“I believe that had this plague never arisen, you would have been treated differently when you were found. Obviously, you would have been questioned and perhaps studied, as I was after the transformation. But once that was done, you would have been allowed to live here on Earth, or perhaps returned to your homeworld in the Delta Quadrant.”
“Mysstren no longer exists,” Axum said. “It was completely assimilated. There is no home for me to return to now.”
“You would have been an object of some curiosity, as I am,” Seven continued. “But you would not have been held against your will, as you have been. That is the result of the plague. I have come to assist those trying to cure it and, by doing so, secure your freedom as well.”
Axum considered her thoughtfully.
“And when you have done so, will you still be part of my freedom?” he asked.
“Always,” Seven replied. “But I do not wish to speculate about a future that is not yet realized.”
Axum appeared disconcerted by her response, but he said nothing.
“I’ve been told this research group has a commanding officer. I need to speak with him at once. My first priority was to see you, but now that I am assured of your well-being, I must direct my efforts where they are needed most.”
A sad smile returned to Axum’s lips. “One does not demand to see the Commander,” he said. “Should your presence be required, he will ask to see you, and only when he is good and ready.”
“That is unacceptable,” Seven said, moving toward the door she believed was the room’s exit.
“That’s the ’fresher,” Axum cautioned her.
“Oh,” Seven said.
“Before you go, there’s something I’d like to show you,” Axum continued.
“What?”
Axum moved to the door situated between the replicator and the sofa and motioned for her to follow. Beyond it was another large room, this one filled with long tables, data panels, and diagnostic tools. It was, to all intents and purposes, a fully equipped science lab.
“They provided this to you for your personal use?” Seven asked, genuinely surprised.
“I have been given everything I have requested,” Axum assured her. “It didn’t take long for me to grow restless here. There was always the chance that you would not be able to rescue me this time. What I need to know, the Commander and his team could not tell me. It also happens that what I need to know, they need to know.”
“What is that?” Seven asked.
“We are now rare hybrid life-forms, Annika. We retain the organic components of our respective species, but those components are now sustained by catoms. Do you know what catoms are?”
“Programmable matter,” Seven replied. “Down to the subatomic level, they mimic organic matter and integrate seamlessly with it to perform vital functions once maintained by our Borg implants.”
“Do you believe that these catoms could have caused this plague you seek to cure?”
“I have my doubts,” Seven replied. “I need to see samples of the mutation. The Doctor, Voyager’s former emergency medical hologram, has seen some of the applicable research and is convinced that catoms could not have caused illness in other humanoids. He was also able to visualize individual catoms. He discovered a unique synthetic tag. I believe I can build on his work to hasten that of this Commander.”
“I honestly don’t care if catoms caused the plague or not,” Axum said. “You’ll forgive my lack of interest. I know you think of these people as your family. I know how dear they are to you. But they have yet to earn my regard.
“However, I want to understand exactly what the Caeliar did to us. What are catoms? What can they do? What are they meant to do? What am I, now that I can no longer live without them?”
“Have you made any progress?” Seven asked.
“Yes,” Axum replied. “I’d like to show you what I’ve learned.”
“Proceed,” Seven said.
Several times a day, the Commander left his private sanctuary to walk the halls. His visible presence comforted and reassured his team. Few addressed him unless they had a new development to share. But his presence was essential. It reminded each of them that they were one, and dedicated to the same purpose.
These short breaks also cleared the Commander’s mind. He found himself visualizing new possibilities as he walked, breakthroughs that often eluded him at his data terminal.
Thus far he had found seventy-six access nodes on the catoms he had extracted from Patient C-1. To call them conduits or programming interfaces was going too far. They were more like semipermeable cell walls. They were capable of allowing certain information to pass through barriers that were otherwise solid. The Commander believed that they were the key to unlocking a catom; that if he could learn the programming language, or write a new one the catoms would accept, he could begin to direct their activities.
He had failed seventy-six times. But that did not mean that the next time would be the same. He had only just begun his studies of the newly extracted catoms from Seven of Nine.
The Commander paused before a large data panel. Behind that wall, muffled but mortifying cries could be heard. In a normal lab, the therapy room beyond would have possessed a window through which consulting physicians could view the activities within. The object of his team’s inquiry made that a security hazard.
Not caring to see, but sensate that he should, the Commander activated the data panel, and immediately the room’s interior became visible through high-resolution data imaging. Six of his officers, all dressed in biohazard suits, attended their patient. He had arrived from Ardana that morning and his treatment had begun immediately.
Several long tubes snaked over his body, some distributing life-sustaining fluids, others draining away those that were already tainted. The patient’s screams were silenced on the playback, but the Commander could hear muffled versions of them anyway.
A subscreen on the panel indicated current vital signs. A glance told him what the next course of action would be.
The Commander deactivated the screen and continued his walk. He tried not to think about the “tank.” It was medicine at its crudest. But it might be the only thing that would buy the poor man a little more time.
The Commander’s pace quickened. With each day that passed, his certainty grew stronger.
I am running out of time.
Ensign J’Ohans had been invited to join the Commander’s team nine months earlier. It was an honor she had never dared dream would come to pass. Like a few other team members, she had been “Ensign” while on duty. She could claim several different areas of relevant scientific expertise, but none of them had been noteworthy enough among her illustrious peers to demand a more specific designation.
Today, that had changed. At the morning’s briefing, the Commander had addressed her as “Liaison.” Her feet had barely touched the ground since then.
Her assignment had been challenging but certainly not beyond her abilities. It had not occurred to her to question the research. If the Commander deemed it necessary, it was.
Liaison keyed her authorization commands into the terminal and, as expected, the new files she required were present. She opened the first and listened intently as Seven of Nine began to address her Academy students. The recording was several years out of date. Her more recent, and certainly more relevant, personal logs were also present and would be accessed soon enough.
Doctor Sharak sat at his new workstation. The screen before him displayed the history, in statistical form, of the catomic plague.
It made for disheartening reading. Sharak had held out hope that the severity of the threat might have been exaggerated. That was clearly not the case.
Since Miss Seven had departed, he had applied himself diligently to his new studies. So concentrated were his efforts that he jumped when a light hand came to rest on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Doctor Sharak,” Frist said. “I did not mean to startle you.”
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“No apology is necessary,” he assured her.
“Do you need anything?” she asked.
“No.”
Frist appeared ready to move on but, after a second thought, said, “You know, all of us have dedicated most of our waking hours to this project for the last several months. I admire your diligence, but you aren’t going to solve this alone tonight.”
“Tonight?” Sharak asked. Looking beyond Frist, he realized that most of the stations around him were empty and dimmed.
“It’s been almost nine hours since you began,” Frist said with a faint smile of understanding.
Sharak sighed. He had lost track of the time.
More important, Miss Seven had not made contact with him for nine hours.
Frist seemed to read his mind. “It is my understanding that Seven and Axum shared a deep personal bond with one another. Their story is rather tragic, but at least now, a new chapter might begin for them. Should our efforts here succeed, there is no telling what the future might hold for them. There is a lot to discuss. I would not take her lack of responsiveness to heart.”
“Miss Seven will . . .” Sharak began, and as he did so, a flashing light on his terminal indicated an incoming transmission.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Frist said, her smile widening. “But afterwards, go home. Get some rest. We’ll still be here tomorrow.”
As soon as Sharak was certain Frist had departed, he opened the terminal’s comm channel. Seven’s face filled the screen.
“Miss Seven, are you well?” he asked immediately.
“I am. Thank you, Doctor,” Seven replied.
“You have seen Axum?”
“Yes. He is unharmed.”
Sharak paused as the screen distorted for a few seconds. When it settled he said, “I take it your worst fears have not been confirmed?”
Seven shook her head and looked away. When their eyes met again she said, “Fear is irrelevant. I have a great deal of work to do. I have already begun.”
“Good,” Sharak said, unable to adequately express his relief. “I waited to hear from you.”
“That will not be necessary in the future,” she assured him. “I will contact you again when I have information worth reporting.”
Sharak was taken aback.
“I would prefer to hear from you daily,” he said.
The faintest of smiles crossed Seven’s lips. “I will comply,” she said.
Her image distorted again. When it returned to normal Sharak asked, “Are you experiencing a technical malfunction at your end?”
“I have been advised that the internal power systems of the secured area have been difficult to regulate. I will ask one of the technicians to address it in the morning.”
“I will speak with you again tomorrow,” Sharak said, his tone indicating that he would brook no refusal.
“Good night, Doctor,” Seven said.
The channel closed, Sharak rested his back against the chair. It had been a long day for both of them. Clearly, she was exhausted and perhaps concerned about discussing anything in detail over what was likely a monitored comm line. Nothing could be done about that for now.
Still, he was pleased his patience had been rewarded; as had hers, apparently.
Certain liberties were granted to Academy cadets in their final year of studies. Icheb was grateful that one of them was to remain off-campus for extended periods of time, as long as a cadet could justify the absence. Icheb suspected that his academic advisor, Commander Treadon, would appreciate his desire to overachieve in his new internship posting with Starfleet Medical. She would see it as part of a positive pattern of behavior in her advisee.
But if Icheb remained outside the building much longer, even Treadon was going to question his actions.
He had paced the hedge that lined the main entrance’s south side for over two hours. Most of the time he assumed he had gone unnoticed, as many of the officers assigned there were leaving while others arrived for the next duty shift. An hour before, traffic had slowed to a trickle. Icheb had found a quiet spot to sit that kept the entrance in his line of sight. He had studied a padd he brought for just such a necessity. But he had been unable to apply himself to anything other than watching the entrance. The pacing resumed.
Finally, the man he sought exited the building. He moved slowly, as if wearied by the day.
Icheb immediately moved to block his path. “Doctor Sharak?” he said.
Sharak halted. “Yes, Cadet?” he finally said.
“Perhaps you do not remember me. We met briefly a few months ago. I am Icheb, Seven’s friend.”
Sharak nodded solemnly. “I do, Cadet. It is unexpected to see you here.”
“I knew you and Seven were arriving today. She sent me a message while you were still en route. I hoped to see her.”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible,” Sharak said. “Miss Seven has entered a quarantine area within the complex and will remain there until her work is complete.”
“A quarantine area?” Icheb asked.
“Yes. I just spoke with her. She is fine.”
“Is she ill?” Icheb asked.
“No. She is working to help the other doctors there cure an illness.”
Icheb nodded. “Admiral Janeway told me that she had recommended that I be assigned to Starfleet Medical for my internship. I believe she intended for me to be near should Seven need me.”
Sharak might have smiled. His Tamarian visage made it hard for Icheb to tell. “While we are here, I am responsible for Miss Seven’s well-being. You should pursue your work here diligently, but do not trouble yourself on her behalf. She is fine, and should that situation change, I will inform those in a position to best assist her.”
Icheb wanted to feel relief. He couldn’t. Seven was one of the few people in the universe he thought of as family. Admiral Janeway obviously believed Icheb’s presence here was warranted. Doctor Sharak seemed confident but he could not know Seven very well.
“Can you ask her to contact me?” Icheb requested.
“I can, and I will. I cannot promise you that she will comply. It is apparently going to be challenging for her to report to me daily. But I will make the effort. In the meantime, I will tell you what I am sure she would tell you if she were here.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Attend to your studies. They should be your only concern.”
“Understood, sir,” Icheb said. “Good night.”
Sharak nodded.
Icheb made haste to the nearest transporter station. He had hoped seeing Sharak would assuage his fears. Now he knew that the only relief he would feel would come from seeing Seven for himself.
Chapter Five
VOYAGER
The Doctor stared at the four largest system storage blocks resourced to Voyager’s sickbay by the main computer. It was not his area of expertise, but his time spent assisting Lieutenant Reg Barclay and Doctor Zimmerman with the design of the Galen had not been entirely wasted.
There were over two thousand diagnostic subroutines he had created specifically for the Galen. Most of them were unique to his sickbay. Looking around Voyager’s, which had been refitted prior to the fleet’s launch and certainly improved in many ways since his time there, he could only see all that it lacked.
Given the necessity of Doctor Sharak’s departure, the Doctor had not resisted temporary reassignment to Voyager. He had already grown accustomed to the Galen, and he certainly preferred it, but he had hoped to discover a familiar and comforting sense of reunion with his former sickbay.
Instead, he found its lack of suitability for the project he now intended to pursue most frustrating. When he considered that he, rather than Sharak, should have accompanied Seven back to Starfleet Medical, his frustration briefly reached levels near seething. Once this had passed, he reminded himself that as little as Doctors Frist and Everett seemed to respect him, this feeling was multiplied several times over when he considered them. Should he
have been forced to work by their side for an extended period of time, he doubted this opinion would have improved. Admiral Janeway had managed to secure copies of their latest research. It would be out of date by now, but not unmanageably so. He actually preferred to follow his own original line of inquiry, rather than be unduly influenced by the many useless paths the “best minds in the Federation” were pursuing.
He would be well under way, were Voyager’s databanks free to hold all of the programs he required.
Barclay had provided him with copies of many of the essential programs. The Doctor had selected the destination for them and was ready to install them when the computer automatically began to sound warnings.
He silenced it and requested that ops open a channel for him to the Galen.
Barclay looked weary when his face appeared on the Doctor’s private data screen. But that had been the case for several months. Given that Commander Glenn was likely still on the planet’s surface—Voyager’s officers had yet to return from the ceremony—he doubted Barclay would have gone to sleep yet.
“What time is it?” Barclay asked.
“Late,” the Doctor replied. “Am I disturbing you?”
“No,” Barclay said, then sighed. Clearly his mind was elsewhere.
“Would it be possible for you to transport over for a few minutes?” the Doctor asked. “I’m having difficulty installing some of the programs you sent.”
“Has the restriction on transporter use been lifted?” Barclay asked.
“No,” the Doctor said, remembering the unusual prohibition as soon as Barclay mentioned it.
Barclay stared at him intently for a moment.
“Give me a minute,” Barclay said, and he terminated the transmission. When he returned he said, “I can’t. No shuttle traffic is permitted in orbit until our officers return from the surface.”
“According to whom?”
“Lieutenant Patel, who has your bridge right now.”
Star Trek: Voyager - 043 - Acts of Contrition Page 8
