Star Trek: Voyager - 043 - Acts of Contrition

by Kirsten Beyer

  Finally, she told him that, through it all, she had never doubted the promise of their future together, knowing that whatever came to pass, they were meant to be with one another.

  They found time for a few hours of sleep before Chakotay slipped from her quarters and made his way to the shuttlebay. His fears relieved, he blessed again the gods of his fathers for bringing Kathryn back to him. He refused to think too far ahead. He’d already learned that to live in the future was folly, especially when the present held everything for which he could ask.

  Chapter Six

  SAN FRANCISCO

  Despite the lateness of the hour when Doctor Sharak had finally settled into his temporary quarters, he was up early and back at Starfleet Medical at first light. Assured of Seven’s safety, at least for now, he intended to devote himself entirely to the work Doctor Frist had given him; evaluating the spread of the catomic plague.

  Frist was already at her station when he arrived and bade her good morning. She introduced him to Doctor Greer Everett, a civilian from the Federation Institute of Health, who was taking point on their efforts to assist with stemming the plague’s spread. She gave him a thorough tour of the facilities and introduced him to his new associates.

  When they had returned to his workstation and Frist was prepared to attend to her own duties, Sharak asked if she would introduce him to the Commander.

  “The Commander is in the quarantine area, and we do not disturb him,” Frist replied. “If he has questions for us, they are immediately forwarded to our attention, but that is rare.”

  “Does the Commander . . .” Sharak began, then asked, “I’m sorry, is he a hologram?”

  Frist seemed shocked by the notion. “Why . . . what?” she asked.

  “No one has ever referred to him as anything other than ‘the Commander.’ I wondered if, like Voyager’s former EMH, the Doctor, this Commander simply doesn’t have a name.”

  Frist nodded her comprehension. “Ah, no. He is Commander Jefferson Briggs, one of the most ingenious and inventive medical researchers Starfleet has ever produced. His thesis at the Academy on the discovery of the unique genetic profile of the Planarians was celebrated to the ends of the Federation as a dramatic theoretical breakthrough. It established him as a preeminent authority on genetic manipulation. He then devoted himself for the next several years to curing the Lernk virus, a feat he achieved where many others had failed. He has reached a status among his peers to which few of us can even aspire. We are certain he will resolve this catomic plague and likely advance our understanding of catoms significantly in the process.”

  “It sounds as if we are all in good hands,” Sharak said.

  “The best,” Frist agreed.

  “I would like to speak to Commander Briggs,” Sharak went on. “I wish to make sure he is aware of my perceptions of Miss Seven, as her physician.”

  “We received her records before you arrived, Doctor, and no doubt the Commander has committed them to memory by now.”

  “Does he not like his name?” Sharak asked.

  Frist smiled benevolently. “The Commander has instituted a unique organizational structure among his team members. Once assigned to his group, the members eschew addressing one another by their names. They use ranks or titles he assigns denoting their specific duty among the team.”

  “Doesn’t that get confusing?” Sharak asked.

  “It is intended to emphasize the reality that those who work with his team are performing a duty that is beyond their individual identity. In casual conversation modes of address are less formal, but while on duty all observe the designations he gives them. In this way they become distinct parts of something greater. They are as much a representative of a ‘position’ as a person. It’s helpful when navigating issues of ethical nuance to think of oneself, not as an individual, but as a significant part of a larger whole.”

  “I see,” Sharak said. “However, I would suggest he not assign such a designation to Miss Seven. She is very particular about modes of address, given her unique heritage and the unusual lengths to which she has gone to clarify her identity.”

  “I have no doubt that once she gets to know the Commander, she too will realize how lucky she is to be part of his team.”

  “I would pass along my recommendation nonetheless,” Sharak suggested.

  “Of course. Thank you, Doctor,” Frist said.

  “What does this suggest?” Axum asked.

  Seven stared at the images of subatomic scans Axum had done of his own catoms. The tags the Doctor had first discovered were visible, but otherwise, nothing in the arrangement of the particles revealed anything new to Seven. Had she not known she was looking at catomic particles, she would have concluded she was looking at organic ones.

  “I don’t know,” she finally admitted.

  Axum stood patiently beside her. “Are you sure?” he finally asked.

  “I would not have said so otherwise.”

  Frustrated, Seven turned away from the display and crossed to the lab’s doorway. Axum had obviously intuited something that eluded her. He clearly had his reasons for wishing her to grasp the concept on her own. The feeling that she was being tested, however, was intensely annoying.

  Beyond that, Seven could not dismiss the uncomfortable sensation that she should be elsewhere right now. Axum was recovering well. There was much she wished to share with him when this crisis had passed, including the fact that her personal life and commitment to Counselor Cambridge made the future relationship Axum was obviously contemplating impossible. But now was not that time. She needed to speak with the Commander. She needed his most current research on the catomic plague. She needed to begin working to solve that problem, rather than the one Axum seemed intent upon placing before her.

  Wondering if the Commander’s residence might be one of those adjacent to the patio, Seven moved toward it. Even if this wasn’t his, by engaging the other researchers working there, Seven might get some of the information she required. Though there were at least a dozen separate units visible, none of them showed signs of life, despite the fact that the sky above had darkened hours before.

  Axum moved silently to her side. “You’re angry with me,” he said.

  “No,” she said.

  “Then let’s approach this another way,” he suggested.

  Intrigued, Seven nodded.

  Taking one hand, Axum led her to a table on the patio and moved two chairs to face one another. As Seven sat, a riot of pleasant, exotic fragrances assaulted her. She had seen many blooms filling the patio by day, but she only now understood how completely they transformed the otherwise sterile space.

  Seven closed her eyes, allowing the smells to wash over her and clear her mind. She knew that simply staring at a problem from the same place incessantly rarely produced results. A change of perspective might help.

  Annika?

  Seven jumped as a rush of adrenaline poured into her system and her heart began to race. The fear must have been obvious on her face. Axum took both her hands in his and with gentle pressure kept her seated.

  “Was that you?” she demanded.

  “Yes. Why does it frighten you so?” he asked.

  Seven indulged in a few long, deep breaths to calm her body’s frantic systems. When she felt steady enough to speak again, she did.

  “For many months after the Caeliar transformation, I lived with the presence of a voice in my mind. I experienced several waking ‘dream’ states where I was able to visualize the source of the voice. She was a sort of amalgam of my human and Caeliar natures; a child who hated the Borg. It took a great deal of effort for me to embrace her message and silence her. The sensation of hearing you in my mind frightened me because I thought for a moment she might have returned.”

  Axum nodded thoughtfully. “Obviously, the transformation affected each of us who remained outside the gestalt differently. Perhaps because I was still part of the Collective at the time, I did not share that experience. I don’t
think I truly grasped reality for a long time before or after the transformation. I had been living in torment for so long. When I finally experienced absolute silence, I thought it might mean that I was dead. I welcomed it.”

  Seven raised a hand to Axum’s cheek. He placed his over it and they sat for a moment, grieving one another’s pain. Finally Seven said, “Why did you initiate telepathic contact?”

  “My people, the Mysstren, shared low-level psionic abilities. I never had a chance to develop mine before I was assimilated. But when I began to find you in my dreams, I started to wonder if these catoms might have awakened or enhanced my latent abilities.”

  “We shared those dreams because our catoms were mingled,” Seven said.

  “Did we?” he asked. “The dreams, perhaps, but this?”

  Seven considered his words.

  “Again,” she said.

  You hear me, Annika. You hear my thoughts.

  “I do,” she said, nodding.

  Respond to me with your thoughts, he asked.

  “I don’t think I should. Twice now, I have experienced telepathic communications enhanced by my catoms. In the first instance, a known telepathic species reached out to me. The second time, a transformed former Borg, like us, initiated the contact. Both events resulted in degradation of my neural tissues that required medical intervention to heal.”

  You’re in the middle of Starfleet Medical. I’m sure someone here will rush to attend you should your health be in jeopardy.

  Seven considered the argument. It seemed a risk worth taking. She had also been advised by the Doctor that her catoms had actually repaired the damage to her neural tissues, creating new ones as needed.

  Very well.

  Axum smiled. That wasn’t so hard, was it?

  Seven felt her heart begin to flutter again.

  You heard that?

  I did.

  How?

  This is my point. We’re not going to learn what we need to know about our catoms by studying them under a magna-scan. We must use them. Test them. Discover their limits through experimentation.

  That will not help us cure this plague.

  How do you know?

  Seven had to admit, she didn’t. Even if our catoms permit us to speak with one another and other telepathic species in this manner, it brings us no closer to understanding how they can do this.

  Of course it does, Axum insisted.

  How? Seven asked.

  There are a number of possibilities, but the one I find most intriguing is this: Catoms do not seem predisposed to function independently. When they mingle, or sense one another, there is an inherent desire to connect. Is this desire ours? And do the catoms just make it possible for us to realize them? Or are they functioning according to their own imperatives, separate from our wishes? We experienced briefly the Caelier gestalt. Did this gestalt exist because the Caeliar were catomic beings? Can catoms exist without a coincidental gestalt?

  We did not join the gestalt.

  But are we now on our way to creating a new one of our own?

  Seven pulled her hands free from Axum’s and sat back. She felt no physical discomfort from their communication. But it wasn’t hard to pinpoint the emotional distress she was suddenly experiencing.

  What’s wrong?

  “Stop it,” she said.

  “Annika . . .”

  “Stop it,” she said again. “We both risked our lives once to free ourselves from the hive mind. Would you have us willingly re-create it? Does your individuality mean so little to you?”

  “Simply because we can do a thing, does not mean that we should,” Axum agreed. “But it is in both our best interests to learn if our catoms are going to give us a choice in that matter.”

  “Then let’s try that experiment, now,” Seven said, a bit harshly. “You obviously knew before I did that what I was experiencing as dreams were intentional communications on your part. You initiated intimate physical contact in those dreams.”

  “You didn’t seem to mind,” he said, stung.

  “I had my own reasons to wonder at the source of the dreams. It took time for me to realize what was really going on, and by the time I did . . .” She trailed off. She had no wish yet to share with him exactly how those dreams had complicated and compromised her private life.

  “Had I thought for a moment you did not want to be with me there, I would never have dared,” Axum said. “At first, it was almost a reflex. I had been alone for so long, and when I sensed you again, my need was all-consuming. I guess I didn’t think.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry, Annika.”

  Genuine anguish washed over his face. As angry as she was, Seven could not bear to see it.

  “Axum, you and I have never had a chance to know one another in the real world. Every touch we shared until now happened in some alternate reality created by nanoprobes or catoms. You say you want us to have a future together. How am I to know what that would feel like if you keep forcing us back into our past ways of relating?”

  Axum lowered his head, trying to collect himself. Finally he said, “You are right. I have violated you. Please believe me when I say that was never my intention.”

  “I know,” she said. “And I understand. Both of us will have to work to unlearn so much of what we once knew. It no longer applies in this new world. I have moved on. I have experienced many things since we were last in contact. You have suffered terribly. I want to help you, but not like this. You need to stay out of my mind.”

  Axum started to speak, but finally he just nodded.

  A flash from the corner of Seven’s eye caught her attention. Turning her head, she saw that a light had just gone on in one of the units above those adjoined to the patio. A small balcony extended out from it, but Seven could not see motion or shadow beyond the balcony, given her position relative to it.

  “Someone’s home,” she said softly.

  Axum stared at her, his eyes filled with longing and regret.

  Cadet Icheb had no idea where Seven or Doctor Sharak were spending their days at Starfleet Medical. It did not seem likely after the previous evening’s encounter that Doctor Sharak would provide him with this information. Even if he knew where they were, his assigned duties did not permit him to seek them out. He had been given a very specific task in the administrative offices, one that was actually an excellent use of his skill set.

  It was also incredibly boring.

  For three hours, two evenings per week, Icheb reviewed inventory and material requisitions. Where matches existed in stock, he allocated them appropriately. Where they did not, he placed the necessary orders.

  He would have been grateful for the fact that this assignment was not mentally taxing in the least, had it not been for Seven’s circumstances. He could easily complete his assigned work in less time than he had been granted and use the extra hour to attend to his other studies. As it was, he found his attention constantly shifting from the task at hand to concerns about Seven and, as a result, filling all of his allotted time.

  Near the end of this day’s work, he paused over an unusual requisition: an order for additional gloves that were standard to biohazard suits. He noted the source of the request, a department designated CLCP-119. He then ran a quick search of the database for other requisitions from this department. Many of them were standard, but among them were several for items that would be used only in work with highly dangerous infectious or toxic substances.

  On a whim, Icheb asked the main computer to display the department’s physical location within Starfleet Medical.

  To his surprise, it did.

  The first day of mediation ended with the two parties nowhere near a potential compromise. Tom Paris spent a fitful night, tossing and turning. When he managed to drift off, Paris was tormented by dreams of B’Elanna and Miral calling to him from the end of a distant tunnel that seemed to grow longer the more Tom struggled to reach them.

  As Paris entered th
e chamber for day two of the proceedings, he was a knot of nervous energy. He needed a physical release of some kind. As soon as this session adjourned, he promised himself a visit to the gym, where he planned to punch something repeatedly as hard as he could.

  His mother was as composed as ever. Thinking back, he remembered that this had always been the truest barometer of her level of anger. Where his father would rage and thunder, Julia’s ire was at its peak when she was the most contained.

  Lieutenant Shaw seemed relaxed, and he greeted Paris with a firm handshake and a reassuring clap on the shoulder as he took his seat. It filled Paris with faint hope to note that his mother’s counsel, a man Shaw had identified as Admiral Clancy, an old friend of Tom’s father, sat with his head bowed. Paris couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Clancy might be napping.

  Ozimat opened the session, as he had the previous day, addressing himself to Julia. “Yesterday, we began our discussion with the events that directly precipitated your choice to bring this case, Mrs. Paris. Perhaps today we should delve deeper into other incidents you cite in your complaint as having direct bearing on your choice. Perhaps if Commander Paris can shed a little light on his thinking at that time, it might put your concerns in a clearer context.”

  Julia nodded, smiling with pained gratitude at Ozimat before leveling her gaze at her son.

  “Obviously Your Honor is already aware of the grave and serious nature of the incidents that led to my son’s incarceration a few years after being separated from Starfleet Academy. Although the accident that claimed the life of three of his fellow cadets, young men and women he thought of as dear friends, was truly, I believe, an accident, his poor judgment in lying about the series of events that led to their deaths, when seen in the light of his more recent choices, remains troubling. His choice to offer his skills as a pilot to the Maquis, a known terrorist group responsible for the deaths of many Starfleet officers, was another.