The young man appeared accustomed to the procedures. He was opening and closing his right hand and massaging his upper right arm. The nurse affixed one end of the tube to an opening on Jent’s IV line and returned to the donor’s side. After locating the vein she wanted, she punctured it with the needle. Once the flow of blood had been established, she nodded to Kwer and departed.
“Lieutenant,” Glenn said, capturing Velth’s attention and handing him a small cloth. “Hold this here—firm pressure, but not too hard,” she ordered, placing the cloth over another leak.
“Aye, Doctor.”
Counselor Hugh Cambridge was bored beyond belief. For any student of comparative mythology, a firsthand experience of an alien culture’s religious observations should have been fascinating. The Confederacy’s notions of the Source, however, were simply too new, too young, to touch the deeper mysteries of existence, let alone shed any light on them. These worshippers remained mired in the literal. They accepted without question the existence of the Source and, like Cambridge’s ancient ancestors who believed the sun rose and set around them, saw themselves as the Source’s chosen people.
Someday, he hoped, legions of skeptics would rise to challenge the authority, the very existence, of this Source. For a culture this technologically advanced to retreat from a scientific explanation for the existence of the streams was to willfully court ignorance. Inevitably, someone would be brave enough to question this acceptance, and at that point, assuming they survived the upheavals of religious adolescence, the true spiritual benefits of devotion might finally be open to them.
Faith was not a crime. Blind obedience should be. Too many years wasted in strict adherence to fabricated laws could damn a religion to oblivion. Only those that moved past such things, toward transcendental experiences of individual and communal awareness, had any hope of surviving or guiding their followers toward wisdom. Many humanoid cultures had flourished in the light of such practices. It didn’t make them any more “true” than anyone else’s. The path toward one’s center was irrelevant. But it did bind communities together and, usually, by minimizing internal noise, had the added benefit of forcing people’s attention outward toward the needs of their fellows.
Cambridge was momentarily distracted by movement over his right shoulder. A long line of pregnant women had assembled in the center aisle, and they were making their way slowly toward the stage on which the celebrant spoke.
“You have received the greatest gift the Source can bestow, the gift of new life growing inside you. Every life the Source has blessed us with is essential to its purpose. Every mother, a reflection of its perfection. Enter the ceremonial stream and allow its waters to renew you and the children you will bear.”
One by one, the women descended into a small pool sunk into the stage. They emerged from a stairway at the water’s far end and returned to their seats via the side aisles.
“The Source protects you. The Source gives you strength.”
Does the Source also provide towels? Cambridge wondered, imagining how much more annoying this service would be if he were forced to endure it with soaked feet and pants.
Peering closer into the wound, Glenn saw small pieces of metal glistening against Jent’s greenish flesh. The wound was not as deep as she had first suspected. The shrapnel was embedded in a layer of thick flesh just below his thoracic cage.
“What did this?” Glenn asked. “What sort of weapon was used?”
“A volvent,” Kwer replied.
“It fires projectiles of some kind?”
“Projectiles?”
“It’s not an energy-based weapon? It does not fire light?” Glenn asked.
“Source, no,” Kwer said, shaking her head. “Do you have any idea what those cost? The kid with the thin skin and quick trigger finger who did this could never afford a disruptor.”
Glancing toward the donor, Glenn noted his head beginning to weave a bit. “Help him,” she ordered Velth, who seemed only too happy to remove his hands from Jent’s chest and, after peeling off the sealant, placed them on the donor’s shoulders to steady him.
“You don’t have a ready supply of blood for your patients?” Glenn asked.
“Of course we do,” Kwer said as she gently lifted a large piece of metal from the wound and dropped it in a small basin on the tray. “They usually start lining up in the middle of the night. It’s the most honest day’s bread most of them will ever earn.”
“They are . . .” Glenn struggled to remember the word. “Non . . .” she began.
“Nonszit—nonproductive members of society,” Kwer said.
“There’s no work for them?”
“None that they are educated well enough to do.”
“Aren’t there schools?”
“Sure. If you can afford them. Poverty tends to run in families, though.”
Glenn shook her head in disbelief.
“What does your Federation do with those who can’t earn their keep?” Kwer asked.
It seemed cruel, with her hands buried in Jent’s chest, to tell Kwer the truth: In the Federation, there’s no such thing.
By the time the singing began, Lieutenant Lasren had been forced to close his mind to the congregation. Hundreds of voices around him were lifted in joyful praise of the Source. Beatific faces gazed in adoration at the central mural. The sounds reverberated around him, clear and strong.
Unable to breathe, Lasren excused himself and sought the cold air of the night.
Kwer had finally extracted all of the visible shrapnel and begun to close the wound. Glenn’s fingers were unaccustomed to the task. No Federation surgeon in hundreds of years had closed a wound so crudely. But Glenn dutifully folded Jent’s flesh together as Kwer’s deft stitches followed her lead.
Three centimeters remained to close when Jent’s body began to buck violently.
“What’s happening?”
“What do you think?” Kwer said bitterly. “We’re losing him. Release the donor,” she said.
Glenn quickly pulled the line from Jent as Kwer interlocked her hands on top of one another and began compressions just above the wound.
Glenn then removed the needle from the donor’s arm and ordered Velth to keep pressure on it. Turning back to Kwer, she saw beads of perspiration flowing freely from her forehead. Her tendrils had retracted and they stuck out stiffly behind her as she continued to try and restart Jent’s heart.
Jent’s golden skin had faded to an ashy white when Kwer finally relented. Stepping back, she struggled to catch her breath, running the back of her hand over her forehead.
“That’s it,” she said, her voice thick.
Though the muscles of her back and shoulders were now knit into very small, tight knots, Glenn lifted herself as best she could and said, “Time of death?”
“What difference does it make?” Kwer said, peeling off her sealant and stepping around Velth toward the doorway.
“You did everything you could, Doctor,” Glenn said. “I can attest to that.”
“No one will care,” Kwer assured her.
Velth suddenly found his voice. “Why did this happen?”
“What?” Kwer asked.
“Why did this happen?” Velth asked again, his eyes glistening.
“He’d already lost too much blood by the time he got here,” Glenn began.
“No, Commander,” Velth said, staring hard at Kwer. “Why does a boy this age, living five blocks from a perfectly good, technologically advanced, incredibly well-supplied hospital, get shot by two other boys for no reason and die here?”
Kwer shrugged. “Maybe they were bored. Maybe Jent looked at them strangely. Maybe they just wanted to see what would happen. They’re children who no one took the time to teach better.” Stepping outside the partition, the weary doctor shouted, “Who’s next?”
Janeway knew that there were worse ways to spend a few hours than quiet contemplation. She had used the time to separate in her mind the many conflicting impre
ssions she had received thus far about the Confederacy and its people. Evidence mounted with each encounter suggesting Janeway should abandon any hope for a diplomatic alliance. The benefits were undeniable, but so were the differences between the Confederacy and the Federation. The admiral sought clarity, the quiet acceptance she had relearned over the last several months in her mother’s garden. Sadly, it eluded her.
After thanking the presider for the invitation to the service, she, Decan, and Cambridge moved toward their security officers in preparation for the short walk to their waiting shuttle. She saw Psilakis standing beside Lasren. Psilakis was all but holding the young Betazoid up.
“Get him to the shuttle, now,” Janeway ordered.
“Is there a problem?” the presider asked over Janeway’s shoulder.
“No, Presider,” Janeway assured her. “But it has been a long day and it’s time we all got some rest.”
“It is well earned,” Cin said warmly. “I look forward to our next meeting.”
“As do I,” Janeway said.
Once inside the shuttle, Janeway moved to Cambridge’s side. Lasren’s unnaturally pale face was all she needed to order the shuttle to lift off immediately and make best possible speed back to the Galen. The counselor ran a medical tricorder over Lasren. Cambridge’s expression assured her that, though obviously weak, the young man was in no immediate danger.
Turning to Psilakis, Janeway asked, “Did he say anything to you?”
Psilakis shook his head. “A little. By the time I got to him he just mumbled something about nothing.”
“What did he say exactly?” Cambridge asked.
“He said, ‘There’s nothing there. Nothing there,’ ” Psilakis replied.
TWELFTH LAMONT
Lieutenant Harry Kim had learned a great deal in the two days he had spent aboard the Twelfth Lamont. He had learned that, outside of the subspace corridors, most CIF vessels could barely make warp five. He had begun to grasp the rank designations within the CIF. A “J” indicated a junior level, or the lowest of three possible iterations of privates, corporals, majors, or colonels. An “E” was the midlevel or executive designation. There were separate prefixes for generals, “Ranking” being the second highest.
He had learned that JC Eleoate didn’t have many friends aboard but that many of the E-level officers had a regular loks tournament they played during their off hours. He had learned that Confederacy sidearms were so destructive that similar weapons had long since been banned within the Federation.
Most disturbing, he had learned that the protectors who had saved Voyager and Demeter from an alien armada and brought them safely to Confederacy space had not been lost due to the enemy fire they had absorbed, nor destroyed by the CIF. Only one possibility remained but it was difficult for Kim to understand, let alone accept.
“What are you afraid of, Lieutenant?” General Mattings asked as Lieutenant Kim paused before bringing the milky blue liquid to his lips.
Kim was afraid that the substance his nose suggested would taste like rotting eggs would come flying out of his mouth the moment he took a sip. Of course, he couldn’t say that out loud.
“Nothing, sir,” Kim said gamely. Inhaling briskly he steeled himself, but the worst never came. The pianjay juice had a bite to it, like most Confederacy dishes Harry had tasted, but the surprising cream that carried it down smoothed out the rough edges nicely. He had taken a second sip before he could help himself. “That’s delicious.”
The general’s teeth jutted forward in a smile. “I told you.”
“Why does it smell like that?” Kim asked.
“Like what?” Mattings asked innocently.
“Nothing, sir,” Kim replied.
Mattings dropped his chin, clearly disappointed. He’d invited Kim to dinner and probed gently throughout the meal for the Starfleet officer’s thoughts on his ship and crew.
“It smells like dead lunfis,” Mattings corrected him. “My nose may not be as big as yours but it works just fine, Lieutenant Kim. The stench is part of the pianjay’s natural defenses. If their secretion smelled as good as it tastes, they’d never have survived this long.”
“I’m sorry, General,” Kim said. “I didn’t want to give offense.”
“The truth never offends me, son. Polite lies, on the other hand, bother me a great deal.”
“Me too, sir,” Kim said, surprised by the ease with which this truth slipped out.
Leaning forward over the table they shared in the general’s private dining area, Mattings said, “I believe that your people and mine could learn from one another. Over the years, the Confederacy has admitted worlds to our union that shared almost nothing of our customs or values. They brought other resources, but little that made integration worth the pain and struggle. It’s not for me to question the choices of our leaders.”
“Of course, General,” Kim said, nodding.
“But your people are different. You seem genuinely interested, not just in what we have, but in who we are. You are respectful, curious, intelligent, and incredibly accomplished. However, you don’t brag about it. I know that many of your technological developments surpass ours. You wouldn’t have made it from your home to the First Quadrant if they didn’t. I’m certain that, for all our scans, we know next to nothing about your true capabilities. What I can’t figure out is why you’re hiding so much from us.”
The tactical officer considered his words carefully before he responded. “If your fear is that we are attempting to lull you into complacency, we aren’t,” Kim said. “The Federation has learned the hard way, time and again, that the differences between cultures must be respected. That respect is the basis of our Prime Directive. As best I can tell, you possess technologies and resources that are beyond ours. But the Federation never wants our differences to become points of conflict. Above all, we work for peace, understanding, and, when possible, exchange of new ideas and technology.”
“But that’s all well above your pay grade, right?” the general asked.
Kim smiled. “We don’t get paid.”
The general’s face fell. “Beg pardon?”
“When we interact with cultures that utilize currency for exchange of goods or services, we are issued whatever is appropriate to fulfill our missions. We receive no compensation for our duties beyond that. All of our day-to-day needs are met.”
“By whom?”
“By the Federation as a whole,” Kim replied. “Long ago, many of our member worlds had economic systems similar to yours. Some still retain vestiges of them. Everyone within the Federation has access to all the basic necessities, and anything beyond that they desire, there are ways to acquire.”
“If you don’t work to acquire life’s necessities, why do you work?” the general asked.
“There are a lot of hours to fill in a day,” Kim replied. “We do what interests us, what our skills make us fit to do. We serve our fellows and are served in return. We rise in rank, or status, not by what we have acquired but by the skills we have mastered and our personal accomplishments.”
The general absorbed this quietly. Finally, he shook his head. “I can’t imagine it. But if you have everything you need, and are free to spend your days doing whatever you wish, what are you doing here?”
“Exploring,” Kim replied.
“To what end? You don’t need us. You don’t need our resources, our people, or our territory. Why risk your lives just to satisfy your curiosity?”
“What else is there?” Kim asked.
“Home, safety, security, good food, the companionship of wise men and willing women, and that’s just off the top of my head,” the general replied.
Kim smiled in spite of himself. “I have all that and I still get to spend each day learning new things.”
The general nodded somberly. After another sip of pianjay he asked, “You’ve seen our engines, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir. EC Beeve walked me through the specs this morning.”
&n
bsp; “Just how far behind your Federation are we in terms of propulsion?”
Chakotay had already advised Kim that Mattings had seen their slipstream drive in use, so he knew to tread carefully.
“It’s hard to say.”
“Try. Best guess. I won’t hold you to it.”
“Twenty, maybe thirty years,” Kim replied truthfully.
Mattings chuckled. “I would have guessed fifty.”
Kim shrugged. “If you lost your ability to access the streams tomorrow, it might be ten. Civilizations tend to focus their efforts where they are needed most. Your engines do exactly what you need them to do, and will until you need them to do more.”
“Does the same go for our weapons?”
Kim sighed. “I haven’t seen the specs on those, General.”
“You’ve seen the Lamont in battle, and as head of your ship’s security, you memorized every word of those sensor reports as soon as you had them,” Mattings countered.
“I did,” Kim said.
“And?”
“I’ll say this,” Kim began. “The capacity of your energy weapons and the yields of your standard torpedoes surpass anything we would consider useful.”
“You went up against the Borg and you can still say that with a straight face?” Mattings demanded.
“Force and size aren’t everything,” Kim replied. “Sometimes more is just more. That’s not all you need to get the job done. With the Borg, we had to constantly redesign every aspect of our offensive and defensive capabilities. Their power came from the ability to adapt. We survived those encounters because we were always able to find new ways to get past them.” As Mattings considered this, Kim said, “Mind if I ask you a question, General?”
“Please.”
“All of your men carry sidearms, on and off duty.”
“That’s not a question.”
“They don’t have a stun setting.”
“What’s that?”
Star Trek: Voyager - 043 - Acts of Contrition Page 21
