When they reached the turbolift, Paris directed it to deck six.
“Where are we going?” Kim asked.
Paris turned to him, his face hard. “I love three women. Right now, two of them are furious with me. Before we get started I need to spend a few minutes with the only one who still thinks I hang the moon.”
Kim nodded, understanding. “Is Miral playing Captain Proton yet?”
“Nope, too scary,” Paris said as they exited the lift and hurried toward the holodeck.
“Flotter?”
“Way too scary,” Paris replied. “She’s at the park.”
“Works for me.” Kim smiled. “Let’s build her a really big sand castle.”
As they entered the holodeck, Paris couldn’t stop thinking about how impermanent castles built of sand were.
VESTA
Seven considered all that Admiral Janeway had told her of Axum’s recovery, his current status, and Starfleet Medical’s request. It was a relief, but she was not deceived about the peril she was about to face.
“I will comply with Starfleet’s request,” she stated.
The admiral had made her case from behind the desk in her new quarters aboard the Vesta. She rose from her chair and moved to the other side, resting against its edge and crossing her arms. “Why?” she asked.
“To refuse would be to place you and the Full Circle fleet in an untenable position with Starfleet Command. I am permitted to serve here at their pleasure. I have never considered requesting a commission to formalize my relationship with Starfleet. Had I done so, there would be no question of my obligation to follow their orders. If I refuse, they would surely insist that you deny me the opportunity to continue with the fleet.”
“I’m a big girl, Seven. I can handle Starfleet Command. You don’t have to go, if you don’t want to.”
“Billions are dead because of the Borg; hundreds of thousands more, perhaps, because of the Caeliar. Both are part of me. Assuming I am allowed to work with those currently trying to cure the disease, I believe I will be able to assist them.”
“So this is expediency?” Janeway asked.
“I need to see Axum,” Seven replied evenly. “If what you say is true, he sacrificed a great deal on my behalf. If what I have sensed from him is accurate, he is in danger and I cannot stand idly by hoping for the best. If I can help him, I must.”
“I understand,” Janeway said. “I just want to make sure you are going into this with your eyes open.”
“I am.”
“Chakotay told me you believe Axum is being tortured,” Janeway said.
“That is his perception. Whether or not it is the intention of those now holding him is unclear. I intend to keep an open mind when evaluating their procedures, but I will not conscience behavior that violates our shared moral obligations.”
“Nor would I,” Janeway assured her. “Tom Paris and Doctor Sharak will accompany you, and Sharak will be near at hand should you find anything the least bit out of the ordinary. I will provide all of you with classified codes so you can reach me at any time. I have also seen to it that Icheb is assigned to Starfleet Medical Research for his current internship.”
“He is too young to be a part of this,” Seven insisted.
“Not anymore,” Janeway said.
Seven paused, then asked, “Did you consider sending the Doctor in Sharak’s place?”
“I did not.”
“Why?”
Janeway stood upright at this, stepping past Seven and refusing to meet her eyes as she said, “The Doctor saved Axum’s life but failed to establish a solid working relationship with the officers now entrusted with his continuing care and study. Starfleet Medical doesn’t want him directly involved. I cannot change their minds. However, I will expect him to continue to study what we know of the disease, and should he make any promising breakthroughs, they will be forwarded to Starfleet Medical immediately.”
“I see,” Seven said, then added, “Is there something wrong with the Doctor’s program?”
Turning back, Janeway said, “Why do you ask?”
“The last time I was with him there was a discrepancy in his vocal subroutines. I had only heard it once before, when his ethical subroutines had been compromised.”
Janeway nodded. “I’ll have Reg run a full diagnostic.”
“I think that would be wise,” Seven said. “If you will excuse me now, there are many pressing matters I must attend to before I depart in the morning.”
“Of course,” Janeway said. “And Seven?”
“Yes?”
Janeway looked at her with a mixture of fear and resignation. “If you find yourself in need of . . . anything, contact my mother. I know she’d love to see you again.”
“Thank you,” Seven said.
Once Seven had departed, Janeway returned to her desk and considered the padd before her. She had seriously contemplated showing it to Seven, but given all she was now facing, the admiral could not. Janeway felt certain that at some point, Seven might have to know of its contents; maybe when she returned.
When that time came, Janeway would likely share some, if not all, of the contents of Zimmerman’s message with her. For now, only the admiral and the Doctor’s creator would remain aware of the alteration that had been made. Prior to encoding the file, Janeway reviewed it one more time.
Admiral Janeway,
I’m Lewis Zimmerman. I know my face is familiar to you, and right now I wish I’d taken the time when you were closer to home to meet with you, just to introduce myself. In all honesty, I prefer to remain behind the scenes. My work usually speaks for me. Tonight, I can’t do that.
I’ve recorded this message for transmission in the event a complete diagnostic of the Doctor’s program is run by a third party in the next six months. Should it be required, I’ll assume that some of my work has not been integrated as well into the Doctor’s program as I anticipated and that he is exhibiting behavior that is cause for concern.
I beg you not to share with him what I am about to tell you.
I was surprised to hear from him early this afternoon. We’re not what you would call close. Part of the alterations I have made included wiping our last conversation from his memory.
You don’t have children, do you, Admiral? Me either. But I’d venture to guess that many of the officers who have served with you over the years have taken the place of those non-existent offspring. To hear the Doctor tell it, you are a fierce protector of your people. He’s even referred to it as a maternal instinct from time to time. I didn’t plan on feeling anything similar for the Doctor or any of my creations. But we both know how different he is. I’ve studied his evolving matrix during many a long night, searching for the spark of sentience we now take for granted in him. To reproduce that would be something, indeed. But I’ve long suspected that his development has been as much a product of nurture as nature. He is what he is because we both made him that way. I provided the programming, and you provided the experiences that in combination have done the unimaginable.
I wish sometimes this hadn’t come to pass. Were he any other program, I could alter his matrix or delete him without second thought. As it is, when he is troubled or has lost his way, I feel the same painful impatience I so often saw in my own father. He was as ill-equipped to raise a son as I am, and I never asked to be a father. But that doesn’t change anything now.
The Doctor contacted me because he is experiencing intense emotional distress. Disruptions of this magnitude in the past have led to cascade failure; I was terrified to risk that while he’s so far away. He advised me that the last time this happened you were critical in helping him work through the stages of grief that accompanied an impossible ethical choice. Were this matter so cut and dried, I would have suggested he do the same. But it isn’t.
As you are no doubt aware, the Doctor comes as close as he can to loving a woman named Seven of Nine. I’ve seen her and applaud his ambition while loathing his naiveté. She bro
ke his heart, but he somehow integrated that pain into his program in such a way that it did not damage him permanently. He tells himself her happiness is more important than his. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. And until now, that pleasant fiction has sustained him.
Apparently fairly recently Seven chose to enter a more intimate relation with a man the Doctor is convinced will cause her terrible pain. He insisted that his concern was for her as a friend and that he did not know the best way to broach the topic with her. He believed he could convince her of the folly of this choice. You and I both know that’s not how it works. If we could direct our hearts to love only those most likely to keep it safe, how much easier would our lives be? It’s painful, to be sure, to lose the affection or lack the ability to claim the affection of someone we care for deeply. But it’s often infinitely more painful to live and work in close quarters with someone who not only cannot return our feelings, but who gives them to another we find unworthy of them.
I told him to transfer out of the fleet. He wouldn’t hear of it. And given the recent trauma Reg and I inflicted on him by creating Meegan, I knew better than to push too hard. Frankly, I’m surprised he sought my counsel at all.
But then, it hit me. The Doctor’s problem is actually one I failed to anticipate because I never expected him to exceed his programming. It’s my fault, and I had to try and fix it.
When organic beings suffer, we often seek short-term consolations, but the reality is that time is the only thing to offer eventual solace. We are blessed with memories that fade. The day someone dies the pain is excruciating. Months, sometimes years, later, it’s hard to see their face clearly in our mind’s eye anymore.
And the same is true of our hearts. The impact of emotional turmoil fades the further we travel from the initial shock, otherwise we would never dare risk love again.
The Doctor can’t do that. His memories are permanent, fixed in his matrix, and when called on, live forever with the same emotional intensity as if they had just occurred. He’s not programmed to forget. But I see now that like any other man, he should have been.
I didn’t think it was fair to rob the Doctor of all his most potent memories of Seven. Most of them must be maintained in order for him to continue serving as a doctor, and many are integral to the development of his compassion. But I believed I could create a patch that would lessen the intensity of those memories . . . allow them to diminish in power the way ours do. I segregated the files in question quite easily and “muted” them, so to speak. I also inserted a subroutine that would provide a brief pleasant sensation, not unlike an analgesic for us, when he tried to access the affected memories. I don’t want him to know his memories have been altered. I don’t want to risk another mystery that leads to cascade failure. I just wanted to offer him a little relief.
I don’t know how well it’s going to work. I only had a few hours to write the patch and upload it before Pathfinder closed our comm window. It’s probably not my best work. But I had to help him somehow. My instinct was that of any parent, to take away as much of their child’s pain as they can.
His last diagnostic I saw indicated the patch was completely integrated, but there were unforeseen irregularities. Files that should have been unaffected were marked with minute corruptions. So if he suddenly, or more likely, slowly over time, loses some of his ability to access key memory centers, or confuses events that have occurred in the past, you’ll know the reason why.
I can’t imagine that we’ll lose him altogether. You, as his commanding officer, will see the signs first, especially since you know what to look for. I tried to run this by Reg, but he was unwilling to discuss any of the Doctor’s personal matters with me, and I understand why.
Should his matrix fully integrate the changes, I expect the only visible alteration will be in regards to Seven of Nine. He should now hold her in the same esteem he holds the rest of the crew, but no more. And her personal choices should not be of concern to him. Were he organic, he would have eventually reached this on his own. As it is, I just tried to make that possible for him.
If you have problems, you know where to reach me, Admiral.
Hoping fervently she would never have cause to discuss this with Zimmerman or anyone else, Janeway encoded the file and moved on to the next problem on her list: the opening of formal diplomatic relations with the Confederacy of the Worlds of the First Quadrant.
Tapping her combadge lightly, she said, “Decan to the admiral’s office.”
He had entered before her hand fell from her combadge.
“Have we received any new reports from our officers stationed aboard Demeter?”
“We have,” Decan said, offering her a padd. “It is obvious that they are choosing their words carefully, aware that their transmissions are being monitored. They have been extended extreme hospitality during their stay and arrangements are moving forward in preparation of the formal assembly of greeting scheduled for the evening of our arrival at the Confederacy.”
“Do we have the details of that assembly yet?” Janeway asked.
“They are subject to constant revision, as is usually the case with such ceremonies. We have been advised that the Presider of the Confederacy has chosen to greet our delegation personally at the opening of the assembly. We are assured that this is unusual and a great honor.”
“Indeed,” Janeway said.
Kathryn Janeway had spent the last several months preparing for whatever the future held. That command of the fleet was now hers was a positive development; more than she’d dared hope when she returned to Earth. But the time also had come for her to resume one of her duties as an admiral that she had struggled with: diplomat. Rank had its rewards, to be sure, but they were fleeting, and sometimes they were a prelude to conflicts that sorely tried her patience.
In a way, it was like preparing for any battle. But the weapons here were not energy based. They were words and gestures, and both could be just as deadly as a phaser.
One moment, one hour, one day at a time, she reminded herself, suddenly conscious of how badly she wanted to speak with Chakotay. She hated the way their reunion had ended. She knew she had disappointed him just as surely as he had disappointed her. But that didn’t change the fact that for her to succeed, for them to succeed, they must move beyond it.
More than the future of her fleet was now at stake.
Epilogue
DEMETER
“. . . In a little more than a week, Starfleet, and by extension the Federation, has attained celebrity status among these people. I don’t know if they really want an alliance with us as much as confirmation that their achievements here dwarf those of the Federation. Time will tell. But they’re going to have to swallow a large helping of humility once our diplomatic delegations begin their work in earnest. And I’m positively dying to see what our people make of some of their more quaint customs.” Leaning back and stretching his arms over his head, Counselor Cambridge considered ending his report, but added, “They’re not as much like us as we would like to believe. I don’t think the apple has fallen quite as far from their ancestral tree as we hoped. The ancient wave forms who warned us off had a point. They like power; for them it is not a means to an end, it is the end. I fear . . .”
His work was interrupted by a notice from the ship’s computer.
INCOMING MESSAGE FOR COUNSELOR CAMBRIDGE.
“From whom?” Cambridge asked.
MISSION SPECIALIST SEVEN OF NINE.
“Computer, suspend log entry and play incoming message,” Cambridge ordered, smiling.
The moment he saw her face, ice rushed through his veins.
“I did not wish to inform you of my decision in this manner, but there was no alternative.”
“Computer, pause message.”
The counselor took a moment to collect himself, and then resumed the playback.
“Voyager has regrouped with the Vesta and the Galen. Admiral Janeway has returned and now officially commands
the fleet. She advised me that Axum was recovered by a remote Star-base in the Beta Quadrant. Starfleet Medical has requested that I return to the Alpha Quadrant immediately, and I have chosen to honor that request.”
“Of course you have, my dear,” Cambridge said.
“A new illness has arisen on three Federation worlds: a plague Starfleet Medical believes is caused by Caeliar catoms. I spoke briefly with the Doctor, who saved Axum’s life by providing him with a small number of my catoms. This explains my connection to Axum, as well as the disturbing events I witnessed during those connections.”
“Remind me to thank the Doctor the next time I see him,” Cambridge said through gritted teeth.
“I believe I will be able to assist those studying the disease. I also believe it is essential that I see Axum. It should comfort you to know that Doctor Sharak and Commander Paris will accompany me to Earth.”
“It goes from bad to worse.”
“Had it been possible, I would have requested that you return with me as well. It was not. And that request would have been selfish. You are needed by Captain Chakotay. Nothing has, or will, change between us. I will rejoin the fleet as soon as possible. Until then . . .”
“Computer, end playback,” Cambridge ordered abruptly.
He didn’t need to hear the rest. Whatever Seven said, whatever she might honestly believe, was of no consequence.
He knew the truth.
STARFLEET MEDICAL,
CLASSIFIED OPERATIONS FACILITY
“Report, Ensign.”
“Seven of Nine is en route, Commander.”
“Excellent.”
“She is bringing Voyager’s CMO with her.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Will the modifications to the chambers be complete before she arrives?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the expedition?”
“They are set to launch at zero five hundred hours tomorrow.”
Star Trek: Voyager - 042 - Protectors Page 37
