Atonement (25 page)

“Commander Paris,” Frist demanded, “has Seven contacted you in the last three days?”

“No,” Paris lied. If Frist was toying with him, his goose was already cooked and on the table. But if Briggs had decided to keep her in the dark, Paris dared not risk directing her toward the light switch just yet.

“Should she make contact, you are hereby ordered to advise me immediately. If I learn that you have or obtain knowledge of her whereabouts and do not report them immediately, you will be subject to disciplinary action, including a possible court-martial.”

Finally, Paris understood.

This was not Doctor Frist interrogating him. This was Commander Briggs
using
Frist to send him a message. He knew about the runabout. He knew he had lost access to both Seven and his catomic goldmine. Seven had frustrated his plans, and he was now altering the terms of their agreement. This wasn't even a warning shot. Seven had fired the first volley and the Commander was returning it in kind.

Poor Doctor Frist probably had no idea that her job over the past year had really been to act as cover for Briggs. In a way, that was a good thing. Paris sincerely hoped that when the list of names of the officers complicit in Briggs's transgressions was finalized, it would be short. He was not so fond of Frist that he worried overmuch about her presence on that list. But he continued to hold out hope that the vast majority of those connected with this project were not willingly debasing themselves
or their oaths to Starfleet by knowingly assisting Briggs in egregious unethical behavior.

“You can count on my full cooperation, Doctor,” Paris advised her.

“I expect nothing less, Commander,” Frist said.

“Is there anything else?”

“Not at this time.”

Paris left her office swiftly, his thoughts racing. He could no longer risk following Seven to Indiana, for Gretchen Janeway's sake as much as Seven's. But Seven needed to know how quickly the rules of the game were changing. Sharak and Wildman had not reported in for several days. He could have used their help but had no idea when they might return. Gres and Naomi had promised not to get in touch unless they were taken into custody, and Paris dared not cast any further suspicion on them by making contact. The risk to the career of any other officer he tried to bring into their conspiracy was too great. Who else could he ask?

Only one person came to mind.

ALDEBARAN

Lieutenant Samantha Wildman was hardly a crack shot, but the combination of adrenaline and fear of imminent death focused her thoughts and steadied her arm.

She couldn't see her attacker, but the shots she was evading were only coming from one place: the farthest, darkest corner of the room. Using the tables for cover and cursing her need of the biohazard suit, Wildman continued to fire, advancing toward the shooter.

What felt like hours but was actually only a few seconds later, a sharp cry met Wildman's ears, followed by silence. Wary of a ruse, Wildman called out, “Doctor, scan the room for life signs.”

Her eyes remained glued to the corner of the room, but she heard Sharak shuffle back to the entrance.

“One life sign, seriously injured,” Sharak finally reported.

“Get behind me,”
Wildman said, and once he had joined her, they made their way with slow, deliberate steps toward the corner. They were still a few meters away, just beyond a standard medical diagnostic table, when her beacon illuminated their quarry.

She was seated on the floor attempting to curl herself into a fetal position, her face wracked with pain.

The pain was not shocking to see. What halted Wildman in her tracks was the woman's face.

She was Ria's identical twin.

Much of her exposed flesh was a deep shade of purple, but it was generously covered with swirling black lines.

“Show me your hands,” Wildman ordered.

The woman lifted her eyes to Wildman's. With effort, she raised her empty right hand and swept it forward, readjusting herself against the wall. The phaser she had fired was on the floor, not far from what should have been her left hand. But her left hand, her entire left arm, and much of her left shoulder were gone.

Wildman had set her phaser at its highest stun setting. Even a direct hit should not have caused the damage she was seeing.

As Doctor Sharak stepped closer to examine her, Wildman played her beacon farther into the corner, and her stomach revolted at the sight of the severed arm resting near the wall. It was more densely blackened, but its fingers continued to move. They appeared to be seeking to climb the wall.

“What is your name?” Sharak asked kindly.

The woman coughed, spat a thick pink glob of something to the floor beside her, and fought for each breath. Undeterred, Sharak said, “Help me.”

Wildman understood and quickly pocketed her phaser so she could assist the doctor in lifting the woman to the diagnostic table.

Once she was settled, the doctor began to search the nearby tables and drawers.

“What are you looking for?” Wildman asked.

“Anything
I can give her for the pain,” Sharak replied.

“No,” the woman murmured.

“Why not?” Sharak asked, returning to her side.

“Interfere . . . with healing,” she managed.

Sharak nodded. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

The woman seemed to study his face for a moment.

“Jefferson?” she asked.

“I am Doctor Sharak,” he replied. “What is your name?”

The woman's eyes closed, though her ragged breathing continued.

A faint scratching sound Wildman could not place nagged at her, but she turned her attention to the rest of the room. Between her and the door were three large biometric chambers. All were filled with a bluish fluid, and each contained life-forms at different developmental stages. One was only a few inches long and looked like a small tadpole. The second was the size of a young child with dark hair that already reached her shoulders. The third appeared to be fully grown and, again, identical to Ria.

Wildman moved to a terminal near the chambers and activated it. There were no security measures in place. She quickly located the controls and began to navigate through a treasure trove of data.

“Her name is Anari,” Wildman advised Sharak. “And these are her . . .”

“Sisters,” Anari offered.

Wildman didn't need to ask if the woman was a Planarian. The data before her confirmed her species as well as the developmental progress of six others who had been “grown” within this lab. Despite the fact that Anari's creation was a violation of Starfleet's long-standing ban on eugenics, Wildman could not deny her fascination. She could easily spend the next several weeks studying the information on this terminal and the rest of her life marveling at this amazing species.

She could find no immediate references to Commander Briggs, but Anari had already spoken his name. If she survived, she could testify to the link between them.

“Amazing,”
Wildman heard Sharak say.

“I know,” Wildman added.

“You must see this, Lieutenant.”

Wildman moved back to Sharak's side. He had found the controls for a bright overhead light, and it now cast its harsh glow over the exam table. Even with her naked eyes, Wildman could see the black flesh where Anari's arm had been severed beginning to sprout new pink replacement tissue. Anari's face had relaxed, and she seemed to have fallen into a deep sleep.

“We need to contact someone,” Sharak said.

“We will,” Wildman assured him. Turning back, she noted the presence of several small cases on the table between her and the biometric containers. All were marked with the insignia of the Benevolent Daughters Hospital.

Wildman carefully released the locking mechanism on the first and lifted the lid. Within it rested a single hypospray. A small display panel embedded in the interior lid was activated and quickly displayed the status of the hypo's contents. As soon as she read it, Wildman stepped back involuntarily.

“We have the plague,” she advised Sharak.

He turned and studied the case just as she had. Finally, he stepped forward and carefully closed the case's lid.

“We have more than that,” Sharak noted. “We have everything we require to expose Commander Briggs.”

Wildman nodded, wondering at the sudden silence in the room. Anari continued to regenerate. The biometric tanks emitted a low hum, as did the light above the diagnostic table.

The scratching sound,
Wildman realized. It had finally, mercifully ceased.

Sharak had moved to the opposite side of the bed and was inspecting Anari's regenerative progress more closely while simultaneously scanning her with their tricorder. A shadow of movement over his shoulder caught Wildman's attention. Once again, she lifted her wrist beacon.

The arm that had rested on the floor near Anari was now hanging by its fingers from a control panel embedded a meter and a
half up the wall. Three fingers held it in place as two others played over the active buttons lighting the panel.

A soft, regular alarm began to sound. The shift in the color of the display from green to red suggested that the low beeping sound should be taken as a warning.

Wildman swallowed her disgust and moved toward the panel. Small digital numbers were displayed and were counting backward from two minutes and fifty-one seconds.

“Doctor!” Wildman shouted as she turned and roughly grabbed the back of Sharak's suit.

“Samantha, what are you—” he blurted as the tricorder in his hands fell to the floor.

“Run!” she shouted over him, forcing him around the side of the diagnostic bed and toward the room's only exit.

INDIANA

For the past twenty hours, Gretchen and Phoebe had sat an exhausting vigil. After returning from the willow tree to the relative normalcy of the kitchen, Phoebe had refused to leave her mother's home until Seven awoke from whatever state she had entered.

Between tirades against her sister and Starfleet, Phoebe had retreated to her father's office and begun a search of Federation records on exotic alien meditative practices. So far, nothing explained what they were witnessing.

Both had nearly jumped out of their skins when the front doorbell rang. With Phoebe at her heels, Gretchen had answered the door, only to greet a completely unexpected visitor.

“Julia?”

“Hello, Mrs. Janeway. I'm sorry to disturb your dinner hour, but I'm afraid I have come on urgent business. May I come in?” Julia Paris asked.

Gretchen nodded wordlessly, stepping back to allow the old acquaintance to enter her home. Only then did Julia see Phoebe. “Miss Janeway, isn't it?” she asked, extending her hand.

“Yes, Mrs. Paris,”
Phoebe replied, returning the gesture and shaking Julia's hand firmly.

“The artist?”

“Yes.”

Julia's polite façade remained firmly in place, but a hint of steel tinged her voice as she said, “It is urgent I speak with your guest. Is she still here?”

“You mean Seven?” Phoebe asked.

Julia looked to Gretchen in a way that made her wonder if there was some special protocol that the parents or spouses of Starfleet officers were expected to observe that she had forgotten.

“Do you and your daughter understand that no one else should be made aware of Seven's presence here?” Julia demanded.

“We do,” Gretchen began.

Phoebe quickly responded over her, “Why not? Surely no one sent here by my sainted sister would ever be involved in any activities that would bring shame to her family or put them in any danger.”

“Phoebe, please.”

“Phoebe,” Julia began calmly, “has Seven shared with you the reasons for her visit?”

“Of course not. She's like everyone else in Starfleet. She does whatever she wants, and the rest of us are expected to stand by and live with the consequences.”

“Phoebe, that's not fair,” Gretchen chided her.

“When are you going to stop defending her?” Phoebe demanded.

“Who? Seven?” Julia asked.

“Kathryn,” Phoebe replied. “She invited Seven here, and now we're trying to figure out who we should contact.”

“You will contact no one,” Julia ordered. “I came here to speak with Seven, and once she has heard my message, I am certain she will return with me. You will forget any inconvenience her visit might have occasioned and go on with your lives as if she had never been here. If you are questioned about her presence here by anyone, including Starfleet, you will feign ignorance. Seven's
life and the lives of many whom Kathryn holds dear depend upon your silence. Surely that is not too much to ask from her family.”

“Of course it isn't, Julia,” Gretchen insisted. “Phoebe wouldn't do anything to hurt Kathryn or her friends.”

Julia's appraising glance rested on Phoebe for a long moment. Finally, she said, “Phoebe Janeway, you come from a family that has given Starfleet and the Federation some of its brightest lights. Your father and your sister dedicated their lives to securing yours and mine. But for their efforts, and those of thousands like them who choose to stand between us and the darkness, we would not be here having this conversation. We would long ago have fallen to any number of hostile forces determined to exterminate our way of life. You must never doubt this.”

Phoebe started to retort, but Julia continued, “Spare me your selfish prattling about how much you have suffered. Your father and sister died serving the greater good. Powers beyond comprehension returned your sister to us. The only appropriate response is gratitude, and the only acceptable action is your continued support.”

Julia paused, shaking her head. “I know how easy it is to forget that when you are in pain. Don't allow that pain to guide you. Don't make mistakes for which you might never have the opportunity to atone.” Turning back to Gretchen, she said, “Where is Seven?”