He found her seated at its base, wrapped in a large, deep-plum wool shawl that looked hand-knit. She came to her feet unsteadily as he said, “Seven?”
Despite the heavy wrap, she trembled. Seven was a dear friend and one of the strongest people he had ever known. It was chilly, barely spring on the western coast of North America, but he didn’t think that was the cause of her shaking.
“What happened?” he asked. “Where have you been?”
The last he’d heard, Seven had been exposed to a deadly virus while working inside a classified lab at Starfleet Medical and placed in stasis. He’d hoped to soon hear that she had been released. Nothing about meeting her here like this made any sense.
“I apologize, Commander. The last several days have been somewhat disorienting.”
“It’s okay,” he assured her. “Sit down,” he suggested, motioning toward the stone base that held the fleet’s monument.
She did as he had bidden, and he joined her there. “Your hands are like ice,” he noted, taking them between his and doing his best to share some of his warmth with her. When she didn’t begin immediately, he said, “Where’d you get the shawl?”
“It was my aunt’s,” Seven replied. “It always travels with me now, but I never think to wear it. After the last several weeks, I needed something that was real, that was mine. I needed . . .” She trailed off as her eyes began to glisten.
“Is your work done? Is the plague cured?”
Seven shook her head.
“Seven, talk to me.”
She took a deep breath to calm herself. “Where is Doctor Sharak?”
“He took a shuttle with Sam Wildman to Coridan more than a week ago. They should have been back by now. I haven’t heard from either of them since they left.”
Seven blinked rapidly as this new information was added to whatever mental puzzle she was now trying to solve. “Then he cannot assist us.”
“Us?” Paris asked. “What are we, I mean, why do we need help?”
Slowly, she began to explain. As the story fell from her lips, Paris moved through disbelief and shock before settling on mind-numbing fury.
“You never even met Commander Briggs until this morning?” he finally asked.
“He had no intention of seeking my assistance. He only wanted my catoms, our catoms.”
“He kept you in stasis for weeks?”
“Yes.”
“And these experiments, you’re sure they aren’t intended to cure the plague?”
“That might be part of his agenda, but what I saw suggested his intentions go well beyond that mandate.”
Paris nodded. “So, our first meeting is with the chief of Starfleet Medical.”
“No,” Seven insisted.
“Briggs is making a mockery of both his Starfleet and Hippocratic oaths. He has to be shut down. Today.”
“What makes you think Starfleet Medical is not already aware of his actions? There are dozens of officers working with him and their experiments must be reviewed and approved by their superior officers.”
“Starfleet would never condone experiments like the ones you’ve described.”
Seven looked away, searching the horizon. The sun had dipped beneath it, bathing the sky in scarlet, blue, and orange ribbons. “Starfleet is a powerful force for good. I know this to be true. But the Federation has stared annihilation in the face too often. In the last days of the Borg Invasion, mine was not the only voice that pleaded with President Bacco to deploy every weapon in our arsenal to defeat the Borg, even those classified as genocidal. Neither you nor I are in any position to assume that those in the upper echelons of Starfleet would not authorize any research necessary to ensure their survival.”
“The Borg are gone, Seven. Who’s coming after us now?”
“The Caeliar.”
“Nothing our fleet has discovered since we returned to the Delta Quadrant has even hinted at the possibility that the Caeliar did not do exactly what they said they were going to do after they transformed the Borg. If they’d wanted to destroy us, they could have done it then. They didn’t. The Caeliar are gone.”
“People don’t trust what they don’t understand,” Seven said. “The sleep of those leading Starfleet now is broken by nightmarish visions of staggering death tolls. Their waking hours are devoted to ensuring that those nightmares can never be made real.” Turning back to Paris she said, “Until we know exactly what Briggs is doing and who above him condones his work, we cannot risk trying to expose him. We need more information. But first, we have to find a place to secure Riley’s people.”
Paris sighed. “Okay. Any ideas?”
“Nowhere on Earth is safe. Nowhere in the Federation is safe.”
“No unaligned world would be terribly safe either,” Paris noted. “There are millions of refugees out there and even our allies aren’t rushing to help us relocate them. Everybody’s got their own problems, not the least of which is the Typhon Pact. We’re talking about families with young children and infants. We can’t send them out there and hope for the best, and we can’t go with them to protect them.”
“We can’t protect them as long as they are on Federation soil,” Seven insisted.
Paris paused. “Federation soil,” he said softly.
“Tom?”
A smile cracked his face. “That would work.”
“What?”
“Do you have any idea how much land on Earth does not actually belong to the Federation?”
“No.”
“I do. Come on, Constance.”
GOLDENBIRD
Lieutenant Samantha Wildman made a slight course adjustment before activating the automatic navigational controls. Turning to her companion of the last several days, Voyager’s CMO, Doctor Sharak, she found him studying a map of the capital city on Aldebaran, their intended destination.
When this mission had begun, a brief trip to Coridan to facilitate the gathering of data regarding a classified medical project, Wildman’s involvement had been limited. She was simply taking a few days off at the request of an old friend, Tom Paris, to ferry a fellow officer to a distant world.
As soon as they had left orbit of Coridan, Doctor Sharak had briefed her thoroughly on the nature of the classified project. The many odd things they had discovered together on Coridan finally made sense. They also painted a damning picture of several officers at Starfleet Medical, and for all she knew, Starfleet Command.
The first thing Sharak requested was that she file an official flight plan indicating their destination as Ardana, one of three Federation worlds currently suffering massive casualties from some sort of new catomic plague that had arisen in the last year. His second request was that she set course for Aldebaran. After hearing his full report, she concurred wholeheartedly with his plan.
“If you are right that Ria was an agent of Commander Briggs, and he ordered her to terminate her work on Coridan, it is highly likely that he would have made similar requests of any other agents he had on Ardana and Aldebaran,” Wildman suggested.
“That is my fear as well,” Sharak acknowledged. “At the very least we can assume that he will have terminated operations on Ardana, as he believes that to be our next destination.”
“If Doctor Frist told him,” Wildman said.
“She did,” Sharak said, turning to face her. “When I made my report to her, I intentionally included our supposition that Ria was, in fact, a Planarian, which everyone, including Doctor Frist, knows to be impossible. Planarians have been extinct for thousands of years.”
“Until Commander Briggs reconstituted their genome,” Wildman interjected.
“A theory I indicated that we intended to explore on Ardana,” Sharak continued. “Doctor Frist holds Commander Briggs in the highest possible regard. He is the savior upon whom Frist and her fellow officers have pinned every hope of eradicating this plague. Until now, his results might have convinced her to turn a blind eye to his methods. Few dare question living geniuses. But
she knows her ethical duty. She would have briefed Briggs on my report, and he would have taken any actions necessary to cover his tracks, should they exist.”
“We’re two days out from Aldebaran at high warp,” Wildman noted. “Are we going to start at the central hospital? Doctor Frist ordered you to cease your investigations. She might have contacted them and ordered them not to even talk with you.”
“We should begin our investigation in an unofficial capacity,” Sharak suggested. “Our status as medical officers will permit us to bypass some quarantine restrictions. But we will not assault the hospital directly.”
Wildman smiled. She’d learned more in the last few days about the Children of Tama, Sharak’s people, than any report she’d ever read. The Tamarians were not members of the Federation. Their language was one of the few that universal translators could not accurately parse. The words were clear enough, but their meanings had been a complete mystery, as had the fact that their communication was based upon metaphors unique to their civilization, until an amazing contact had been made years earlier by the Federation flagship, the U.S.S. Enterprise.
Formal diplomatic relations now existed and a handful of Tamarians had begun to work directly with Starfleet. Sharak was the first to sufficiently master Federation Standard to earn a post aboard an exploratory vessel. But he still struggled at times with simple words.
“You and I will not be ‘assaulting’ anything,” she teased.
“Do not underestimate us,” Sharak advised, smiling. “Samantha and Sharak. Seeking the truth.”
“Samantha and Sharak. At Aldebaran.”
“I will see to it that our story is remembered by the Children of Tama,” Sharak said.
This brought a smile to her lips as well. Sharak’s missteps with Standard were nothing compared to her butchery of Tamarian, but he was a patient teacher, and she had become an avid pupil.
A shrill tone from the Goldenbird’s computer indicated an incoming transmission. “It’s Gres,” she said simply.
Sharak nodded and rose from his seat beside her. “I will replicate a light dinner for us. You should speak privately to your husband.”
“Thank you.”
Once Sharak had made his way to the rear of the ship, she opened the channel and was warmed, as ever, by the sight of Gres’s face staring back at her.
“Hi, honey,” she greeted him.
“Sam.”
The Ktarian face held a certain savage beauty Wildman had always found appealing. But Greskrendtregk’s normally soft eyes held hers now with abnormal intensity.
“Naomi?” she asked immediately.
“Is fine,” he hurried to assure her. “She is not happy and still trying to hide it from me. But, otherwise, she is well enough.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I have received another request from Commander Paris.”
Wildman’s heart stilled in her chest. “The hearing?”
“Concluded in his favor.”
As her heart resumed a normal rhythm, she sighed. “Then what?”
“He wishes me to pilot a runabout for the next few weeks. I am free to do so and happy to be of assistance to him, but I worry about both of us being too far from home given Naomi’s current state.”
Wildman shook her head. “I have no idea how soon I can get back. Can it wait?”
“Apparently not.”
Wildman knew her husband and Tom Paris well enough to understand that a great deal was going unspoken right now and most of her questions should not be asked. If Tom had become involved in any way with Sharak or Seven’s current project, that could easily account for Gres’s circumspection. But she and her husband had carefully planned their lives after Voyager returned home from the Delta Quadrant in order to prioritize accessibility to their daughter, Naomi, who was struggling in her first year at Starfleet Academy.
A new thought occurred to her. “Take Naomi with you.”
“She is not scheduled to be done for several weeks, and her liberty is only four days long.”
“Call it a family emergency,” Wildman suggested. Come to think of it, that wasn’t even a lie.
Gres’s eyes softened. “I’d love having her all to myself for a few weeks.”
“Do it,” Wildman insisted. “It will be good for both of you. Will you be able to stay in contact?”
“I doubt it.”
Wildman’s jaw tensed. But the stakes were too high to allow fear a foothold. “Take care of her. And yourself.”
“Always, my love.”
Wildman nodded.
“One more thing?”
“Yes?”
“Does Doctor Sharak have any friends on Earth right now?”
“I’ll—” she began.
“Ratham,” Sharak’s voice said clearly over her shoulder. Turning, she saw him standing behind her, a tray heavy with two bowls and glasses in hand.
“I apologize for dropping eves,” he said.
“Teema at . . . where was it?”
“Gayara,” Sharak replied.
“Teema. At Gayara,” Wildman repeated. Turning back to Gres, she asked, “Did you get that?”
Gres was chuckling at both of them. “Ratham, was it?”
“Yes,” Sharak confirmed. “She is a fellow at the Federation Language Institute.”
“Sam told me you were teaching her Tamarian.”
“Your wife is a very quick study.”
“That’s not how I remember her,” Gres teased.
“Hey,” Wildman interjected.
“Safe travels, you two,” Gres said.
“Samantha and Sharak on the ocean. The winds fair.” Sharak nodded.
“For all of us, I hope,” Gres said.
3
STARSHIP VESTA
Captain Regina Farkas stood before her bridge’s center seat giving half her attention to the report of her chief engineer, Lieutenant Phinnegan Bryce.
“. . . are estimated to be complete within the next three hours,” Bryce finished.
“You’re telling me that the majority of our systems are fully operational but you wouldn’t call us ‘battle-ready’ just yet?” Farkas asked.
“I don’t believe our temporary repairs to the secondary shield generators would be sufficient to meet the demands you would place on them should we again face that Voth ship,” Bryce said.
Farkas smiled faintly as she glanced toward the earnest young man who’d earned her respect and confidence in only a few months.
“I don’t believe ten more years of tinkering would be sufficient for that, Bryce. Your concern is noted. I’ll do all I can to keep us out of harm’s way.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Bryce said.
Returning her eyes to the main viewscreen where most of the major players could be seen taking their places for the admiral’s trial, she asked of her operations officer, “Jepel, do we have control of the transmission frequency?”
“Aye, Captain. Our modifications are stable.”
“Can the Kinara detect them?”
“A really good communications officer might notice the errant compressed wave,” Jepel admitted.
“Then let’s hope they don’t have one of those,” Farkas said. “Sienna?”
Her tactical officer, Kar Sienna, replied, “Status unchanged. The Voth vessel is holding position near the Manticle.”
“Do we have a name for her yet?”
“The Scion.”
“Lovely. And the rest?”
“Two Turei, one Vaadwaur, and one Devore vessel have stationed themselves just outside the Gateway. The Skeen Lightcarrier and the Karlon Denizen are continuing their perimeter sweeps. The other three Kinara vessels we still can’t identify, but they are positioned to protect the Manticle’s flank.”
“What about our ships?”
“Galen is holding position to port. We are standing by to extend our shields around Voyager on your order.”
“Then we are as ready as we could possibly be,” Farka
s noted. “Ensign Jepel, route the Manticle’s transmission to my ready room.”
“Aye, Captain.”
A familiar face was seated at her desk, already watching the show when Farkas entered her sanctuary.
“Hello, El’nor.”
“Regina.”
“Can I get you anything? A borst ale? Maybe some pretzels?”
“This is the first chance I’ve had to sit in thirty-six hours,” Doctor El’nor Sal replied. “And this,” she added, gesturing to the small desktop screen, “isn’t my fault.”
“It isn’t mine, either.”
The captain’s oldest friend favored her with a withering glare.
Farkas perched on the front edge of her desk for the second-best view in the room of the transmission. “I realize I didn’t give you enough time to yell at me before I ordered you over to Voyager. I’m sorry about that, El’nor.”
“I know Admiral Janeway gave the relevant orders, but as far as I’m concerned, if we’re under fire, you failed to do your job, Captain.”
“I agreed with you the first time you made that pithy observation. Thirty-five years later, I still do.”
“Good,” Sal began, then paused as on-screen Admiral Janeway was ushered into the room. The admiral’s hands were shackled by heavy metal circlets connected by a short bar. Her shoulders were pulled forward by their weight, making it difficult for her to walk in her normal poised and steady gait.
More alarming, her personal security detachment, Lieutenants Psilakis and Cheng, were not present.
Farkas heard her breath catch. Wordlessly, Sal placed a comforting hand over hers and patted it gently.
A lump was forming in the captain’s throat when a face Farkas had grown to dislike intensely, Devore Inspector Kashyk’s, appeared, taking up most of the screen. Compassion was replaced by fear. Anyone who could lie that easily and convincingly scared the living daylights out of her.
“Greetings to our friends of the Confederacy of the Worlds of the First Quadrant and our former acquaintances of the Federation. Prior to turning herself over to the custody of the Kinara, Admiral Janeway requested that her appearance before the tribunal established to weigh the charges presented against her be transmitted in real time, and we have agreed that it is only appropriate that you bear witness to it.
Atonement Page 4
