soothed the senses better than the stark grays and blues that adorned most sickbays. The unusual structure of the desk, a semicircle that ran from the middle of the rear wall, around the far one, and angled inward again to almost surround its occupant, was one of the most ergonomically pleasing and efficient Janeway had ever seen. Two soft chairs sat opposite it, but there was easily room for two more. Several cabinets ran above the rear of the desk and along the opposite wall. Personal photos of the Doctor’s friends graced every horizontal surface that was not a workspace.

  Janeway realized that she should have made time to see the Doctor and let him give her a personal tour of the sickbay he had designed. It was a remarkable accomplishment and she wanted him to hear that from her lips.

  However, she hadn’t come to admire his handiwork. She was checking on Lieutenant Lasren, who had undergone a full physical as soon as their shuttle had returned from the First World. Janeway had assumed that Commander Glenn would have done the honors, but when the shuttle docked, she was still on the First World. Glenn was several hours late but had continued to check in regularly. Janeway made a mental note to have a word with the young commander when she returned, about balancing the thrill of a first-contact mission with the requirements of her ship, one that was currently missing its CMO.

  A newer version of the EMH, a Mark IX, had completed Lasren’s evaluation, with Counselor Cambridge hovering nearby throughout. As soon as it was done and Lasren was released, Janeway had entered the Doctor’s office to hear their report.

  The pallor of Lasren’s face was accentuated by his large, dark eyes, but otherwise he seemed much better. Cambridge insisted that the lieutenant sit before taking a position with his back resting against the wall next to the office’s entrance, his arms crossed at his chest.

  “What happened, Lieutenant?” Janeway asked as soon as everyone was settled.

  Lasren took a moment to order his thoughts before beginning. “I waited until the service had begun to open myself empathically to those present. I thought that perhaps at a religious observation, where people gather to meditate and reflect, the intensity of the fear I usually sense from Confederacy citizens might have been more manageable.”

  “Was it?” Cambridge asked.

  “No, sir. It was worse.”

  “How so?” Janeway asked.

  “When I was young, my father used to take me to the pools of Warth. Pilgrims come there to meditate. Images of the Four Deities are everywhere, carved from fallen branches of the ancient mect trees that surround the pools. Every time I went, I couldn’t help but open myself up to those around me. There was a powerful energy there, but it was calm and tranquil.”

  “It sounds beautiful,” Janeway remarked.

  “It was,” Lasren said, nodding. “But there was something more—a tangible entity created by but also separate from the pilgrims.”

  “Are you saying that when people gather en masse to speak to those old gods, the gods show up?” Cambridge asked.

  Lasren smiled as he shook his head. “I don’t believe in the Four. I don’t know if the meditation created that reality, or if what I sensed was the existence of something beyond that. I only know I sensed it multiple times.”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Lieutenant,” Cambridge said. “I’ve never felt disadvantaged as a counselor because I do not possess heightened, or really normal, empathy. But hearing you speak of this is enough to make me wish I had been born with your gifts.”

  “What did you sense tonight?” Janeway asked.

  “The fear I get from the people of the First World is existential. I don’t know if the scars of losing their homeworlds to the Borg never fully healed, or if the lives they lead are so fraught with uncertainty that there is no room for anything else. But they sincerely look to the ‘Source’ to ease that fear, to fill some great void inside them.

  “The problem is there’s nothing there. Whatever they are attempting to connect with when they gather in worship, it either isn’t answering or doesn’t exist. And the worst part is I think they know it. They’re going through the motions, but the despair overwhelms them. They’re doing something they feel they must. It is expected of them. But it brings them no peace, no solace, and no hope.”

  Janeway nodded somberly. Glancing at Cambridge, she found him gazing at some distant point, his face hard.

  “Get some rest, Lieutenant,” Janeway ordered. “Tomorrow we are scheduled to meet with the Market Consortium. I want you to attend, but only if you feel up to it.”

  “Understood, Admiral. Thank you,” Lasren said as he rose and departed.

  Once he’d left, Cambridge took his seat and crossed his long legs.

  “Am I pushing him too hard?” Janeway asked.

  “No,” the counselor replied. “He’s a remarkable young man. I don’t know where his strength comes from, but there is a core in him of something solid. He takes risks I wouldn’t. But I don’t think he’s trying to prove anything. I think he’s really that curious. He cares. I wonder how long it will take for experiences like this one to force him to temper those instincts.”

  “You know what really scares me?” Janeway asked.

  “Do tell, Admiral.”

  “I would never have guessed,” she said. “I wasn’t spiritually moved by the services in any way, but I thought the hall was magnificent, and the words, the readings, the songs, really lovely. And there were so many people there.”

  “See, that’s the first tell,” Cambridge said.

  “Tell?”

  “It’s not a coincidence that most civilizations that unlock enough of science’s mysteries to travel among the stars shift their devotion from whatever ancient gods that sustained them to a collective desire for secular progress. Sometimes that progress is defined as demonstrating their military or cultural superiority, but you don’t find a lot of species out there spreading their own version of the ‘good news.’ The Confederacy is an exception. Everybody talks about the ‘Source.’ Membership in a church is required of every citizen—not by law, of course, but by custom. Everybody shows up, not to see their god, but to be seen.”

  “Bridge to Admiral Janeway,” Benoit’s voice came over the comm.

  “Go ahead,” Janeway said.

  “Commander Glenn and Lieutenant Velth have returned.”

  “Thank you. Please ask Commander Glenn to report to sickbay immediately.”

  “Understood. Bridge out.”

  As Cambridge rose to go, Janeway said, “Any technology we might provide the Confederacy as part of an alliance is going to radically change their lives.”

  “That depends entirely on who receives that technology,” Cambridge replied.

  Janeway nodded. “Thank you, Counselor.”

  The admiral had only a few moments to reflect on Cambridge’s words before Commander Glenn entered the office. Her uniform was torn at the shoulder and covered with stains that stood out, even on a black background. Her hair had fallen from its
braid and her face was covered with grime. Her eyes glowed with a feverish intensity.

  Janeway rose automatically at the sight of her. “Are you all right, Commander?”

  “Yes, Admiral,” Glenn replied.

  “Where have you been?”

  The admiral remained on her feet as Glenn made a complete report, including her initial impressions of the medical facility she had been sent to tour, the incident at the market, and her discovery of the clinic devoted to the care of the nonszit. Even after her failed attempt to save Jent’s life, she had shadowed Doctor Kwer as she tended to another dozen patients before her shift had ended.

  When Glenn had finished, Janeway ordered her to sit.

  “Did you ask Doctor Kwer who pays for that clinic?”

  “I did,” Glenn said. “Private donors fund them. Their resources ebb and flow with the generosity of their patrons.”

  Taking the soft chair next to her, the admiral asked, “What impact do you think an alliance with the Federation would have on a place like Doctor Kwer’s clinic?”

  “I don’t know,” Glenn replied. “The Confederacy doesn’t need our medical technology. They have their own versions of tricorders, biobeds, surgical arches, and well-stocked pharmacies. They can’t replicate . . .” she began, then paused.

  “Commander?”

  “They need replicators,” Glenn said.

  Janeway sighed.

  “The issue has to be scarcity. The advanced resources they possess are not easily replaced. If they could replicate what they need, that clinic wouldn’t have to exist. Or even if it did, they’d have access to everything they required.”

  “What if the issue is not scarcity but will?” Janeway asked.

  “Will ? You honestly believe the Confederacy would allow their people to live and die in such desperate circumstances if they had another choice?”

  “They wouldn’t be the first,” Janeway said, then asked, “Knowing what you know now, do you believe it would be appropriate to form a strategic alliance with the Confederacy?”