Atonement (54 page)

“Did the counselor suggest you speak to me?”

“No. Why would he . . .”

“I'm sorry, that was unfair,” the Doctor said quickly.

A brief silence followed during which the Doctor calculated the odds that anything short of the truth would result in Seven departing his office in the next several hours.

Once those calculations were done, he began to speak. He told her what Lewis Zimmerman had done when confronted with his concerns regarding Seven's relationship with the counselor. He explained the initial modifications his creator had made to his program and the enhancements Lieutenant Barclay had added after he had been damaged by Xolani's first attempt to hijack his program. He confirmed that in banishing Xolani,
he had lost many essential memories of their past relationship forever. He admitted that while he understood that this course of events had been predicated upon his deep affection for her, it was no longer possible for him to
feel
as he once had, given the fact that those feelings could not be supported in the absence of the contextual data he had lost. He expressed regret but assured her that he had made peace with his choice.

Seven listened in silence, asking only a few pertinent questions. When she seemed confident that she had grasped the magnitude of what had transpired, she asked, “If you could somehow restore those lost memories, would you do it?”

“I can't,” the Doctor said flatly.

“Then you do not wish to remember?”

“I do, but . . .”

“The first real memory I have of you after you had removed as many of my Borg implants as possible, I was standing in the cargo bay. I had just completed a lengthy regeneration cycle. You stood before me, describing the modifications you had made to my hair and eyes.”

The Doctor smiled. He didn't remember.

“You were so pleased with yourself,” Seven said. “I immediately respected your sense of self-assurance. You were not plagued with the same fears and doubts as the others I had met. It was refreshing.”

The Doctor allowed this moment, this new memory in the process of being created, this experience he would relive in the future in perfect clarity, to settle into his permanent long-term memory files.

VESTA

I
n honor
of the full fleet's return, Neelix had invited the senior officers of all four fleet vessels to join his family for dinner on the second night of their stay.

Admiral Janeway planned to attend, but found it impossible to leave her quarters. Less than an hour ago, Tom Paris had brought her a gift from home. It leaned against her desk, enclosed in a large, hard rectangular case. She had been unable to tear her eyes away from it since Paris had departed.

Her concentration was broken when the chime to her quarters sounded. “Enter,” she called.

Captain Chakotay did as she had commanded.

“You're already late for dinner,” he chided her gently.

“I know,” she sighed. “Go ahead without me.”

Chakotay moved to sit beside her on the sofa situated perpendicular to her desk and followed her gaze until his came to rest on the unusual black case.

“What is that?” he asked.

“A gift,” she replied, “from my sister.”

“Are you going to open it?”

“Someday.”

“Did your conversation with Admiral Akaar and President Bacco go well?” Chakotay asked, clearly searching for a more understandable explanation for her present detachment.

“It did,” she said, tearing her eyes from the case and resettling herself beside him to look up into his eyes. “I was commended by both of them for our work with the Confederacy as well as the deportment of our officers in the Alpha Quadrant. I know I probably shouldn't take all the credit for their ingenuity, but I did anyway,” she teased.

“You
can take the credit. I don't need it,” he assured her, smiling broadly.

“Ken Montgomery resigned.”

“Not of his own accord, I hope,” Chakotay said, his smile fading. “He didn't deserve an escape hatch.”

“Akaar would never say, but I don't believe it was Ken's choice.”

“Either way, Starfleet is well rid of him.”

“He wasn't a bad man, Chakotay.”

“No, he just did bad things. You're not sorry?”

Janeway shook her head. “No. But we are now under Admiral Akaar's direct supervision.”

“Good.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. This mission is vital to Starfleet's interests. I'm glad they finally realized it.” When she nodded thoughtfully, he asked, “What were their orders regarding Lsia and the other Seriareen we've retrieved from the asteroid field?”

“I advised them that several of my officers had suggested that we destroy the canisters, but I did not concur with the recommendation.”

“Why not?”

“They're a menace, but they're also a unique sentient life-form.”

“They're also a threat to our safety.”

“We'll keep the containment canisters in storage behind an anti-psionic field. The next ship in our fleet that has cause to return to the Alpha Quadrant will transport them back and Starfleet will take custody of them.”

“And do what?”

“Put them someplace where they can't threaten anyone until such time as we have the ability to safely study them further.”

“Works for me,” Chakotay said.

Janeway returned her gaze to the case.

“Come to dinner,” he suggested.

“I'm not all that hungry.”

“Neelix would be devastated if you missed it, Kathryn.”

“I
know,” she agreed, “but even if I go, I won't
be
there.”

“Then open it. How bad could it possibly be?”

“You don't know my sister.”

“I've seen her angry.”

“Yes, but have you ever seen what she does with her anger? She can do more damage with a paintbrush than I've ever done with a phaser.”

“You argued before you left. She never said goodbye. Maybe this is her way of doing that.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

“Since when are you afraid of anything?”

“You're not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope.”

Resigned, Janeway crossed back to her desk and lifted the case onto its surface. Steeling herself, she carefully unhooked the clasps on the side of the case and opened it. Her breath caught in her throat at the image her sister had captured in heavy, textured brush strokes and vivid, rich colors.

The night sky was alive with moving stars. The trunk and branches of the tree were lit by a bright, full moon. The tiny willow leaves glistened like diamonds. Two figures, caught near the end of their childhood, sat atop a low-hanging, sturdy branch. The larger of the two was ephemeral, indistinct, and held the smaller in a protective embrace. The smaller one was more vivid, an almost photo-realistic image of Phoebe. Her face was etched with wonder as she gazed up at the night sky.

“That's gorgeous,” Chakotay observed softly.

Janeway nodded, unwilling to risk speaking. Finally, she removed the canvas from its case and, holding it before her, moved to the wall across from her desk. A short utility shelf rested there, and Janeway placed the painting atop it, leaning against the wall. She then crossed back to sit on the front of her desk and continued to stare at it.

Chakotay moved closer to examine it. In the lower left corner he could barely make out the initials “PRJ.” In the lower right hand corner two words were inscribed.

“Is that the title?” Chakotay asked, puzzling over it.

Janeway
nodded. “
At Onement
.”

“Where is
Onement
?” Chakotay asked.

“It's not a place,” Janeway clarified. “It's a state of being.” After a few more minutes of silent contemplation, she said, “We should go.”

Chakotay extended an arm for her to take. She moved toward him, then hesitated. “We're late. If we arrive together, arm-in-arm, people will talk.”

Chakotay turned slightly, lowering his face to hers, and kissed her tenderly. As their lips parted he whispered, “Let them.”

Kathryn's eyes locked with his. She nodded faintly with a mischievous smile. Threading her arm through his, they departed her quarters as one.

Were such things possible, I would have this novel arrested for attempted murder. When I began this process, the story I had in mind seemed too big for one book. Turns out, it was probably too big for three. It began with a question. I hoped in the writing of it to find the answers I need to make my life a little more bearable. With the help of these characters who have made their home in my brain for many years now, I found a few. Not as many as I'd hoped for, but it was a big question, and I remain a work in progress.

It wouldn't have happened without my editors, Margaret Clark and Ed Schlesinger; my agent, Maura; my friends, who know who they are by now; my family, whose patience apparently knows no bounds; my fellow authors, particularly Una McCormack; and as always, my David and my Anorah, who make my life worth living.

This book is dedicated with awe, humility, and deep respect to Colonel Catherine “Cady” Coleman (retired), astronaut, scientist, and inspiration.

I hope she remembers why, because I'll never forget.

Kirsten Beyer is the author of eight of the last
Star Trek: Voyager
novels released by Pocket Books. Between the first and second, she wrote an
Alias
novel and the final novel ever written for
Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
She has also written a few short stories and articles, most about
Star Trek
, and a few original screenplays, not about
Trek
.

She does not have a website, a blog, a Facebook page, nor does she Tweet. Those wishing to find her online should check out the literature section on the TrekBBS. She looks forward to establishing a more robust presence on the internet—just as soon as she figures out how to write faster or discovers more than twenty-four hours in each day.

Kirsten received undergraduate degrees in English Literature and Theater Arts. She also received a master's degree from UCLA. She never intended to use her education to pursue a career as a novelist. But, apparently, somebody up there had different plans.

Right now, she's writing the next
Voyager
novel. When she's not writing, she tries to extract every last drop of happiness she can from her life as a wife, a mother, a daughter, and a friend.

For now, she has no complaints.

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ISBN 978-1-4767-9081-7

ISBN 978-1-4767-9083-1 (ebook)