Star Trek: Voyager - 043 - Acts of Contrition
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“B’Elanna’s mother wasn’t dead. Because she made the choice to go to Boreth when she did, B’Elanna was able to see her mother again. It was important to both of them. And do you have any idea what’s involved in the Klingon Challenge of the Spirit? You can’t take infants.”
“Commander Torres didn’t know that her mother was still alive when she made that choice,” Shaw said.
“There was a note from her mother, and a map,” Paris insisted. “There was a good chance . . .”
“A note and a map that were more than two years old? How confident could any sane person have been that Miral Torres was still alive on Boreth?”
Paris didn’t have a good answer for that one.
“Your mother is going to argue that, from the beginning, your wife demonstrated neglect. She put her own needs before Miral’s.”
“That’s a lie,” Paris said.
“I never said it wasn’t,” Shaw said. “And if you can’t handle hearing this from me, we’re in trouble.”
Paris took a deep breath.
Shaw’s eyes remained glued to his. “By the way, next time you feel inclined to accuse anyone of lying, you’re going to want to count to ten in your head and let the words die on your lips.”
Paris nodded.
“Better,” Shaw said.
“We haven’t even gotten to the recent past and you make it sound like my mother has already won,” Paris said.
“She’s nowhere near winning. You can lose, but unless you do, she won’t win.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your mother is the one bringing the complaint. The onus is on her to prove two things: that you and your wife are unfit parents, and that she is fit to raise Miral.”
“Setting the first part aside for a minute,” Paris said, “she already raised three kids. My sisters are both at the top of their respective fields, and despite some early setbacks, I’ve turned out all right. I don’t think my mom will have a hard time proving to anyone that she’s a good mother.”
Shaw smiled faintly. “She’s admitting she failed with you by bringing the case at all.”
“I made my own choices,” Paris said. “She did her best by me. I won’t ever say otherwise.” After a moment he went on: “I just need to talk to her. This whole thing is about lousy timing and her grief. If my dad were still alive, she wouldn’t be doing this.”
“Are you sure?”
Paris nodded. “She doesn’t think I’m an unfit parent. She’s just mad that I lied to her.”
Shaw said nothing for a very long time. Finally, he said, “A couple of ground rules. You will not under any circumstances contact your mother outside our scheduled mediation sessions. You will not speak about her to anyone other than me. You will not speak to any old friends or other family members about this case unless I direct you to do so, and should that time come, you will say only what I tell you to say.”
“I really think—” Paris began.
“You will not think anything without first running it past me.”
“Look—” Paris said.
“No, you look,” Shaw interrupted. “You’re here because you told your mother, your family, and your closest friends that your wife and daughter were dead when you knew for a fact that they were alive. That is where thinking got you. There were other choices you could have made, but apparently none of them occurred to you at the time. You don’t get to think anymore. You don’t get to decide that you know better. Not unless you’re ready to hand Miral over tomorrow to your mother’s care.”
Paris’s cheeks had begun to burn again. His stomach was a nauseous tangle and his shoulders felt hard as rocks.
“Okay,” he finally said.
“You’re going to win, Tom,” Shaw said. “But it’s going to be hard and you’re going to have to trust me.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me more about your mother,” Shaw said.
For reasons he could not name, Paris hesitated.
He thought of his mother, waking alone in her bed, preparing breakfast for one, and rambling around that huge house alone all day. He thought of the way she’d held him when he was a boy who had just awakened from a nightmare. He thought of the pride in her eyes the first time he’d seen her when he returned from Voyager’s maiden journey.
He thought of B’Elanna.
He thought of Miral.
He thought of his unborn son.
He began to speak of Julia Paris.
Chapter Three
THE FIRST WORLD
Admiral Kathryn Janeway had always thought that Starfleet’s dress uniform was classic, if a bit understated. Compared to the uniforms of the officers of the Confederacy Interstellar Fleet—tailored jackets that fell to the knee in vivid hues that denoted rank and position, belted by sashes of a satinlike fabric and adorned copiously with metallic insignia, ribbons, knots, and epaulettes fringed with braid that extended to the elbow—Starfleet’s were positively austere.
An honor guard flanked a pattern of silver-blue tiles inlaid into the floor of the entrance hall in a way that suggested a flowing river. Looking down, it was hard to shake the immediate sensation that one was walking on water.
The tiles ended at an open arched doorway separating the hall from the rooftop garden that had been created for the Ceremony of Welcoming. Trellises of flowering plants in varied riotous colors ran along the low walls that edged the space as far as the eye could see. Trees taller than some buildings Janeway had seen were spaced evenly, and millions of pinpoints of light suspended by no visible means rose from the tops of the trees over the assembly, creating the breathtaking illusion that the stars above were almost close enough to touch.
Janeway already knew that hundreds of the Confederacy’s elite citizens had been invited to the ceremony, but at first glance it looked more like thousands. The vast majority were either Leodt or Djinari, but occasionally Janeway caught sight of an alien species she could not name from the briefing materials she had received. To a person, however, they were garbed in finery that was spectacular without simultaneously appearing garish.
The admiral couldn’t help but feel underdressed.
Metallic fabrics flowed like mercury over bodies of every shape and size. Several females wore gowns made of small beads that changed colors as they moved and exposed varying parts of their anatomy. Many of the skirts kept one several paces from the man or woman wearing it, as they extended more than a meter out from the wearer’s waist in solid cones of shimmering light. Most ensembles were accented with jeweled accessories that ran the gamut from exotic animals perched on shoulders to gossamer cloaks that rose like wings above the wearer’s shoulders. Even the silent servers moving among the throng holding trays of delicacies wore uniforms of midnight blue that, despite the depth of color, still emitted a glorious, rich light.
“Now this is a party,” Sal said softly behind Janeway. A soft groan might have come from O’Donnell, but it was immediately lost in waves of tinkling that sounded like glass being broken. As the sound grew in intensity its source remained unclear but its purpose was not. This was obviously the assembly’s version of applause at the appearance of their honored guests.
The throngs formed a corridor of bodies through which Janeway and her officers were led to a central raised platform on which several round tables had been set. Two or three of her officers would eventually sit at each, while the other chairs were reserved for Confederacy leadership and their guests.
Although none of the attendees were close enough to touch Janeway or her officers, the feeling of being examined was tangible. Janeway smiled, made eye contact with those nearby, and immediately discerned curiosity and pleasure along with the occasional look of disappointment. Scorn was probably too strong a word, but a fair amount of disdain was clearly visible on a few scattered faces.
Before being seated, Janeway and her officers had formed a line before the tables, as requested, to await the arrival of the presider of the Confederacy, an
office Janeway understood to be the rough equivalent of the Federation president.
“I don’t even know where to look,” Chakotay whispered to Janeway as he took his place beside her.
“It’s a feast for all of the senses, isn’t it?” she agreed.
“It’s a bloody bacchanal,” Cambridge noted from her other side.
“Did those include ritual sacrifice?” Farkas asked.
“Not usually, but the night is young,” Cambridge quipped.
Almost immediately, the question of where to look was resolved as a hush fell over the crowd and all eyes turned upward. From a distance, it appeared that one of the brightest stars was descending from above. By the time it had moved through the artificial starscape, it was clear that the yellow-white light emanated from an intricate gown worn by a tall female figure.
“The presider?” Chakotay asked.
Janeway nodded.
“I wasn’t aware that the Djinari could fly.”
“They can’t. They use protectors as crude transporters,” Janeway advised him softly.
The female finally touched the ground several meters before the line of Federation officers. Cosmetically, the Djinari shared no physical attributes with the Leodts. The woman’s skin was golden. Her scalp was covered by fine layers of flesh that looked like small, diamond-shaped scales. They extended just below batlike ears and to the tip of a sharply pointed nose. Vivid green eyes were accentuated by the scales above, and the remainder of her face resembled a human’s, with high cheekbones and a delicate, tight-lipped mouth. Numerous thin, whiplike tendrils extended from the base of her skull, ending just above the floor. They moved freely but gracefully behind her, almost like a head of living hair that had been pulled into a low ponytail.
Her gown ended any debate for the title of “best-dressed.” A fitted, strapless bodice was set above a long flowing skirt that seemed to be made of stars. The light coming from them should have been blinding, but some trick of the fabric muted it just enough to make it hard to tear your eyes away from it.
Janeway had to remind herself that the presider was now in her ninth decade of life. Though that was considered middle aged among the Djinari, to the untrained eye she appeared to be quite young.
The presider approached Janeway, a genuine smile playing over her lips as someone behind the admiral announced, “The presider of the Confederacy of the Worlds of the First Quadrant, Isorla Cin.”
More tinkling crashed over the assembly until Cin came within a meter of Janeway and bowed her head ever so slightly. The admiral responded with a bow of her own before extending her hand. Well prepared, Cin accepted it and shook it gamely, though the gesture was obviously unfamiliar to her.
“Admiral Kathryn Janeway, honored Federation representatives, on behalf of the fifty-three worlds and six aligned planets that form the Confederacy of the Worlds of the First Quadrant, I bid you welcome. Our ancient protectors called you friends. We do not question their wisdom. The Source of our lives, our worlds, our confederacy, is ever mindful of our needs. We believe you have been brought to us to begin a brilliant new chapter in our illustrious history. That which is ours to give, we offer freely. May the Source guide your path as it has always guided ours.”
More crashing glass followed this short speech. Janeway stepped aside as the presider moved to stand beside her on the platform.
“Presider Cin,” Janeway began. “The United Federation of Planets we call home is countless light-years from this Confederacy. It was born of a desire between like-minded species to expand our knowledge of the universe and all who share it with us. Our first hope in making contact with the Confederacy is that an open exchange of ideas will foster mutual regard that will bridge the vast distances between us. We come in peace, seeking only to add to our understanding of our fellow citizens of the universe, and we are most grateful for your generosity and hospitality.”
Applause followed, though decidedly less enthusiastic than that which had followed Cin’s remarks.
“I have welcomed you on behalf of my people,” Cin said. “With your permission, they wish to welcome you personally.”
“Of course,” the admiral replied, curious. Her understanding of the evening’s itinerary was that, following their formal greeting, gifts would be exchanged between the admiral and the presider, followed by dinner. That the presider was going offscript this soon was disconcerting, but Janeway read nothing beyond excitement and a little mischief from her counterpart. Decan immediately stepped to her side and began to whisper something apologetic in her ear but Janeway cut him off, saying softly, “When in Rome, Lieutenant.”
Decan was clearly puzzled, a rare event that pleased Janeway enormously.
Further conversation was made impossible as a deep, rhythmic pounding began somewhere below the roof of the building, rising in intensity until the air surrounding the admiral thrummed with the sound. Immediately, everyone assembled moved to the edges of the roof and peered over the sides. Transparent guardrails edged the building to ensure the guests’ safety as they strained to look down.
The streets a hundred meters below that surrounded the building were filled by citizens of the First World, all garbed in luminescent clothing of varying colors. High-pitched, sustained sounds began to rise from them in time with the drumbeats, and soon the sounds of other notes obviously made from native musical instruments were added to the song.
Janeway was about to follow her officers to the nearest vantage point from which to view the celebration, when Cin gently touched her arm.
“Would you care to join me for the best view of the plaza?” she asked.
“I would be delighted, Presider,” Janeway replied.
Cin nodded to someone in the retinue behind her and stepped close enough to Janeway for the folds of her gown to brush the admiral’s uniform pants. “The sensation of transport will be unfamiliar to you, Admiral, but do not be alarmed. It is quite safe.”
Janeway smiled and nodded as a faint, almost electric hum coursed over her skin, causing the hair that covered it to rise. The sounds were muted, but not silenced, as she and Cin began to rise above the assembly. Another protector, Janeway realized, and she was glad that her people’s own experience with this advanced technology could already assure her of its efficacy and security.
Her officers immediately turned to look as she departed the platform, and she raised a hand to wave off their concern. Only Chakotay shook his head, a good-natured chastisement. She could not resist a slight shrug and smile in return, communicating silently that she intended to enjoy this particular privilege of her rank.
The protector did not take them far above the assembly, but high enough to be able to see all four of the plaza streets below in one glance. Only now could Janeway truly appreciate the choreography on display. The crowds were singing and dancing, their wardrobes shifting colors in lines that suggested dozens of independent streams ultimately joining into one large moving river.
Janeway’s breath caught in her throat. She had been treated to her fair share of alien entertainment spectacles in her career, but she could honestly say that none of them had compared to this. It put most Federation Day displays to shame. She estimated that more than ten thousand individuals had assembled below to create this amazing moment.
“This is extraordinary,” Janeway said, pleased that, even with the din, she and the presider could converse comfortably while carried by the protector’s energy field.
“I am glad it pleases you, Admiral Janeway,” Cin said.
“You have put yourselves to too much trouble on our account,” Janeway said.
“It has been more than a hundred years since outsiders were deemed worthy by the protectors to pass through the Gateway,” Cin reminded her. “This is not a routine occurrence for our people. Their enthusiasm mirrors that felt by the Confederacy’s leadership.”
“It is most impressive,” Janeway assured her.
“As are your people, Admiral,” Cin said.
Off her silence, Cin went on: “The Djinari-odt dialect is difficult to master. That your people took the time to make it their own before contacting us speaks volumes of your commitment to the open exchange of ideas between our cultures.”
Janeway bowed her head briefly to hide her disappointment. None of the reports she had read thus far made mention of comments such as this. Clearly all of the representatives her people had met with thus far had made the same mistake as the presider.
Janeway gently unclipped the combadge affixed to the front of her uniform and held it up for the presider to see. “I wish I could say that my people had learned your language,” she began, “but I would hate for us to begin our friendship in misunderstanding. This piece of technology is called a combadge. My people use it for routine conversation between us, but embedded within is something we call a universal translator. I am not speaking to you now in your native language. This device is translating what I say into words you understand and simultaneously rendering your words into Federation Standard for me.”
For the first time, Janeway saw sincere surprise on Cin’s face, replaced almost immediately by awe.
“Do you mean to suggest that this technology allows you to speak without confusion with every single alien race your people encounter?” Cin asked.
“It has limits,” Janeway admitted. “We have come across languages it is unable to parse. In those cases, establishing communication is more difficult, but it always remains our priority when making first contact with a new species.”
“My people have nothing that compares to this simple yet incredibly powerful device,” Cin said, deflated. “In the dark days before we discovered the Great River and the First World, we happened upon an alien species that was very skilled with translation. We pressed some of them into our service, and their descendants perform this vital function when we contact new species, even to this day,” Cin said. “Every world that seeks to join our Confederacy must implement an educational program to teach its people Djinari-odt. It is the only language of our civilization.”