En route, Torres got her first really close look at many of the other guests, both seated and mingling near stations for beverages. An alarming number of the women, or so it seemed to Torres, were obviously with child. More stunning, however, was the way their pregnancies were exposed for all to see. She’d had her fair share of difficulties dressing herself this evening. She could only imagine what these women had endured.
Even the smallest abdominal bump was displayed by the gowns worn. The fabric usually divided just below the sternum and was held draped open to the top of the pelvis. Some were adorned with body paint in colorful designs. Others were encrusted with stones that either glowed or caught the light brilliantly. Whatever the accessories chosen, what was clear was the announcement each woman was making of her condition. Less amazing, but worth noting, was the way the other guests, male and female, doted on these women. Chairs were vacated as they approached to offer them room. Plates and glasses were filled to order by hands anxious to assist them. Arms were offered for strolls through the garden. And everywhere, men and women alike were touching the exposed areas gently and offering the women praise and encouragement.
Some of these things were common to the Federation as well. It seemed to be a natural law rather than one specific to any species that pregnant women were an object of scrutiny. The Klingons were never so delicate about it. Female warriors were expected to fight right up until the moment their babies fell from their bodies. Less aggressive species—her human family, for instance—were also fascinated by swelling bellies. Strangers suddenly felt they had a right to reach out and touch one if they were certain a new life was growing within it.
There was nothing prudish about Torres. She was both proud and fiercely protective of the son in her womb. But she could not imagine walking comfortably through a room of strangers and announcing her condition in the way the Confederacy women did.
When she finally reached the facilities, she found a short line. Two of the women directly in front of her were pregnant. Apparently many things were universal to their shared condition, including the frequency with which they needed to relieve themselves. The nearest one turned to look at Torres and smiled broadly.
“Good evening, Federation citizen,” she said, extending her hand. “Welcome to the Confederacy of the Worlds of the First Quadrant.”
“Thank you,” Torres replied. “I am Lieutenant Commander B’Elanna Torres.”
“Orla,” the woman said. “And this is Wentin,” she added, gesturing to the woman on her left.
At a loss but truly curious, Torres finally ventured, “Don’t you get a little cold in that dress?”
Orla looked as if a light had just gone off above her head. “Of course,” she said. “Our species must have different comfort levels when it comes to temperature.”
“We must,” Torres agreed congenially, unsure if Orla had really understood the question. The light fabric woven over her body left almost nothing, including her due date, to the imagination. Even in long sleeves and pants, Torres was still a little chilled by the night air.
“Is that why you hide your child?” Wentin asked agreeably.
Torres immediately placed a hand over her belly. “I’m not hiding him,” she said. “This is our dress uniform.”
“I told you,” Wentin said conspiratorially to Orla.
“Told her what?” Torres asked, determined not to take immediate offense but open to the possibility, depending upon Wentin’s answer.
“Orla thought you refused to display your child because the Federation must have some cultural taboo. She suggested your people do not take pride in your obvious accomplishment. I told her that was silly. No right-thinking people would want to hide such a thing. It is natural. It is beautiful. And it is every woman’s first duty to her civilization.”
The first thought to strike Torres was discomfort with the fact that she and her pregnancy had been a source of conversation among these total strangers. All of her fellow officers were on display tonight, but not for the shape of their bodies; more for the content of their character, or so Torres hoped. The second was the judgment coming from these women with very little in the way of real data upon which to base that judgment.
“I am actually of mixed heritage,” Torres explained. “Each race from which I was descended, the humans and the Klingons, have different customs when it comes to bearing children. Neither is ashamed of it. But I guess neither feels the need to emphasize it either. It is a simple bodily function of the females of both species. When a child is born, there is great happiness for its family and community. Until then, the mothers tend to go about their daily lives as usual, unless their physical condition makes that difficult for some medical reason.”
Both Orla’s and Wentin’s faces shared the same puzzled expression. “Your bearing women are not revered and appropriately rewarded by your people?” Orla finally asked.
“Not for simply bearing,” Torres replied.
Orla placed a gentle hand on Torres’s arm. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said.
Torres didn’t know why she should feel embarrassed by this, but she did. “How exactly are your bearing women rewarded?” she asked.
Orla shrugged. “There are so many ways. Once we mature to the point that bearing is possible, our obligations as citizens are reduced to finding an appropriate mate. We receive considerable support from our mates and the Confederacy during the years we produce our children. Nonbearing females assist with their rearing and education. But unlike us, the career paths open to them once they are no longer fertile are extremely limited. I’ve chosen to study medicine once my children are grown. When I have completed my indoctrination I will enjoy as many years as I wish of service to my people and absolute financial security.”
“Are you saying that as long as you are capable of bearing children, you are expected to do nothing else?” Torres asked.
“What else could we possibly do that any civilized society would regard more highly?” Wentin asked.
Any hopes for an alliance between the Federation and the Confederacy might have ended right then had two stalls not opened up, into which Orla and Wentin swiftly disappeared.
It had come as no surprise that the Confederacy’s overseer of agriculture, a Leodt named Racha Bralt, was at the table Commander O’Donnell shared with Captain Farkas and Doctor Sal. He and O’Donnell had spoken several times when Demeter was the lone ship in Confederacy territory, and Bralt had learned of the ship’s unique capabilities and function within the Federation fleet.
Bralt had already gone on at great length and with considerable pride in his people’s developments on several worlds to ensure large harvests of a variety of edible plant life. He was particularly effulgent when the conversation turned to some unique weather maintenance systems that had enhanced their grain yields.
O’Donnell didn’t need a crystal ball to look a few decades into the future and see what these choices were doing to the soil of those worlds. The Confederacy was not the first to make this particular mistake, and O’Donnell knew that among sentient life-forms they would not be the last. But one day they were going to wake up and find that, for all their control mechanisms, the soil would refuse to grow what it once had. Regular crop rotation and nutrient replacement was vital for the health of most soil, and yet under Bralt’s direction, and that of his predecessors, Confederacy farmers were reaping vast financial gain in the short run and courting disaster in the long run.
Because Captain Farkas didn’t know soil from fertilizer, she was permitted to be impressed. But as Bralt droned on, O’Donnell found himself lapsing into silence that only Farkas and Sal seemed to note. It wasn’t that he didn’t have anything to say. It was simply that to speak his mind on the subject at hand would do nothing to forward the Federation’s diplomatic objectives.
“In the last decade, these worlds have gone from feeding ten billion annually to almost twice that number,” Bralt said.
“That’s wonderful,
” Farkas said.
“With statistics like that, I’m assuming very few of your citizens go hungry,” Sal noted.
O’Donnell placed his fist firmly over his mouth to repress any potential sound. He already knew the answer.
“The Source knows that all civilized cultures, even those with the most advanced technology, are forced to struggle with the realities of poverty,” Bralt said.
No, they’re not, O’Donnell didn’t say.
“The Confederacy was founded on the diligent labor of thousands who became hundreds of thousands, then millions. Every individual who fled our homeworlds was required to offer whatever service they could to sustain the whole. Those lessons, however, seem to have been lost on some once we achieved a certain degree of prosperity. And to be honest, communicating our value of hard work has been difficult with some of our member worlds. Painful choices must always be made. Our people reward those who strive daily to care for themselves and their brothers. Those who are less willing may find themselves in more challenging straits.”
You mean “hungry”? O’Donnell didn’t ask.
“But surely, when resources are so plentiful, the excess may be used to relieve their suffering?” Farkas asked.
You’d think, wouldn’t you, O’Donnell did not say.
“To deny the less fortunate or less industrious among us the pain that would teach them to apply themselves more diligently would dishonor the efforts of those who are willing to work,” Bralt replied. “We would do them a disservice by making their lives too comfortable. There is only one way for them to learn the error of their ways.”
At this, Farkas put her utensils down and kept her gaze fixed a little too long on her plate.
“What about those who fall on hard times through no fault of their own?” Sal asked. “Maybe their skills are no longer needed and they require time to learn new ones.”
“Every member of our society who contributes to its betterment on a daily basis enjoys a very comfortable standard of living,” Bralt said. “Those who refuse to do so must get by as best they can. When they demonstrate their ability to contribute, they are permitted, once again, to assume the dignities and benefits of citizenship.”
“Do you mean to say that it’s possible for a Confederacy resident to lose their rights as a citizen and the protection of your government?” Farkas asked.
Yep, O’Donnell refrained from adding.
“Citizenship is a privilege, reserved for those willing to earn it every day of their lives,” Bralt replied. “That privilege may be lost, but it may also be restored depending upon an individual’s personal choices.”
“Who decides who is contributing enough to earn their citizenship?” Sal asked.
“Our standards are high,” Bralt conceded. “But what you see all around you is the result of those standards. There are minimums that have been in place for centuries, administered by our Market Consortium, and all new worlds are presented with their own baselines upon entrance into the Confederacy. Those who fail to meet them always have the opportunity to change their ways. But we will not tolerate laziness. Without these goals to strive for, what else would ever motivate anyone to work hard?”
“Curiosity, passion, intelligence, creativity, the biological imperative all sentient species are born with to learn and grow,” O’Donnell said, surprised that sound had unintentionally escaped his lips.
Every set of eyes at the table was suddenly upon him.
“Not all individuals within our society possess those attributes, Commander. They may be learned, of course, and must be, to share in our civilization’s bounty.”
“In my experience, every sentient being is born with them to one degree or another,” O’Donnell said. “What they may lack is the opportunity to apply them because they are forced to busy themselves conforming to a system they had no hand in creating, and in which their particular gifts are not considered worth rewarding.”
“Commander O’Donnell,” Captain Farkas said, rising from the table. “Would you accompany me to the bar?”
“One of the servers will be by momentarily,” Bralt tried to assure her.
“I don’t wish to trouble them,” Farkas said. “They’ve got their hands full tonight and are doing a wonderful job. We won’t be long.”
O’Donnell rose and followed Farkas from the table. As soon as they were lost in the crowd, he said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“El’nor is usually the one I worry about keeping on a short leash at these things,” Farkas admitted. “I had no idea you and she have so much in common.”
O’Donnell shrugged. “These people aren’t ready for Federation membership,” he said softly. “You know it and I know it. Their ancestors destroyed countless planets and stole their resources to build all of this. Their descendants live under a virtual caste system. Their market-based economy rewards the fortunate and ignores the rest. Don’t let the clothing fool you. They’re barbarians.”
“They’re a work in progress, Commander,” Farkas corrected him coldly, “just as we are. Let’s not judge them too harshly for only knowing what they’ve had time to learn. We’re not looking for a new Federation member here. We’re just looking for an ally.”
O’Donnell was about to reply when Sal found them and asked, “Did you really have to pull him away when the conversation was finally getting interesting, Regina?”
For the first time all evening, O’Donnell smiled. “And I was worried I wouldn’t find any friends at this party.”
Counselor Cambridge was seated at the table next to Lieutenant Lasren’s, and he’d kept the young man in his line of sight all evening. It was the counselor’s job to read the guests he spoke with, but his would be a psychological analysis. Lasren had drawn the much shorter straw. For him to use his empathic abilities to “read” the guests required him to lower his mental discipline and actually feel what the other guests did. Cambridge did not envy him the task, as he had a pretty good idea of what Lasren would encounter.
Before the second appetizer course had been served, Lasren was looking a little pale. He politely moved the food around on his plate for the next two courses, but he did not eat a bite. Shortly after Commander Torres had excused herself from their table, Lasren rose and did the same. At first Cambridge thought he might be searching for the exit, and the counselor rose to follow. As it happened, Lasren simply sought the most secluded corner of the garden and, once he believed himself to be beyond notice, turned away from the crowd and took several deep breaths.
“Are you all right, Lieutenant?” Cambridge asked once he had reached the young man.
“Yes, sir,” Lasren replied, turning back, tugging at his uniform jacket and squaring his shoulders.
“It doesn’t take an empath, or even a trained counselor, to see that you’re struggling, Lieutenant. I’m sure you’ve already picked up enough impressions for one evening. Clear your mind. Put up whatever mental barriers you customarily use to block the feelings of those around you, and keep them firmly in place for the rest of the night. You may consider that a direct order if it makes you feel better.”
Lasren looked at Cambridge with wide black eyes.
“I don’t know if I can, sir,” he said.
“Why not?”
“It’s so big.”
Cambridge looked around the rooftop, noting the size of the crowd, and thought he understood.
“Too many people?” he asked.
“No, sir,” Lasren replied, “too much of the same emotion. You could drown in it, it’s so thick.”
To the untrained eye, the only visible emotional state of the vast majority of guests was pleasure, with a healthy dose of self-satisfaction and a fair amount of condescension. But for any society founded on competition, driven by insatiable appetites for more and valuing success above all, their true emotional state was easy to guess.
“Fear?” Cambridge asked.
“Terror,” Lasren replied.
Chapter
Four
SAN FRANCISCO
It should have been such a happy reunion. When Tom Paris had said good-bye to his mother just before the Full Circle Fleet had launched, he’d never expected to see her again. Had everything gone according to plan, once he and B’Elanna were reunited in the Delta Quadrant, he would have resigned his commission, departed Voyager, and begun a new life with his wife and daughter aboard the Home Free, the shuttle B’Elanna had designed for that purpose.
That hadn’t happened. As Paris entered the mediation chamber behind Lieutenant Shaw and caught his first glimpse of his mother seated beside her lawyer, it occurred to him that had he and B’Elanna stuck to that plan, he might not be here now.
Since the day Miral had been released by the qawHaq’hoch over two years ago, every choice Tom Paris had made had been designed to do one thing: protect his daughter. While he’d almost lost his closest friends as a result, he’d never doubted himself or his chosen course. He didn’t believe any parent in his place would have doubted him either.
He’d obviously been wrong.
The last time he’d been reunited with his mother, she’d thrown herself into his arms, weeping with joy, gratitude, and pride. Now she refused to meet his eyes, keeping hers glued on the bony hands clasped before her on the table that would divide them during the mediation.
He wanted so badly to go to her, to take her in his arms, and to whisper over and over that he was so very sorry. He wanted to sit beside her watching holos of Miral over the past few years, sharing the million unexpected things she had done during that time. He wanted to tell her what an extraordinary person her granddaughter was.
Instead, Paris moved to the chair opposite her and looked to Shaw, who nodded in his direction and gestured to the chair.
Star Trek: Voyager - 043 - Acts of Contrition Page 6
