“Slowly,” the Doctor conceded. “When a premise is impossible, looking for evidence to support it seems like a waste of time. But when nothing else seems possible . . .” The Doctor trailed off.
Chakotay watched as a strange calm settled over the Doctor’s face. It was an oddly human expression, one that in anyone else might have indicated conflicting thoughts or emotions. But human as the Doctor appeared, and despite his growth, he had always retained a few subtle “tells” that, to a familiar eye, betrayed his holographic nature.
“Doctor?”
“I’m sorry, Captain,” the Doctor said, focusing his attention again. “Was there something you needed?”
“Not really,” Chakotay admitted. “But you and I haven’t talked much since you got back.”
“Do you wish to take me to task for betraying Seven?” the Doctor asked defensively.
The walls rose so quickly, Chakotay was stunned. “No,” he said. “My understanding from the admiral was that you were ordered to turn over your records regarding Seven. You saved Axum’s life, for which I know Seven is grateful.”
“But you’re still in love with her,” the Doctor said. “Surely you blame me for her separation from the fleet.”
Chakotay leaned forward. “Doctor, Seven is a dear friend, but she hasn’t been more than that to me for years.”
Concern creased the Doctor’s brow. After a moment he said, “Of course she hasn’t. I’m sorry, Chakotay, I don’t know where that came from.”
“Doctor . . .” Chakotay began.
“Please don’t suggest I run a diagnostic,” the Doctor said. “Reg had me perform one yesterday and he was satisfied with the results.”
“Okay,” Chakotay said. “But that was weird.”
The Doctor struggled to speak for a moment. Finally he said, “It’s the strangest thing. Most of the time my program seems to be functioning normally. I sense nothing out of the ordinary. But from time to time now, my mind just wanders, as if I can’t access the appropriate subroutine or memory file as quickly as I used to.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Very,” the Doctor stated. “If I didn’t know it was impossible, I’d associate it with the normal lapses of the brain consistent with the aging process.”
“Holograms don’t age,” Chakotay pointed out.
“They usually don’t achieve sentience, either.”
Concerned, Chakotay said, “We’re in the middle of a complicated first-contact situation. You are our chief medical officer. The Galen is at the First World; if we lose you, we’re really in trouble.”
“I will monitor the situation as best I can, Chakotay,” the Doctor said. “If I believe it is affecting my ability to serve in the capacity required, I will advise you at once.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Chakotay said, rising. “You know my concern is not just professional.”
“I do,” the Doctor said. Once the captain had departed he turned back to his workstation. It was difficult to focus on the viral properties before him. Odd, random memories interrupted his normal processes: Counselor Cambridge emerging from Seven’s bedroom, Seven’s face as she—
The visual record of Seven’s face vanished, like a screen going black. As it did so, a sense of absolute calm poured through the Doctor. Once it had passed, the images of the various viruses he had been studying engrossed the Doctor completely. His concerns of only moments before, along with Chakotay’s, no longer resided in his short-term memory buffers. They vanished into long-term ones that were now veiled by a vast, dark curtain. That curtain was growing incrementally larger each day, and with it, precious experiences accumulated by his program were more difficult to access. Wrong as the Doctor knew this was, he could not bring himself to care.
There was simply too much to do.
FIRST WORLD
“Do you smell that, Lieutenant?” Commander Glenn asked.
The Galen’s tactical officer, Lieutenant Ranson Velth, took a short sniff, then followed it with a deeper inhalation. Finally he said, “What?”
“Fresh air,” Glenn said, smiling.
Velth nodded, though he might not have called the wide variety of fragrances around him “fresh.” It was, however, a vast improvement over the last five hours. In Velth’s experience, no matter what quadrant of the galaxy you were in, every hospital had its own unpleasant odor that was only made worse by some universal antiseptic solution.
Velth and Glenn had just departed the capital city’s Central Medical Service. Their tour had begun at noon, local time. Five hours later, they broke for dinner. The Starfleet officers had been invited to join the doctors and staff. The facility boasted six separate eating establishments, and Commander Glenn had been issued enough local currency to purchase anything they would have desired. But Galen’s captain had other plans, and Velth hadn’t argued. Another universal truth: Whatever consumables hospitals served, they should not be confused with food.
After thanking their guides profusely, Glenn had asked if it would be possible for her to leave the hospital grounds for dinner. She assumed that several other local eateries could be found nearby, and Glenn sincerely wanted an experience of the native cuisine.
Neurological Specialist Piron had suggested a small establishment that was famous for its vegetarian dishes. By the time he’d finished describing the signature soup, Glenn was sold. Piron had offered to escort them there but settled for giving them directions when he was called to an emergency consult. Glenn had thanked him, and she and Velth had slipped out of the hospital for a little freedom. As a tactical officer, Velth instinctively took note of their surroundings, but even after several minutes of walking he had not noted anyone following them.
Their destination was off the main thoroughfare, several blocks ahead. They walked down a wide paved sidewalk, occasionally jostled by natives, most of whom moved at a hurried pace. Some stared. A few raised small devices Velth assumed were cameras of some sort, but most settled for a nod of greeting as they passed.
The street was lined on both sides by tall edifices of metal and glass. Random small storefronts were sometimes sandwiched between them. Most bore discreet signage Velth could not read, but their window displays easily solved that problem. Glenn had paused at one offering several complicated items of clothing suspended as if in midair. Velth wondered if the commander was tempted, but she settled for a quick look before continuing.
The street side of the sidewalk was lined with tall potted plants with large blue and orange fronds forming a hedge. Beyond them, several small vehicles traveled down the main road with no discernible emissions. Exotic spices assaulted Velth briefly, their source difficult to pinpoint.
Glenn seemed to relish every step.
“You didn’t get as much downtime as the rest of us when we were home,” Velth suddenly realized.
“No,” Glenn said. “I hope you made the most of it.”
“I spent a couple of weeks with my sister and her kids,” Velth said. “I didn’t mind when we were recalled early.”
“Velth,” Glenn said, clearly offended for his sister. She punctuated her disapproval with a backhanded smack to his upper arm. Velth was a little surprised by the strength behind it. Glenn was tall and thin, but her lithe frame belied her apparent muscle tone.
“You’ve never met those kids,” Velth insisted. “They’re monsters.”
“But when you were their age, you were a perfect little angel?” Glenn teased.
“I can’t have been that bad. They run Shirin wild and they’re always at each other’s throats.”
“They’re children, Velth. That’s their job description.”
The tactical officer would have continued to argue his case had he not caught sight of what he believed was their destination. A long line of patrons extended out the small café’s front door, and several people were seated outside. Most were reveling in bowls of a deep green soup filled with large chunks of feon, a root Piron had made sound much like a sweet onion.
“This
is it,” Glenn said, turning the corner and making a beeline for the queue.
As they settled themselves behind a tall Leodt male in a stark black suit, Velth said, his voice pitched low, “Were you surprised by anything you saw this afternoon?”
“Pleasantly,” Glenn said, keeping her voice down. “Their facilities were exceptional. Their staff is well trained and professional. Their technology is obviously designed to handle the unique physiology of the species they most often treat, but I’d say, in general, it is on par with the Federation.”
“So if whatever we have for dinner doesn’t sit right, I’m in good hands?” Velth asked.
“Yes,” Glenn said. “Mine.”
“Did anything bother you?”
“Not so far,” Glenn replied, as a look of concern contorted her face. In the distance, the sound of voices raised in anger cut through the buzz of normal activity around them.
Searching automatically for the voices, Velth began to study the details of the café’s immediate surroundings. All of the businesses on this block were small storefronts. There were several carts standing before high walls offering a wide variety of fresh fruits, vegetables, flowers, and plants, and local handcrafted items. Foot traffic became congested as people moved at a more leisurely pace into the open-air market. Velth noted that most of the patrons were female, and several carried or held young children by the hand.
He was about to comment on how well behaved most of the youngsters were when several loud cracks met his ears. Velth immediately grabbed Glenn around her waist and pulled her to the nearest wall, listening for more but still unable to determine the direction from which the sounds had come.
To his surprise, none of the other patrons seemed worried by the unusual sound. They continued to eat and talk as if they hadn’t heard it.
The next sound was unmistakably bad, however. A wail of distress began to bounce off the walls around them.
“Come on,” Glenn said, weaving through the crowd outside the café and rushing toward the plaintive shriek as it grew in intensity. A single word was now clear. “Jent! Jent!” By now a few of the locals seemed curious and some started to move along with Glenn and Velth.
The market continued for several blocks. Glenn ducked onto a smaller side street, an alley between the larger buildings they had passed on their way from the hospital. A few stationary vehicles were present, most near the rear entrances to the tall towers.
Once they’d entered the alley, they had to force their way through the crowd that was forming around a Djinari woman who knelt on the ground, keening and rocking. Her back was to them as they approached, but soon enough Velth saw the source of her distress. A small figure was splayed in her lap, another Djinari, a young male.
A few meters beyond, four CIF security officers were physically restraining two young Leodt males who were gesticulating angrily at the woman and boy. The officers seemed decidedly uninterested in the woman or the gathering crowd.
“Velth, move these people back,” Glenn ordered as she knelt before the woman and said softly, “What happened?”
This only made the woman’s cries intensify, so Glenn busied herself examining the young man. A sticky whitish fluid was seeping from a large, fresh opening in his chest. His face was contorted in pain, and the short tentacles that flowed from the base of his neck moved in jerking spasms.
Glenn wasted no time. Turning to the nearest guard she shouted, “This child needs medical attention!”
The security officers did not turn to answer her call. Moments later, however, the crowd’s attention was diverted by a loud mechanical screech. A vehicle came to rest well clear of the throng, bearing the insignia of the Confederacy Medical Service.
“No!” the woman shrieked. “No, please.” She moved as if to lift the boy but was unable to carry his weight. As the medics exited the vehicle she settled for holding him tightly to her chest.
“My boy. My Jent,” she begged those surrounding her.
Velth watched as two young Djinari males, faces set in grim lines, pushed their way forward. One lifted the boy, cradling him in his arms, and the other helped the mother to her feet.
Glenn protested immediately. “What are you doing? He’s wounded. You could do serious internal damage if you move him like that.”
The two men paid her no heed. They merged into the crowd before the medics got within twenty meters of the scene.
“The medics are almost here!” Glenn shouted after them. Velth noted that these words seemed to quicken their pace.
“What the . . . ?” Velth asked of Glenn.
“With me, Lieutenant,” Glenn replied, as she began to force her way past the spectators, following those who had taken the boy and his mother.
Chapter Ten
SAN FRANCISCO
Tom Paris was surprised upon entering the mediation chamber bright and early the next morning to find Shaw already speaking quietly with Ozimat. Clancy stood on Ozimat’s other side, looking lost.
His mother looked at him with eyes of sapphire stone. Her cheeks were ruddy and her lower lip quivered visibly. Force of habit brought the question, “Mom?” from Paris’s lips.
Shaw turned immediately and called, “Commander.”
Paris moved dutifully to join Shaw, who resumed speaking to the mediator. “Under the circumstances, it is necessary that Mrs. Paris demonstrate adequate ability to care for both children.”
Ozimat glared at Shaw before nodding grudgingly. Shifting his eyes he said, “It appears congratulations are in order, Commander Paris.”
In a flash, Paris understood. Turning back to his mother, he realized that despite all she was now inflicting upon her son, she still expected that he should have been the one to tell her of the impending arrival of her first grandson. Her right hand covered her mouth, surreptitiously wiping away the tears that glistened in her eyes before they could fall.
Had Paris believed they were tears of joy, he would have gone to her, Shaw be damned.
As they weren’t, Paris simply said, “Thank you, Your Honor.”
“Is there a reason you did not inform us of this happy news until now, Commander?”
A warning glance from his counsel and the memory of two sets of strong arms carrying him over shrubbery silenced him.
“Commander Paris informed me as soon as he determined it was relevant to the proceedings,” Shaw said. “We both believed that, long before now, Mrs. Paris would have realized that her case is entirely without merit. Her persistence in continuing with this frivolous claim has forced us to formally advise Your Honor, as it is now material to the case. Naturally, Mister Paris wished to inform his mother privately that his wife is expecting again, and had his mother been more understanding of his position, he would have gladly done so. However, we must insist that she show competence and ability to provide appropriate care for her three-year-old granddaughter and an infant grandson before we continue—unless she does not intend to pursue the same claim regarding her grandson.”
Ozimat nodded. “Agreed.” Turning to Clancy, he said, “You will prepare the appropriate revisions to your client’s claim and I will instruct a case specialist to visit Mrs. Paris’s home at the earliest conceivable moment. These proceedings will stand in recess until then.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Clancy said before returning to Julia’s side and beginning to whisper in her ear.
“Gentlemen,” Ozimat said before disappearing into the room’s antechamber.
Paris followed Shaw to the entrance, only glancing back once at his mother. When they were alone outside the closed doors, he said, “Did you really have to do that?”
“Do you want custody of your children?”
Paris’s jaw clenched.
“Your mother is almost eighty years old. Caring for a child Miral’s age is one thing. Providing for her and a newborn, especially when she intends to bar him from the presence of his natural mother, is something else entirely.”
“She’ll just get help,
” Paris said.
“She can fill her house with warm, capable bodies,” Shaw said, “but proving that they are a better choice than you and B’Elanna is a tall order, given that your wife hasn’t ever physically harmed you, herself, or Miral, nor demonstrated neglect. The court doesn’t like to take children away from their parents, especially newborns, nor is it likely to separate siblings.”
When Paris didn’t respond, Shaw said, “Plus it might give her second thoughts. All this time, she’s only considered caring for Miral. Adding a newborn to the equation might make her reconsider.”
Paris shook his head slowly. Finally he said, “You really don’t know my mom. The only thing she ever wanted more than a grandchild was a grandson.”
Seven did not know how long she had been resting in Axum’s arms. She had floated for some time beneath a star-filled sky on a warm, crystal sea. Eventually her feet found solid ground and she began to make her way lazily toward the shore. There were no waves to force her forward. With each step, the water receded until she found herself nestled beside Axum. They were alone on the patio. A long, low chaise with its back tilted upward held them both. The sky above was filled with dark clouds that hid the stars.
She was pleasantly warm. Lifting her face, she saw Axum staring down at her. His eyes had lost their ghosts. This was as close to happy as she had ever seen him.
Seven tried to pull herself up, but Axum said softly, “Please.”
She searched for the will to refuse him. She was still looking when he asked, “How is your hand?”
Memory of the pain returned, but nothing more.
“Better,” she said.
Axum nodded.
“Has this happened to you since you’ve been here?” Seven asked.
“No.”
“Did you call for medical assistance?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I already knew that you were recovering.”
Seven shifted her shoulders to meet his eyes on a more even plane.
“How did you know?” she demanded.
Axum looked away. “I promised never to enter your mind without your consent, and I did not mean to do so. But the moment you cried out, I found myself sharing your thoughts. I did not feel your pain. I watched as it took you and released you, and I saw your catoms moving to repair what had been done.” After a moment, he added, “I am sorry.”
Star Trek: Voyager - 043 - Acts of Contrition Page 16
