Lsia remained silent, stilling her anticipation.
“You will tell me that word so that we may attempt to safely separate Xolani from his current host.”
“And if I do?”
“That will depend entirely on the success of our efforts to save the life of the individual you have taken.”
“Very well,” Lsia said. “Tryshanthal.”
The force field separating Lsia from the admiral suddenly blinked out of existence. As soon as it did, Lsia felt as if an unbearable, constant pressure had been lifted from her mind. The anti-psionic field Janeway had trusted to safeguard her people had fallen along with the cell’s energy barrier.
Lsia smiled, not in victory, but in acknowledgment that this holographic body she had chosen was becoming much more than a malleable form. Finally, the sensations she had desperately missed were returning, and with them came a rush of fierce joy.
Janeway immediately stepped back. “Lieutenant,” she said sharply to the brig officer. “Restore the force field.”
Emem had already stepped out of his cell and placed his hands on Janeway’s upper arms, securing her. “It’s too late for that, Admiral,” he said softly, relishing this moment as surely as Lsia did. “Your ship is now ours to command.”
Janeway attempted to shake him off, but his grip was too strong.
The lieutenant raised his phaser and aimed it at Emem. Janeway felt Emem’s grip tighten and feared he was about to use her as a human shield. A heartbeat later, the brig officer fired.
Nothing happened.
Almost simultaneously, Janeway bent her elbow and tapped her combadge, saying, “Janeway to Captain Chakotay.”
No response.
Lsia stepped out of her cell, her head held high. “Naturally, I have taken certain precautions. Your weapons are now inhibited by a dampening field. Your internal communications have been restricted to me and my companions. Your primary and auxiliary systems will no longer accept commands without my authorization, including navigation.”
“How thorough of you,” Janeway noted.
“I have had a great deal of time to think,” Lsia reminded her. “You once said that your greatest wish was for our people to resolve their differences without further bloodshed. Is that still true, or does it only apply when you possess the upper hand in a negotiation?”
“As I said before, our earlier understanding no longer applies. However, we will resolve our differences with a minimum of bloodshed, if possible.”
Lsia smiled condescendingly. “Admiral, you understand that any aggressive action taken against me or my people will only result in further loss of life.”
“I do.”
“Then would you be so kind as to accompany us to the bridge?”
20
PALAIS DE LA CONCORDE
Growing up, Commander Tom Paris had attended plenty of First Contact Day events. He had stood in his father’s shadow, conscious of the silent expectations that followed him like a spectre everywhere he went. That demon had grown to mammoth proportions by the time he’d entered the Academy and first tasted the exquisite discomfort of a full-dress uniform.
Today he moved among a thousand other officers, ambassadors, and high-ranking members of the Federation Council. The uniform was as uncomfortable as ever, but the ghost of presumptions past no longer dogged his steps. The path he had forged for himself had been circuitous, treacherous, and uncertain, but it had brought him to a place where he could finally stand unapologetic among his peers.
Whether that would still be true in a few hours was another matter.
His mother maneuvered through the press of people milling casually about with practiced ease. She carried herself like approachable royalty, warm in her greetings. She had a staggering knowledge of guests’ names, along with their spouses’ and children’s in many cases. Any notable event in their lives was commented upon with appropriate grace—a well-earned promotion, Commander . . . you have my deepest sympathies on your loss, Captain . . . your sixth grandchild, Madam Ambassador? How proud you must be—and was received with matching cordiality. Many took a few moments to say kind things about Owen Paris and to note how proud he would be to see his son following in his footsteps.
Paris and his mother had done this complicated dance without misstep for more than an hour when Julia directed him toward a set of doors near the rear of the hall. They were guarded by a pair of security officers detailed to President Bacco. Everyone in the room was anticipating the president’s entrance. As soon as the president’s party arrived—Bacco, Admiral Akaar, and T’Saen, the Vulcan ambassador to the Federation—they would formally receive all of their guests before the ceremony began in the adjacent dining hall.
It seemed that many of the experienced guests had the same inclination. Their hope was to secure a spot as close to the front of the receiving line as possible, thereby accessing the dining room in short order and availing themselves of the refreshments within.
As Paris stared at those doors, he began to sweat. The course of his career, if not his life, was now dependent upon his ability to convince a woman he had never met and a Starfleet Admiral whom he knew only in passing that their priorities for the next hour should include ignoring a thousand people who were much more important to the Federation than he was.
“Mom, this might have been a bad idea,” Paris whispered. In response, Julia’s knees buckled beneath her, and he automatically wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her up. “Mom?” he asked, his concern genuine.
Julia appeared to rally, fanning her face conspicuously with her hand. “I’m sorry, darling, it’s just so warm in here,” she said faintly.
One of the security officers at the door immediately tapped his combadge. Another security officer appeared at Julia’s side, as if she had arrived via site-to-site transport, and asked, “Are you all right, ma’am?”
Julia looked plaintively toward the young woman. “Marshianna?” she asked.
The lieutenant’s lips broke into a smile. “Mrs. Paris?”
“How good to see you, dear,” Julia said. “I’m fine. I just felt a little faint for a moment.”
“This way,” Marshianna said, leading Paris and his mother toward the closed dining room doors and slipping inside with them. Hundreds of tables had been set and dozens of uniformed servers moved about preparing for the assault of hungry guests that was about to begin.
The lieutenant led Julia toward a chair at the nearest table and poured her a glass of water from a carafe. Julia accepted it gratefully, admonishing her kindly for making too much fuss over an old admiral’s wife.
“Admiral Paris was my mentor, ma’am,” Marshianna insisted. “No one finer has ever worn the uniform.”
Julia drank again, then asked, “Do you think the president would mind if I skipped the receiving line this year?”
“Of course not,” Marshianna said. “You rest here. The doors will be opening any minute now.”
“You are so kind.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Paris.”
“Return to your post before someone misses you,” Julia insisted.
Marshianna smiled, adding to Paris, “If you need anything else, come to me.” She then hurried from the room, closing the doors behind her.
The moment she was gone, Julia shot to her feet.
“Mom?” Paris asked.
“This way,” she said assuredly.
They moved quickly to a side door that blended so well with the wall that it was practically invisible. It accessed a short hallway. Through the doors to their left, the clattering of pots and pans and the sound of raised voices suggested that the kitchen was on red alert. There were three other doors along the hallway to the right. Before Paris could properly orient himself, another security officer exited through one of them, followed by President Nanietta Bacco, Admiral Leonard James Akaar, and Ambassador T’Saen. Bacco was midconversation with the ambassador. Admiral Akaar immediately noted Paris’s and Julia’s presence in the
hall, but his concern shifted quickly to surprise.
“Julia?” he asked, stepping out of their small assembly and moving toward her.
Tom Paris had always respected his mother. Now he was also in awe of her. Senior covert operatives with years of experience couldn’t have done better than Julia Paris just had.
“Leonard,” Julia said warmly, extending her hand.
Akaar easily stood almost a meter taller than Julia. He bent at the waist and opened his arms to her. Behind them, Bacco and T’Saen turned to see what had caught Akaar’s attention.
“What a pleasure to see you, Julia,” Akaar said as he held her briefly. “It’s been too long.”
By this time, Bacco had stepped toward them. “What have we here?” she asked.
Akaar released Julia, saying, “Madam President, you remember Julia Paris, Owen’s widow.”
“Of course,” Bacco said, extending her hand. Paris could not tell if she did, or didn’t, but that was part of the president’s well-known charisma. Nanietta Bacco had led the Federation through some of its darkest hours, including the Borg Invasion, and had done so without ever losing the common touch. She was genuinely beloved, even by her political opponents.
“Madam President,” Julia greeted her warmly. “The letter you sent after Owen’s death was so thoughtful and touching. I cannot thank you enough.”
“Your husband was an extraordinary officer who served the Federation with dignity and honor. He is deeply missed,” Bacco replied. This time, Paris was certain she knew whom she was talking about.
That should have been the end of it. An awkward accidental meeting could not be expected to derail the president’s schedule. Julia had other ideas.
“Madam President, may I trespass on your kindness? I know you have a busy day ahead of you, but it would mean so much to this old Starfleet widow if you would take a moment to speak to my son, to Owen’s son. He has come with troubling news about his crewmate Seven.”
Bacco’s gaze shifted past Julia, and her eyes locked with Paris’s. The veil of politeness shifted without falling as her eyes hardened visibly.
“Commander Paris,” Akaar said, breaking the spell and stepping past Julia.
“Admiral,” Paris said, snapping to attention.
“This is Owen’s son?” Bacco asked.
“Commander Thomas Eugene Paris, Madam President,” Akaar said. “He is currently assigned to the Full Circle Fleet as the Starship Voyager’s first officer.”
Bacco smiled in apparent recognition. “You’re a long way from your post, Commander Paris,” she said, then added, “Leonard?”
“At ease, Mister Paris,” Akaar ordered.
Paris separated his feet and accepted the hand that President Bacco extended toward him. “An honor to meet you, Madam President.”
“Where’s Seven?” Bacco asked, cutting right to the chase.
Paris responded by tapping his combadge three times. Three chirps responded, and Paris said, “She is about to exit the Tamarian Embassy. The moment her signal is detected on Federation soil she will be transported directly to Starfleet Medical and brought to the head of a classified project there, a Commander Jefferson Briggs.”
“Is she ill?” Bacco demanded.
“No, ma’am,” Paris responded. “Although my superior officer, Admiral Kenneth Montgomery, has certainly reported in error to Admiral Akaar that she is. Seven has been classified by Starfleet Medical and the Federation Institute of Health as a public safety hazard.”
“Is this true?” Bacco asked of Akaar.
“Commander Briggs has spent the last year studying the illness that struck Coridan, Aldebaran, and Ardana,” Akaar said softly.
Bacco nodded in understanding. “I don’t blame him for wanting Seven’s help. She’s the first person I would have called.”
“Madam President, Admiral,” Paris continued, “Seven has uncovered many troubling facts regarding Commander Briggs’s research. She is returning to his lab to confirm the data she and several of my officers have gathered over the last few weeks.”
“Why was she at the Tamarian Embassy?” Bacco interjected. “Does this have anything to do with the refugees the Tamarians have taken in, or the fact that Ambassador Jarral has apparently forgotten the few words of Federation Standard he once knew and is refusing to reply to my office’s requests for information? Ambassador Garak is having a field day with the press at my expense, and while that just means it’s probably Tuesday again, it never does much for my mood.”
“Commander Paris was ordered to locate Seven and return her to Starfleet Medical,” Akaar said. “It’s taken you a long time to act on that order, Commander.”
Paris swallowed hard and lifted his chin. “I had my reasons, sir. If we could speak for a few minutes in private, I can make them clear to you. If Seven could be here now, she would. She sent me, hoping I could convince you to listen.”
“Were we just ambushed by Owen Paris’s wife?” Bacco asked of Akaar.
“We were, Madam President,” Akaar said coldly.
Bacco nodded thoughtfully, then called to one of her security officers, “Cancel the receiving line. Open the dining room doors and begin the appetizer and beverage service.”
“Madam,” Akaar began.
“No,” Bacco cut him off. “For Seven, I’ll make the time. When we finally join our guests, they’re going to be disappointed. I’d just as soon they not be starving as well.” Turning to T’Saen, she added, “Madam Ambassador, I’m going to have to beg your indulgence for a little while. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
T’Saen nodded.
Bacco then gestured to her lead security officer, and he led her, Akaar, and Paris back through the doorway she had just come through.
Paris chanced a glance at his mother’s face in passing. The pride beaming from her eyes reinforced his confidence. The knowledge that Seven would soon be at Briggs’s mercy steeled his resolve.
TAMARIAN EMBASSY
Seven stood with Doctor Sharak in the embassy’s small sitting room. She had spent the last day and a half with the refugees. More had been targeted by Briggs. All had learned to control their catomic response by briefly joining the small gestalt created by Seven, Axum, and Riley. Once the threat had been contained, none were inclined to pursue a deeper connection with the gestalt. Seven had expected Axum to attempt to cajole them more forcefully, but perhaps Riley was making headway with him, at least as far as her people were concerned. He allowed all of them to disentangle themselves from the whole without resistance.
Axum and Riley were aware that Seven was about to return to Starfleet Medical. They could not hide their fear from her or their gratitude.
The silence between Seven and Sharak was comfortable. Their discussions had focused on the ultimate fate of the refugees, should Seven’s and Paris’s efforts fail. Sharak had assured her that the Children of Tama would care for their new friends as long as was required. Ambassador Jarral had promised they would be welcome and safe.
Finally, Seven’s combadge trilled three times. The sound set her heart racing, but she took a deep inhalation to calm it as she returned the signal to Paris, tapping her badge three times. Turning to Sharak, she saw his stoic resolve waver. Taking both of his hands in hers, she said, “Doctor, had I followed your advice, it is likely we would not be here now.”
“What advice?”
“You cautioned me not to enter the Commander’s lab without you.”
Sharak bowed his head.
Seven gently lifted his chin to look again into his eyes. “Commander Briggs is an anomaly. The Starfleet officers I have known understand the difference between right and wrong. They do not waver in their commitments, nor do they allow their fears to dictate their actions. They have much in common with the Children of Tama. No matter what happens, do not allow this incident to sour you or your people on continuing to nurture and strengthen relationships with the Federation. Do not allow yourself to become another casualty of Com
mander Briggs. He is not worth it.”
“I will not,” Sharak assured her.
They embraced briefly. Sharak moved past the officers guarding the embassy’s front hall and unlocked the door, opening it for Seven.
She left the embassy without a backward glance, ignoring the shouts that arose at the sight of her from the handful of reporters stationed at the embassy gates.
• • • • •
Ambassador Garak had enjoyed the last few days. The silence of the Tamarian Ambassador following Garak’s leak to the press had confirmed his suspicion that the embassy’s guests were more than met the eye. Try as he might, however, he could not discover their origin. Every contact he had utilized to help him unravel this mystery had failed.
This had only increased his determination to uncover whatever it was that the Tamarians were hiding.
Several times a day, he made a point of walking the embassy’s perimeter. When it suited him, he did so in full view of the press and continued to offer them calculated tidbits certain to whet their appetites. Their numbers had dwindled today, as was expected. Most were busy covering the First Contact Day events. There were hundreds of official receptions and parties happening all over the planet.
He was due at the Palais, but had no interest in suffering through the receiving line. Within the hour, the doors to the banquet hall would be open and he would slip inside and do his duty for Cardassia. Until then, he sat across the street from the embassy on a low bench beneath a large shade tree.
The moment he saw the embassy’s front gates open, he rose in surprise and anticipation. When the striking figure of Seven of Nine was escorted through the gate, he hurried to intercept her, along with the few die-hard reporters whose diligence was apparently about to be rewarded.
How marvelous, he thought.
“Seven of Nine,” he called to her.
Atonement Page 30
