Atonement

by Kirsten Beyer

  Janeway wasn’t sure if she didn’t believe this, or simply didn’t want to believe it.

  “I don’t expect you to understand or approve of our history,” Lsia continued, “but I speak the truth when I say that the ancient Seriareen welcomed the transfers, even though it meant the loss of their individuality and autonomy.”

  “This isn’t the first time you have told us the story of your people’s past,” Chakotay interjected. “You painted a very pretty picture of the Indign’s history for Captain Eden before you betrayed us and stole our shuttle.”

  “I told you enough of the truth to eliminate the need for hostilities between yourself and the Indign,” Lsia argued. “I was displeased to find the Neyser, pale reflections of their once-great ancestors, living in cooperation with so many lesser species. One does not wish to judge unfairly, but I felt they had devolved to a point where nothing I could offer them would be met with anything other than fear. They believed we were monsters. They had no memory of who we really were or all we had once achieved.”

  “If they were descendants of the Nayseriareen who once defeated you and incarcerated those among you capable of consciousness transfer, I’m not sure what you could have told them to make them trust you,” Chakotay observed. “And clearly their ancestors had reasons for defying you as they did.”

  “It came down to power and fear,” Lsia said. “As long as enough of us retained the ability to conquer death by taking the bodies of our enemies and turning them to our will, we were the undisputed masters of all we beheld. Some of the Nayseriareen wanted to control what we had created. Others simply could not abide the existence of any they perceived as such a great threat.”

  “We’re going to have to take your word for that,” Janeway observed. “My concern is not with your ancient enemies. By taking the bodies of Inspector Kashyk, Magnate Veelo, and Commandant Dhina, you have effectively murdered those individuals, have you not?” Janeway asked.

  “Yes,” Lsia agreed.

  “You cannot simply choose another host, should a willing one exist?” Chakotay asked.

  “Not while our current hosts live,” Lsia replied. “And the longer we inhabit a host, the more receptive it becomes to us.”

  “But you are not alive,” Chakotay noted. “You are a hologram.”

  “I know,” Lsia snapped. “The same principle applies, however. Should the holomatrix I now inhabit be damaged, I would simply be forced to transfer myself to the next nearest form to continue existing. And bear in mind,” she added, “that physical proximity is not required to complete a transfer. Once freed from a host, we are all adept at sustaining ourselves in a disembodied state until a new prospect is found.”

  “How comforting,” Mattings said.

  “If you require our guarantee that we will not transfer ourselves to any others, adding casualties to those already claimed, you have it,” Lsia said. “As long as you allow us to continue to live in the bodies we have taken, we will not seek out new ones.”

  “Would you be willing to submit yourselves to complete physical examinations?” Janeway asked. “None of you have possessed the bodies you now claim for long. We might be able to find a way to safely separate you from those you have taken against their will.”

  “And transfer us where?” Lsia asked.

  “If technology similar to that you now occupy could be duplicated, you might no longer require living bodies,” Janeway suggested.

  Lsia paused. Finally she said, “We would be willing to explore that possibility once we have learned the fate of Seriar.”

  Nodding, Janeway turned to Presider Cin. “Do you have any other questions, Presider?”

  Cin started to speak, but paused, looking to General Mattings. His face was inscrutable, but Janeway sensed something unspoken passing between them.

  “No,” she finally said.

  “Very well. Thank you for your honesty, Lsia,” Janeway said. “The presider and I will confer and advise you as soon as possible of our decision.”

  “Thank you, Admiral. Presider,” Lsia said, inclining her head to each in turn.

  10

  TAMARIAN EMBASSY

  PARIS, EARTH

  It had been more than a year since Julia Paris had received an invitation to tour the embassy of a Federation world. When Owen was alive, such requests were common. Although the spouses of Starfleet’s admiralty had no official duties, they were the unofficial backbone of Starfleet’s diplomatic efforts. On countless occasions they would be called upon to host small, informal gatherings of alien ambassadors and their staffs. By opening their homes to visiting dignitaries, they often did more to cement new friendships and open minds and hearts to the realities of Federation life than the diplomatic corps achieved in months of formal meetings.

  Julia had never visited the Tamarian Embassy, though she believed Owen had when it was first established. The incredibly short notice she had received was a little rude, but not unwelcome.

  That the invitation should come so close to the end of the day was odd, but given the time difference, she realized she would be meeting with the Tamarian ambassador tomorrow before the start of his work day.

  When she arrived at the embassy’s doors, Julia was immediately welcomed into a lovely sitting room by an aide of the ambassador who spoke only enough Federation standard to make it clear that she was expected and should wait. The furnishings were well-worn antiques. Julia believed this embassy had once belonged to the Ferengi, but suspected they had found it insufficiently garish.

  She was struggling to remember who might have occupied it between the Ferengi and the Tamarians—surely not the Cardassians—when the double doors before her opened and a uniformed Starfleet officer entered.

  Julia rose automatically before she recognized her son’s face. The sight of it almost put her back in her seat, but she rallied and steadied herself. She did not, however, move to close the distance between them.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “Is it your intention to turn our personal family issues into a diplomatic incident?”

  “Nope. I asked you to come here because I need your help.”

  “At the Tamarian Embassy?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Yep.”

  Julia shook her head. “I was invited by Ambassador Jarral.”

  “He knows you’re here. He’s downstairs. He asked me to brief you, as his grasp of Federation Standard is nonexistent, and the one decent translator we have available right now has her hands full.”

  Julia felt trapped. If Tom was speaking the truth, leaving now would be considered a great insult. If Tom was lying, perhaps it was a good thing that the ambassador did not understand their language, because his ears would burn when he heard the dressing-down she was prepared to give her son.

  Tom seemed to watch these thoughts drift through her mind. Finally he said, “Over the last few weeks you said a lot of things I found hard to accept, but the hardest was that you had no idea who I was anymore. I didn’t bring you here to re-litigate anything or to make you change your mind. I asked you to come because I don’t know how else to handle a problem it is now my duty to solve.

  “I don’t know how to tell you who I am anymore. But maybe I can show you.”

  His words struck her heart like a dull blade, but she nodded for him to continue.

  “Do you remember when I told you and Dad about a group of former Borg we found in the Delta Quadrant, the ones who used us to reestablish a neural link between them so they could create a cooperative existence?”

  An unwelcome shudder flew down Julia’s spine as much at the memory as her son’s casual use of the word Borg.

  “I do.”

  “A few months ago, Voyager returned to that planet to see if the cooperative had been absorbed into the Caeliar gestalt. The vast majority had, but forty-seven remained behind. Some of them had reproduced in the interim, and their children could not join the gestalt, as they did not posses
s Borg technology. At their request, we relocated them to a planet deeper in former Borg territory.”

  “They still thought of themselves as Borg?” Julia asked, horrified.

  “No,” Tom replied. “They had come under attack by a group of local thugs who had claimed their world as a relocation center for aliens whose ships they made a habit of stealing.

  “When we left them on Arehaz, we assumed we’d seen the last of them. Shortly after we left, Starfleet Medical dispatched a ship with slipstream capabilities to collect them and bring them to Earth.”

  “Why?” Julia asked, finally intrigued.

  “Shortly after the Caeliar transformation, a new plague arose on three Federation worlds. Starfleet Medical believes it was caused by Caeliar catoms. Every individual we have discovered who was Borg but did not join the Caeliar appears to possess a limited quantity of these catoms. They replaced whatever Borg technology existed in them at the time of the transformation.

  “Officially, Starfleet Medical relocated the people of Arehaz to Earth in order to study their catoms because there are only a few known sources of them in the galaxy.”

  “Seven of Nine?” Julia asked.

  “Yes. And one former Borg drone discovered in the Beta Quadrant. An old friend of Seven’s named Axum.”

  “Am I to understand that the Federation has now asked the Tamarians to house these people while they study them?”

  “Not exactly,” Paris said. He took a deep breath before he continued. “Seven was ostensibly brought to Starfleet Medical to consult with the physicians working to cure the plague. Only they didn’t do any consulting. They simply took samples of her catoms and placed her in stasis. They did the same with these people.”

  “Are their catoms the source of this plague?”

  “No. We still don’t know where it came from, but none of them have ever set foot on the affected worlds. Seven believes that the physicians and scientists assigned to the classified project at Starfleet Medical are doing more than trying to cure the plague. They are attempting to learn how to program catoms, and the methods they are using are unethical, immoral, and illegal.”

  Julia felt the blood rush from her face. “Can you prove this?”

  “Do I have to?” he asked.

  It was a lot to take on faith, but even Julia could not see her son risking his career and his life on a hunch that was based on shoddy intelligence.

  “Someone at Starfleet Medical lied to these people. And the experiments being conducted with their catoms are incredibly painful, both to them and to the test subjects. Seven was able to force the project’s leader to agree to release them into her custody. Until we can expose his inappropriate actions and satisfy ourselves that they are safe, we will not return them to his care. The Tamarians have granted them asylum.”

  It comforted Julia to know that Starfleet Medical was at least working with Seven on this issue. But she still had no idea why Tom would have brought her here.

  “A few things before I take you downstairs,” Tom said, interrupting her thoughts. “Most of what I just told you is classified.”

  “You know you can trust me, Tom,” Julia began, but paused when she saw his face harden.

  No, he didn’t, she realized.

  “Also, these people have been through hell in the last several months. I hoped by bringing them here we could offer them a temporary respite. The Tamarians mean well, but their resources are limited. I can’t do what needs to be done here without attracting unwanted attention.”

  “But I can,” Julia realized.

  “If you are willing.”

  Julia considered the proposition. Technically, she wasn’t doing any more for her son than she would have gladly done for Owen in years past. She might actually be doing the Federation a great service; something that mitigated the confusion she felt at Tom’s present display of temerity.

  She remained uncommitted as her son ushered her down the halls of the main floor and into the bowels of the ancient building. She was shivering by the time they reached the landing that led to what had once been a ballroom and now was little more than a vast, dank holding cell.

  She greeted Ambassador Jarral and his translator, a Miss Ratham, cordially, but from the moment she entered the room, her eyes were captured by the faces of the men, women, and babies surrounding her.

  The adults were little more than walking skeletons. Their children were painfully thin as well, and many were clad only in rough and filthy approximations of diapers. A few toddlers careened about, their faces, hands, and chests slick with the juices of chunks of fruit they carried with them as they explored. Older food stains were congealed on their bodies.

  The worst part was their eyes. They were almost feral and deeply wounded.

  Julia knew too well that many Federation citizens were now living in desperate conditions. That any would be forced to do so on Earth was as unthinkable as it was unconscionable.

  Their needs were obvious. They required food, clothing, beds, suitable furnishings, and access to anything and everything Julia could get her hands on to make it possible for them to live comfortably for as long as they were guests of the embassy.

  She had not walked among the refugees of Arehaz for more than five minutes before the only choice available to her became crystal clear. An unusual feeling stirred within her and filled her with a heady sense of energy she hadn’t felt in more than a year.

  Julia Paris was needed once again, and there was only one response to need. Moving to her son’s side, she whispered to him, “You should move on to whatever other duties your current mission requires.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes.” Without another word, she returned to Miss Ratham’s side as a list began to take shape in her mind.

  ALDEBARAN

  The Goldenbird’s transporters released Doctor Sharak and Lieutenant Wildman in a clearing surrounded by dense foliage on the outskirts of a public park. Wildman had routed their transport signal through the local station inside the quarantine area to give it the appearance of legitimacy, although close scrutiny would betray its unofficial nature. If they were wrong about the Planarian life signs, or detected by Starfleet security . . .

  Rilna. At Abossu, Sharak chided himself internally. Personal concerns were no longer a priority.

  Clad in bulky biohazard suits, they moved deeper into the trees that skirted the park and bordered the quarantine area. A level-ten forcefield had been established around the quarantined perimeter, as Starfleet wanted to make sure that no one would gain access.

  Sharak was sweating profusely before they reached the rocky hill that ran behind the building they had targeted. Their ascent was painstakingly slow but by the time they had reached the crest and could see the building only forty meters in front of them, an adrenaline rush gave Sharak the strength to follow Wildman’s brisk pace as she approached the rear doors.

  Thankfully, they reached the door unobserved. From this point forward, their only hope of escaping further detection was their suits. Every individual working within the perimeter would be wearing them, and their comm signals had been falsified to read as medical technicians from Benevolent Daughters.

  As with every other building in the area, the door locks had been automatically disabled to allow for ease of access by official personnel in the event reluctant residents attempted to resist evacuation.

  Sharak slipped into the multilevel stone edifice behind Wildman and followed her through a labyrinth of halls to the unit on the first floor they sought. The only sounds they heard beyond the shuffling of their feet were Sharak’s heavy respirations and the pinging of Wildman’s tricorder.

  Sharak was somewhat relieved to find the door to Unit 117A open. This suggested their quarry was not present. Most likely, if she had followed Ria’s example, she was deceased. But traces of her DNA would be more than sufficient and easier for Sharak to gather undisturbed.

  Once they had entered and the door shut behind th
em, Wildman offered Sharak her tricorder and removed her phaser. They moved slowly, Wildman taking point, through the unit’s four small rooms and found nothing beyond common residential furnishings and a few unremarkable personal effects in the bedroom and single bathroom. None of them were the source of the readings the tricorder stubbornly insisted were present, but apparently invisible.

  “I don’t understand,” Sharak muttered when they had returned, empty-handed, to the living area.

  “Hang on,” Wildman said, studying the room’s longest wall. After a moment, she traded her phaser for the tricorder and began to run it along the wall. She unexpectedly hurried out the main doorway, saying, “Stay here.” When she returned, she again retuned her tricorder and ran it over the few pieces of furniture closest to the wall.

  “It has to be here somewhere,” she muttered to herself.

  “What?” Sharak asked.

  “Aha,” Wildman replied, digging her hands into a dead potted plant that was suspended in the corner of the room above an end table next to a short sofa.

  “What?” Sharak asked again.

  “It’s a small holographic generator,” Wildman replied, removing a panel from inside the plant’s metallic pot. “There’s a four-meter differential between this wall and the next load-bearing wall in the adjacent unit. Something’s back there, and it’s been hidden by this false wall. It’s such a small discrepancy you’d have to be looking for it to ever notice.”

  Sharak estimated the wall was less than three meters across. What a twelve-square-meter space might contain that would be useful to him, he could not imagine, but he tightened his grip on the phaser automatically as Wildman succeeded in jamming the holo-emitter and the wall before him disappeared.