Atonement

by Kirsten Beyer

  Blayk considered the proposition. “We’re still off rotation,” Blayk said. “Five minutes,” he finally decided, settling himself back against the wall. “I just need five minutes.”

  “I will advise you when five minutes have passed,” Icheb offered.

  “Good man.” Blayk smiled and winked before closing his eyes.

  Icheb actually required fifteen minutes, but he did not expect to be chastised for allowing Blayk a slightly longer nap. As soon as the commander’s breath had settled into a deep, slow, loud rhythm, the cadet set to work.

  Eight minutes later, he signaled the Coleman.

  COLEMAN

  “We’re ready,” Paris said, relieved.

  “Icheb?” Seven asked.

  “Standing by for our signal. I’ll advise the embassy. You’re sure the sensor modifications are complete?” Paris asked.

  Normally, Seven would have simply nodded, but given her fatigue, she quickly re-checked her work and, thankfully, found it satisfactory. “The modifications are set. Even after we have departed, scans will indicate the presence of forty-nine life-forms.”

  “Okay,” Paris said. Turning to Gres, he asked, “Which course did you choose?”

  “Beta,” Gres replied.

  “Any reason?” Paris had given the Ktarian three possible routes, all of which would bring the runabout within range of several densely populated worlds—Paris hoped—Briggs might believe were good choices for the refugees from Arehaz.

  “It’s close to Ktaria,” Gres replied. “I’m more familiar with the area and have identified a few places you didn’t suggest where we could easily ‘get lost’ if we need to.”

  “Under no circumstances are you to risk taking fire,” Seven admonished Gres. “You will abide by Starfleet regulations at all times.”

  “Even if they intend to board us?” Gres asked.

  “Just tell them the truth,” Paris suggested. “You and your daughter are on a family vacation. I offered you the use of this runabout. You and Naomi were the only passengers who left the Sol system. You had no idea your sensors were malfunctioning.”

  “I’d just as soon avoid that conversation if at all possible.”

  Paris nodded. “I’ll let you know the second it is safe for you to return.”

  Gres smiled. “Whatever you’re planning, I hope it works.”

  “So do I,” Paris agreed. “Seven?”

  “Signal Icheb.”

  TAMARIAN EMBASSY

  PARIS, EARTH

  Approximately five minutes later, Seven materialized in a large room with high ceilings from which hung several intricate lights. They were beautifully designed decorative arts, probably ancient, with several branched arms dripping with large crystals. Unfortunately, they gave off very little in the way of illumination. There was an unmistakable dampness in the air, tinged with a sour smell. This and the absence of windows suggested that the room was below ground level.

  Several mismatched chairs, stools, and benches lined the walls, which were adorned with paper in a metallic pattern of floral sprays that was visibly peeling away, in some sections, by the sheet. At the far end of the room, several long tables had been set up. One was piled high with blankets and pillows. One contained large dispensers filled with water, a huge tureen from which steam was rising, baskets filled with thinly sliced bread, and several plates of fruit.

  Standing beside the “buffet” were two Tamarian individuals, one male, one female. Both were dressed in long, dark robes draped with single sashes pinned with dozens of small, reflective ornaments. Their heads were slightly larger than most humans’. A bony spine began at the bridge of their two long nasal slits and ran over the top of their skull. Two smaller ridges ran parallel above each aural opening. Their flesh was brown and their eyes were extremely kind.

  The refugees had grouped themselves in small clusters of families and several threw uncertain glances at Seven as she made her way toward the Tamarians.

  Commander Paris reached the female a few paces ahead of Seven.

  “Ratham?” Paris asked, extending his hand.

  “Yes.” The woman nodded stiffly as she took it. “Please permit me to welcome you to the Tamarian Embassy on behalf of Ambassador Jarral.” At this, she gestured toward the male who smiled openly at his new guests.

  “Lakam. In early spring,” Jarral said.

  “I am Commander Paris and this is Seven,” Paris began. “It is very kind of you to allow us to bring our friends to your embassy,” he added slowly, as if that would help. Although Seven agreed that the embassy was the best possible hiding place for the refugees, the fact that only Ratham would be able to translate for the Tamarians until Doctor Sharak returned meant that the next several days were going to be a struggle for both sides.

  “You accompany Sharak,” Ratham said. “You may request anything you wish of us and, if it is ours to give, you will have it.”

  “Thank you,” Paris said.

  “Gialee. At Crasa’s door,” Jarral said to Ratham.

  “Of course, Mister Ambassador,” Ratham replied. Turning to Paris, she said, “It is a formal moment.”

  Paris looked to Seven in confusion.

  “A formality?” Seven suggested.

  Paris shook his head, still uncomprehending.

  Seven stepped forward and addressed herself to Jarral. “Mister Ambassador, on behalf of the thirty-three adults and thirteen children most recently inhabiting the planet of Arehaz in the Delta Quadrant, I formally request that the Children of Tama grant them asylum until an imminent threat to their safety has been eliminated.”

  Jarral nodded toward Ratham, who said, “Feriar. At Waleesh. With hands open.”

  “Tama. Filled with mercy,” Jarral finished for her.

  “Your request is granted, Miss Seven,” Ratham translated.

  “Solotep. At midday,” the ambassador said loudly, gesturing broadly for them to approach the food.

  “Please, eat,” Ratham translated, this time, unnecessarily.

  A few individuals glanced toward the tables, but no one moved.

  “We do not have all we would like to give you,” Ratham said, clearly struggling with the words. “This room was not in use, and we have made it a home for now. It was once for dancing. The Children of Tama do not celebrate as humans do. We dance under the stars. But it was the largest here. We will do better tomorrow. We have requested sleeping mats for all. They will come soon.”

  “This will suffice,” Seven said. “You are most kind and generous and we are in your debt.”

  Ratham smiled. “When will Sharak return?”

  “We don’t know,” Paris replied honestly. “Soon, we hope.”

  “Solotep. At midday,” Jarral said again, gesturing hopefully to the refugees.

  Seven turned to see more distrustful glances directed toward her. Squaring her shoulders, she moved back to one of the larger groups.

  “Welcome to the Tamarian Embassy,” she began. “The Children of Tama are not members of the Federation. They have enjoyed diplomatic relations with the Federation for several years now, and some of their citizens have begun to learn our language, although, as you can see, it is difficult for them.

  “You will be safe here. Technically, you are not on Federation soil, although the embassy is located in Paris, on Earth. The Tamarian people have granted you asylum. You cannot be removed from this place without the ambassador’s approval, and he will not give that approval without my authorization. Should you step foot outside the gates that border the embassy, you forfeit its protection.

  “Resources are limited at this moment. This location was hastily arranged, and over the next few days, Commander Paris will work with the ambassador to make it more comfortable for all of you.

  “You may move throughout the embassy as needed, but you will observe any restrictions the ambassador’s staff imposes. Also, for now, you will not venture outside of this building. There are substantial grounds surrounding the embassy, but the f
encing is quite old and you could easily be seen through it. It is our intention to keep your presence here a secret for as long as possible. Dozens of other embassies line the street where this building is located and foot traffic is heavy during the day.”

  Finally, Nocks stepped forward. “We understand. Thank you, Seven,” he said.

  “Please make your home here,” Ratham said.

  The sound of a lovely stringed instrument began to float among them. Several turned to a corner of the room near the tables, where three more Tamarians sat, unnoticed in the dimness until now. One played a small harp, drawing rich sounds from it using the unusual tip of his long thumb. A second soon picked up the melody on a short flute, and the third accompanied them with tinkling bells.

  The melody was simple. The music warmed the room, and soon individuals began to break from the group, led by Nocks, toward the tables.

  Paris pulled Seven aside. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I can fix this.”

  “It is not perfect, but it will do.”

  “You won’t recognize this place in a few days,” Paris assured her. “Tonight will be rough, but it’s better than stasis, right?”

  “Yes,” Seven said, a smile tugging at her lips.

  “Icheb’s shift ends in a few minutes. Are you still planning to leave tonight?”

  “Yes,” Seven replied. “I require solitude. That will be impossible to come by here.”

  “You also require safety, and this is about the only place we can guarantee that.”

  “I must go, only for a short while,” Seven insisted.

  “Are you going to tell me where?”

  “I don’t know if that’s wise.”

  “Humor me, Constance.”

  Seven sighed. “When we separated from the fleet, the admiral suggested I visit her mother. I do not believe anyone would think to look for me there.”

  “They might,” Paris said. “She’s family.”

  “I was given ten days. Nine remain, and I don’t intend to be there long. Briggs is undoubtedly monitoring the runabout and given the falsified life-form readings, will assume I am still on board.”

  “He’s despicable, but he’s not an idiot. He’s going to see through that ruse eventually,” Paris warned.

  “Hopefully, by the time he does, it won’t matter.”

  Paris nodded. “Give Mrs. Janeway my best, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “If you’re not back in three days, I’m coming after you.”

  Seven nodded, tapped her combadge in a prearranged signal, and seconds later, felt the transporter take hold of her.

  7

  STARSHIP DEMETER

  And there?” Overseer Rascha Bralt asked.

  Commander Liam O’Donnell, Demeter’s captain and one of the Federation’s most esteemed botanical geneticists, scanned the latest sensor display of the Ark Planet’s third-largest land mass. “We seeded those plains with a resilient hybrid grass. The growth rates have exceeded even my expectations. But do you see the rise in the malmut herds? They’re herbivores and apparently they reproduce like rabbits. That population has grown by eight percent in as many weeks. They’ll keep the grasses in check. And at least four other species appear to be migrating into the area. That is an example of healthy competition, as opposed to what we saw when we first scanned this planet,” O’Donnell said.

  Turning, O’Donnell checked Bralt’s face. To his satisfaction, the typically garrulous Confederacy Overseer of Agriculture was speechless.

  Actually, that had been Bralt’s default state since they had arrived in orbit of the Ark Planet, or the last lemm, several hours earlier.

  O’Donnell and his ship had been dispatched by Admiral Janeway to accompany the overseer on a tour of the Confederacy’s most productive agricultural worlds. While Bralt had extolled the virtues of their enhanced growth rates, their orbital weather-control stations, and the speed with which their produce was delivered to the appropriate markets within the Confederacy, the commander had been forced to hold his tongue in the interest of maintaining the potential for an alliance between the Federation and the Confederacy.

  The accomplishments of Bralt’s people were impressive. They were also shortsighted and lacked sufficient diversity to sustain the population of those planets in the event that the markets for their limited produce fell or failed entirely.

  The farmers on Femra, the first world Bralt had shown O’Donnell, were rich and growing richer every day. As an object lesson to his XO, Commander Atlee Fife, O’Donnell had asked if Demeter might visit a world to which the markets were currently not so kind. The overseer had grudgingly agreed and Fife’s tour of Vitrum had opened the young officer’s eyes to the pain a market-based economy could inflict on the unfortunate. Vitrum’s people, once as prosperous as those on Femra, were barely eking out an existence. The vast majority of the population was starving while their land, in desperate need of nutrients and repurposing, lay fallow.

  Bralt had tried to convince O’Donnell and his crew that such privation encouraged the people of the Confederacy to strive daily to better themselves. Many of the inhabitants of Vitrum had accepted this pretty fiction. Bralt had opined that the residents of those worlds could not afford what they required to replenish their soil and make it fertile once again. O’Donnell had wondered what Bralt would do if he realized that entire planets, like Vitrum, could be returned to productive states within weeks using technology the Confederacy already possessed and at a fraction of the cost Bralt had estimated.

  Toward that end, O’Donnell had offered to show Bralt the Ark Planet. This was a world more than ten thousand light-years from the First World, located in a region of space the Confederacy’s ancestors had pulverized five centuries earlier. The wave forms, or “protectors,” they had used to destroy the planets whose resources they required had eventually rebelled when they came to appreciate the presence of life-forms on those planets. In an unprecedented act of defiance, the ancient protectors had begun to rescue the life-forms on planets targeted for destruction and relocate them to the Ark Planet. While their motives had been pure, their understanding of the basics of biology, ecology, and genetics had been sorely lacking.

  When Voyager had answered a distress call from an ancient protector, they had found the Ark Planet on the verge of dying a most unnatural death. Too many species the protectors had transplanted were unable to survive in their current habitats, and much of the planet already refused to support any life apart from some very hearty fungi. Working with the protectors, Voyager’s and Demeter’s crews had revived the planet, providing it with several necessary bacterial life-forms, relocating several populations to more suitable habitats, and terraforming otherwise uninhabitable continents.

  During their relatively short journey, O’Donnell had shown Bralt their initial scans of the Ark Planet. Now Bralt was forced to confront its miraculous renewal; a process that had taken O’Donnell’s people all of six weeks.

  Finally, Bralt sighed deeply and stepped away from the science station, focusing his attention on the bridge’s main viewscreen, where the vibrant green-and-blue world spun beneath him.

  “The protectors did all of this?” Bralt asked.

  O’Donnell nodded. “There were, of course, some basic elements we provided to them: seeds, bacteria, annelids. And we directed their efforts. We told them where to plant, where to move the various populations, where to alter weather patterns, where to dig. But they performed the work. Given all they’ve learned, they can now sustain this planet indefinitely.”

  “And you believe that our protectors could do the same?”

  “They’re the same technology, Overseer,” O’Donnell reminded him. “You’ve just never imagined using them in this manner.”

  For reasons that completely elude me, he did not say aloud.

  “And there is no question that utilizing the protectors as we did here would require investments of time and energy precious and valuable to your people. But e
ven if profit is your ultimate goal, small loans of resources to farmers as industrious as Izly and Cemt could be repaid in months.”

  “With interest,” Bralt noted, smiling.

  Resisting the urge to punch Bralt in the nose, O’Donnell continued, “And millions of acres that are currently unproductive could return to feeding the people of the Confederacy.” When Bralt did not respond, O’Donnell added, “You want your people to work, and they want desperately to contribute to the Confederacy. With the protectors’ help, they could. They will.”

  Bralt nodded thoughtfully. Turning back to O’Donnell, he said, “Commander, when you first proposed this journey, I was skeptical. And had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would scarce have believed it.”

  I know, O’Donnell thought.

  “I am ready to return to the Confederacy. We have much to discuss, and I hope you will continue to offer us guidance, should we choose to proceed along the path you have forged for us.”

  “We’d be happy to,” O’Donnell assured him. Nodding to Fife he asked, “Is our return course plotted?”

  Fife stood at the tactical station beside Lieutenant Url, his brow furrowed.

  “Captain, long-range sensors show six ships approaching our position,” Fife said. “Two are Turei, two Devore. We can’t identify the others yet.”

  “I’m ready to go whenever you are, Atlee.”

  “We can’t engage the slipstream drive within the system. At full impulse we’re half an hour from safe exit coordinates, and we don’t have that much time.”

  “Options?” O’Donnell asked.

  “We could head for the system’s star. If we modify our shields temporarily, we could hide near enough to survive the radiation and evade their sensors until they pass us by.”

  “Have they detected us?” O’Donnell asked.

  Fife did not respond, which meant he did not have an answer O’Donnell wanted to hear.

  “You should call for the ancient ones,” Bralt suggested.

  “The last time the ancient ones took control of our vessels, we barely survived our journey to the gateway,” Fife said. “We need to return to Vitrum, where the Jroone awaits us.”