Star Trek: Voyager - 043 - Acts of Contrition

by Kirsten Beyer

  “Seven of Nine,” she said, extending her hand. “I am Doctor Pauline Frist. Thank you so much for joining us here.”

  “I prefer ‘Seven,’ ” she corrected Frist. “The rest of my former designation has not been applicable for many years.”

  “Or ‘Miss Seven,’ ” Sharak suggested.

  “Also accurate.” Seven nodded.

  “And you are?” Frist asked, addressing Sharak.

  “I am Doctor Sharak, chief medical officer of the Federation Starship Voyager, and Child of Tama.”

  “I’ve heard of you,” Frist said, nodding slightly. “The first Tamarian to serve in Starfleet, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Welcome,” Frist said, offering her hand.

  When Sharak released it, Frist focused her attention on Seven. “I assume you know why you are here?”

  “Admiral Janeway briefed me on your efforts to cure a new illness first detected on Coridan almost a year ago. She indicated you believe it to be catomic in nature,” Seven said.

  “We know it to be catomic in nature,” Frist said.

  Seven nodded, though she would assume nothing until she had been granted access to all of the facility’s current research.

  “When the plague first appeared, we had no idea what we were looking at. It took months to make the potential connection between catomic matter and the illness. That deduction was made by the Commander now in charge of our efforts here. Once that determination was made, it became essential for us to expand our understanding of catoms. We sincerely hoped that pulling you from your current work with the Full Circle Fleet would not be necessary. As it stands, however . . .” Frist opened her hands before her.

  “I wish you had asked for my input sooner,” Seven said.

  “You are here now,” Frist said. “That’s what matters.”

  “I would appreciate it if you would escort me at once to the patient you have been evaluating for the last several months,” Seven said. “It was my understanding that I would be permitted to see him before my work here began.”

  “Patient C-1, yes,” Frist said, nodding.

  “Axum,” Seven insisted.

  “We need to run a complete physical analysis of you prior to entering the lab,” Frist said.

  Seven looked around in dismay. “This is not the lab?”

  “No,” Frist replied. “I am working with teams from Starfleet Medical and the Federation Institute of Health to analyze the dispersal of the plague, the rates of infection, and to administer our containment efforts. Those tasked with curing it do so within a special classified lab several floors above us. Most of them took up residence there months ago. They do not enter or leave casually. Every effort has been made to ensure that their work with this highly hazardous substance is safe and contained. C-1—pardon me—Axum is there.”

  “He is your prisoner?” Seven asked.

  “Hardly,” Frist said, offended at the thought. “He is a former enemy combatant who has agreed to assist us by allowing us to study the catoms present in his body. I assure you, no harm has come to him since he was brought here.”

  Seven’s mental connection with Axum over the last several months belied that, but she held her peace for now.

  “How long will this physical evaluation take?” Seven asked.

  “Not long. The sooner we get started, the sooner you may see Axum,” Frist replied.

  Seven nodded. “Very well.”

  “I will observe this examination,” Sharak said.

  “Of course,” Frist said, smiling.

  The analysis was the most thorough Doctor Sharak had ever seen. It went well beyond a baseline physical, standard for a new, noncritical patient or crew evaluation. In addition to the customary scans, Seven was required to give multiple tissue and catomic samples. A full genetic analysis was run, along with a subatomic scan. Seven commented during the exam that the Galen’s CMO, known as the Doctor, had performed a similar scan of her several months earlier. Frist replied that his work had been essential for the Commander’s team to visualize individual catoms. “We are all very much in his debt,” Frist noted. Seven did not seem to believe her, but given the reported indifference with which the Doctor had been treated by Frist and her associates, that was not surprising to the Tamarian.

  Sharak had spoken briefly with the Doctor before departing the Delta Quadrant with Seven. While he was aware of the EMH’s many concerns, Sharak had determined to keep an open mind about these people and their procedures. It would not help Seven for Sharak to jump to any conclusions. The Doctor’s experiences were his own. But Sharak would not fail to step in should anything inappropriate be suggested.

  Several hours later, a light lunch was replicated for all of the staff members, and Seven and Sharak were invited to partake. They did so, though Seven did not seem to have much of an appetite.

  As they were finishing, a stocky woman with pale blue skin and hairless scalp suggesting Bolian heritage entered the lab and moved directly toward them. Frist was quick to introduce her.

  “Seven, Doctor Sharak, permit me to introduce you to Ensign J’Ohans,” Frist said. “She is a member of the Commander’s team and will take Seven into the classified section of our lab, where she will remain until her work with us has concluded.”

  “The ensign will take both of us to that lab,” Sharak corrected Frist.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor Sharak,” J’Ohans said. “Access to the classified division is restricted to those assigned to the Commander’s team. Our resources are limited and we cannot accommodate any who are not essential to our work.”

  “Doctor Sharak has come to observe and assist me where necessary,” Seven said. “He is essential to me.”

  “I understand,” J’Ohans said. “And I truly wish I could accede to this request. However, our protocols are not flexible on this point.”

  “Doctor Sharak could certainly assist us here for the duration of your stay,” Frist interjected. “Although we are not working directly with the live virus, our work on the epidemiology of the plague is also essential. I am sure his expertise would be very valuable to us.”

  “I trust I will be able to communicate with Doctor Sharak whenever I desire to do so?” Seven asked.

  “Of course,” J’Ohans replied.

  “That is unacceptable,” Sharak said firmly.

  J’Ohans looked plaintively at Frist.

  Seven seemed to consider the matter briefly before asking Frist and J’Ohans to direct her to a place where she and Sharak could speak alone.

  Frist found a small office for them and departed.

  “You must not agree to their request to separate us,” Doctor Sharak insisted.

  “I do not believe either of us has the authority to insist that they alter their protocols,” Seven said.

  “I was sent here to observe their interactions with you,” Sharak continued. “I cannot do that if you are locked in a classified lab where I cannot reach you.”

  “Unless I enter that lab I cannot see Axum,” Seven argued.

  “Until they agree to allow me to accompany you, you should not enter that lab,” Sharak said.

  “I can take care of myself,” Seven said. “I have willingly entered many situations more dangerous than this one.”

  “You haven’t seen that lab,” Sharak countered. “You have no idea how dangerous it might be. Did you not advise the Doctor and Counselor Cambridge that you believe they were torturing Axum?”

  “Yes,” Seven replied. “And if they are still doing so, I cannot help him from out here.”

  “You have continued to wear the neural inhibitor I gave you for the last several weeks. Remain outside the lab tonight. I will observe as you disengage the inhibitor. You may find yourself able to connect with Axum again and better ascertain any current threats to him.”

  “Doctor, I appreciate your concern,” Seven said, “but I made the choice to come here in large part to satisfy myself of Axum’s well-being. I will not wait anot
her night to determine his present status.”

  “Has it not occurred to you that there might be a reason they wish to separate us?” Sharak asked.

  “Of course it has,” Seven replied. “But there is no alternative.”

  “You have been patient this long,” Sharak counseled. “It is clear that they require your presence here. Make that dependent upon agreeing to my demand to join you. Indicate your willingness to refuse them by leaving here now, and perhaps they will reconsider come morning. If they do not, you will at least have explored every alternative.”

  “The scans they just performed have already provided them with all of the data they require about me and my catoms,” Seven argued. “Should I make myself difficult at this juncture, they may simply decide they don’t need me. In that case, I will have lost the opportunity to see Axum.”

  “That does not change the risk.”

  “I am willing to accept it.”

  Malra at Bethaom.

  He could tell her the story. He could use the clumsy words of Federation Standard to warn her of the dangers of heeding her heart when her mind knew better. A Child of Tama would have understood instantly the danger of following in Malra’s footsteps. They would have grasped the intensity of Sharak’s fear in a single image: a girl, only just become a woman, thrusting a dagger into her own heart to stop the burning pain of regret. Her body lying limp over Jescha, the boy/man she had trusted and hoped to save.

  There was wisdom in the Federation, to be sure. They chronicled their past in minute detail but the staggering volume of extant material made it difficult to cull from that past its simplest and most essential truths. The Children of Tama had no word for “research.” They passed their truths to future generations in bold images that impressed themselves on the heart before the mind. All one needed to know, one learned as they learned to speak. The most potent examples of every mistake an individual could make were woven into the fabric of their daily lives.

  How to share this with Miss Seven? How to make her see?

  Impatient, Seven said, “I will speak with you as soon as I have confirmed Axum’s status. I will apprise you of any concerns, and should I fear for myself, I will respond with whatever force is necessary.”

  “If you already anticipate that such measures might be necessary, you would do well to consider once more.”

  “I have made my decision, Doctor,” Seven said.

  “And I am unable to persuade you of its hazards?”

  “Your concern is noted,” Seven said. “But it cannot change my present course.”

  “Some lessons we must learn for ourselves,” Sharak said sadly.

  “Some information we can only gather firsthand,” Seven said.

  “Kiteo. His eyes closed.”

  “Doctor?”

  “You speak of data. I speak of truth.”

  Seven sighed in frustration.

  Sharak bowed his head.

  “Please advise me of your safety at the first possible moment,” Sharak said.

  “You have my word.”

  Too many of them, Sharak agreed silently.

  The Commander waited impatiently for the secondary airlock’s release. When it finally did so with a loud whoosh that barely registered through the biohazard suit’s receiver, he stepped gingerly over the base of the doorframe, taking each side in hand to steady himself.

  One would think that after working in these conditions for so many months, he would have become more comfortable with the inconveniences, but that was not the case. Each step was precious and filled with potentially deadly pitfalls.

  Naria sat upright on the biobed within the small chamber. Her legs hung over the long side, the paper-thin gown she wore ending just at her knees. Her back was ramrod-straight. Her posture had never failed to impress him.

  Long, straight black hair fell almost to her waist. Her flesh had a deep lavender hue to it this afternoon. The color indicated curious calm. When she was agitated, dark black lines would appear, running from her neck over her face and down her torso, arms, and legs, cascading into whorls that to an untrained eye appeared calligraphic. When she was angry, the lavender transmuted into a vivid purple the Commander dreaded. Despite the trust she had given him for so long, he had rarely seen her flesh take the color of tranquil pink, betraying unreserved peace.

  He couldn’t blame her.

  “Good afternoon, Naria,” the Commander said.

  “Hello, Jefferson.”

  The Commander checked her bioscans, visible on the room’s single display panel mounted on a small shelf embedded in the wall to his left. Once he confirmed that they were optimal, he asked Naria to lie down.

  “This won’t hurt, will it?” she asked.

  “No more than usual,” he replied honestly.

  Naria did as she had been asked and, when she was settled, nodded to him.

  The Commander carried with him a hard plastic container slung over his shoulder like a satchel. He placed it into a depression on the shelf meant to secure it before he released the containment seals and removed a hypospray.

  He moved to the head of the biobed, offering a smile to Naria. Most likely she could not see it through the cumbersome helmet he wore. Placing the end of the hypospray on her upper arm, he depressed the trigger.

  The effect was instantaneous.

  Alarms began to blare from the diagnostic console before the Commander could raise his medical tricorder. Naria’s eyes widened before slamming shut, as if she could avoid the pain by refusing to look at it.

  He immediately activated the bed’s restraints to hold her steady.

  The Commander then moved back to his case and retrieved a second hypospray. Her heart rate was already in dangerous territory; her blood pressure indicated the onset of a massive vascular disruption. Glancing back, he noted that areas of her flesh near the injection site and the restraints had turned pitch black and begun to transmute from a solid state.

  For the next several minutes, the Commander worked frantically to undo the damage he had just done.

  WATERFRONT, SAN FRANCISCO

  Lieutenant Commander Thomas Eugene Paris was running late. The waterfront café was crowded with lunch patrons, many of them in uniform. His representative for the upcoming mediation, Lieutenant Garvin Shaw, had left a message for him to meet here at noon. Paris had first seen that message when he was settling into his temporary quarters upon arriving in orbit in the middle of San Francisco’s night. Nine hours’ advance warning had not been sufficient for him to adjust to the time difference. The sun had risen before he fell into an uneasy sleep that the computer’s automated alarm had failed to pull him from before eleven-thirty. He scanned the patrons, looking for a human male with dark brown hair, despairing of identifying Shaw until the restaurant’s host asked his name and directed him to a small table on a deck overlooking the bay.

  Shaw rose as Paris approached.

  “Commander Paris,” he said, extending his hand.

  Paris took it, the firm handshake immediately conveying confidence. If Shaw had appeared to be more than fifteen years old, Paris might have decided instantly that the JAG corps had chosen well.

  “Lieutenant Shaw,” Paris said. Is your dad joining us and is he by any chance the Lieutenant Shaw assigned to my case? Paris took the only empty seat at the table and was immediately accosted by a server.

  “Just water, for now,” Paris insisted.

  “You should eat,” Shaw suggested.

  “I will, just as soon as I have an appetite,” Paris said.

  “They do extraordinary things here with shrimp,” Shaw assured him, “things that probably shouldn’t be legal.”

  “Tell me your legal expertise extends beyond shellfish,” Paris said.

  Shaw sat back, his dark brown eyes narrowing. “Is there a problem, Commander?”

  “When did you graduate, Lieutenant?” Paris asked.

  “I’ve served in the JAG corps for sixteen years,” Shaw replied.


  Paris was taken aback. “Were you accepted into law school the moment you graduated from kindergarten?”

  Shaw chuckled. “Good genes,” he replied. “And I try to stay out of the sun. My duties help a lot with that.”

  “Are you an expert in family law?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often do cases like mine come across your desk?”

  “More often than you might think, Commander.” Shaw paused, leaning forward across the table. “When Starfleet first began to allow families to serve together aboard some of our bigger ships, they hoped the number of custody issues between civilians and officers would diminish.”

  “They didn’t?”

  “Living on starships is hard for those who choose to be there. It’s harder for those who don’t, even when they’re trying to create something like a normal life for their children. The number of custody cases increased because the divorce rate did.”

  Paris’s empty stomach turned. He’d been telling himself and B’Elanna for months that theirs was a well-worn path. Many officers raised families while in service. He’d never let himself think about how many families that service might have torn apart.

  “Your mother has a tough road to hoe, however,” Shaw continued. “Your daughter has two living, healthy parents stationed aboard the same ship. While your records are not what I would call pristine, both you and Commander Torres have distinguished yourselves on numerous occasions since turning from your respective lives of crime and joining Voyager. It is clear to me that every choice you have made regarding your daughter’s well-being since her birth, but one, were in her best interest and demanded self-sacrifice by you and your wife.”

  “But one?” Paris asked.

  “Commander Torres abandoned Miral when she was only a few weeks old to stay on Boreth.”

  “She left Miral with me,” Paris said, feeling his cheeks flush.

  “Her mother, Miral Torres, was reported dead. The mediator’s going to wonder why claiming her mother’s remains couldn’t have waited until her daughter was a little older, or why she didn’t take the baby with her.”