Chapters 31-35

Chapter 31

The investigation into Larem took three weeks, and I was surprised that a substantial amount of evidence confirmed that he, indeed, had been smuggling Nulrek in order to manipulate the Federation into feeling a closer affinity to the Cardassians. And while evidence pointed to several Cardassian citizens, none were in the Obsidian Order, which the state of Cardassia clearly and categorically denied existed on Cardassia anymore. But, the Prime Legate assured the Federation, those private citizens’ dastard conspiracy would be harshly punished by their free and fairly elected civilian government.

To this day I remain unsatisfied. I was not privy to the investigation, so I cannot say whether the evidence was robust enough or not. I followed the trial beyond my own testimony, and while the physical evidence was all convincing on the surface, I could easily contrive in my mind a complex conspiracy of Cardassian subterfuge that undermined everything.

To this day Larem is in jail and, I presume, Lena is free and piloting her ship, and I do not know whether this was a just outcome or not. I probably never will.

I was the star witness in the case and I told the entire truth. I also tried to make it clear that I had doubts and uncertainties about the story; I tried my best to get the jury to think about the various ways that Cardassians can and do distort reality. But in the end, Larem was sentenced to nine years in prison without the possibility of parole.

And my life changed in just about every way imaginable.

Once the scourge of the authoritarians and top brass, I had redeemed myself. I hadn’t exactly saved the Federation from an existential risk, but I had definitely stopped a plot that could have had horrendous consequences, including a possible war and the deaths of thousands. I was honored, as not just this conspiracy and the drug ring around it was shut down, but Starfleet was equipped to ensure a similar kind of infiltration would never happen.

And I was promoted.

Lieutenant Commander Jason Li became the Chief of Staff to the General Prosecutor of the Federation. No longer a scourge of the top brass--I was the top brass.

It had been an infuriating way to get to where I needed to be, but finally I could do what now was the only thing on my mind. Getting Janeway investigated and prosecuted had been important before, because she had murdered a unique individual. Now it wasn’t just my way of avenging a murder--it was a path to self-redemption, just in case I had enabled a thief and helped imprison an innocent man.

Now I needed to get Janeway, no matter what.

Chapter 32

I woke up as I always did: at 7:35a.m. precisely, at which time I got out of bed, opened up my padd, and went through my notes, flowcharts, and plans for my next step. I replicated a coffee and drank it as I looked at the list of Voyager crewmembers and what I knew about them. I then sat at my LCARS terminal to look up as much information as I could about the General Prosecutor while my coffee got cold.

It had been three years since I had learned of the betrayal of Tuvix, and I was finally closer than ever. I could make this work.

This was usually the point when Lauren woke up. I hadn’t always woken up before her, but in the last few weeks she’d been sleeping in--not getting up until after I’d left for work.

It took a few days to make my plan, and even when I had it, I did not strike immediately. The first month was spent with many meetings and lunches with my new boss, Erit P’Tuhn, an Andorian who was surprisingly gregarious and friendly for his position. Erit, as he preferred to be called in private meetings, was in charge of overseeing the criminal indictments and prosecutions of thousands of war criminals from the Romulan Neutral Zone, but he enjoyed a lunch of fish and chips and an Earth ale while casually talking about Parisses Squares and Earth football, his two favorite sports.

He was beloved, so his high rank was no surprise, and these lunches were often accompanied by friends who were themselves high ranking officials in other arms of Starfleet or the Federation. I was suddenly having casual conversations every day with fleet admirals and prime ministers, after a solid year of being despised by these people.

All of that was forgotten in the blink of an eye.

Well, they had forgotten. I had not. And I did not see them as friends, or even potential allies. I was now on a three-dimensional chess board and they were pieces to be moved. I had lost badly against Lena, and I had learned from that loss. Now it was time to win.

I waited over a month until I felt it was time. I’d laughed at Erit’s unfunny jokes, I politely inquired about colleagues’ families whom I cared nothing about, I told dignitaries it was an honor to meet them, even if these same people had publicly denounced me as a criminal just months ago. I did it all, so I could see justice served.

When I felt like Erit trusted me and saw me as a loyal subordinate who would do anything for him and never, ever, question the party line, I finally took my chance.

It was around 2pm, Erit had had a couple of beers and a particularly heavy deep fried lunch, resulting in a somewhat tipsy and lethargic Andorian that, I thought, would be most receptive to my request.

“Sir, may I have a moment?” I said as I popped my head through his open doorway.

“Of course, Jay!” he said warmly. The nickname had never been requested, but he’d given it nonetheless. “What can I do for you?”

“It is something of a personal professional matter,” I said awkwardly as I eased myself into one of the antique chairs he kept in his office. I still admired the view of the Golden Gate Bridge from his office; it was a symbol of his status and power, and with that view everyday it was no surprise he’d become such a lover of human culture.

“There is a case that I stumbled upon a few weeks ago,” I said, “a rather curious one. How familiar are you with the story of the Voyager crew?”

“As familiar as anyone,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “Why?”

“Have you heard of Tuvix?”

He pondered for a moment. “Name sounds vaguely Vulcan, but, no.”

“You’re not far off--he was half Vulcan.” I quickly described the transporter accident in as dispassionate and calm of a manner possible. In my description I did not implicate Janeway as a possible murderer, nor did I even hint that she was the subject of my proposed investigation.

I was not a naive ensign anymore.

“It seems to me,” I said after laying out the facts of the case, “that this situation was handled well within Starfleet protocols, except for the fact that any anomalous event on a starship that results in the loss of life requires a debriefing of the senior staff.”

“All of Voyager was debriefed when they got back,” Erit replied. “Weren’t they?”

“They were, sir, have a look at this,” I handed over a padd. “Here is an outline of the events which were a part of the two-week debriefing of the senior staff upon their arrival. You’ll note a few instances were not included, such as the Tuvix one.”

“That is interesting,” Erit agreed. It was the first hint of a sympathetic ear to my argument I’d had in nearly two years, and I tried my best to stifle my joy. Hope--I felt that for the first time in too long.

“The Tuvix instance is a particularly odd one,” I continued after a pause; clearly Erit hadn’t taken the hint. “Two crewmen were combined in a transporter accident.”

Erit laughed. “I never did like transporters!”

Transporterphobia always struck me as an absurd indulgence of the lazy and regressive; no surprise Erit was transporterphobic. “Well, in this case it created an entirely new sentient being, unique and unlike any ever made in the universe before.”

“And what happened to him?” he asked.

“Well, that’s the interesting thing,” I replied. “He wanted to stay on Voyager, but…”

“But what?” Erit demanded, right on time.

“He disappears from the record,” I said. “Weird, isn’t it?”

“Now that is weird. Well, all of the people on Voyager were outstanding people--”

“All?” I asked. “Part of the crew was Maquis after all.”

“That is true,” Erit said. Like many elder statesmen of Starfleet, he had not forgotten the Maquis and, even if that sad chapter of history was over, many of Erit’s generation and status still held a grudge. “And this wasn’t investigated?”

“No sir,” I continued. “But, if I may be frank, I think it is worth looking into.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Erit said, making a note on his padd. “I’ll get someone on this immediately.”

Not me, though. I couldn’t interject into the process quite yet, but no matter.

Finally, finally, things had started.

Chapter 33

I waited two weeks. That’s fair, isn’t it?

Erit was a fat lazy fool, the kind of man who thrived in a world where work was optional. And his love of hobnobbing, with entertaining, with greasing palms and playing tennis with buddies--it all meant he was great in good times. And worthless in bad times.

And this was a very bad time. Rot in the Federation, a homicidal admiral decorated and beloved, an entire generation unaware of their worship of a monster, a mafia carefully protecting a woman with immense power and influence?

These were dark days--darker than the worst times of the Changelings’ infiltration of Earth, when paradise was truly lost. This was a time of great reckoning, where we needed to realize our own faults and make merit for our past transgressions.

It was not a time for men like Erit.

And think of how maddening for me! Me, a man who had spent nearly three years fighting against the tide so that the memory of a man could finally be honored. Me, a man who had risked his life and his freedom for millions, billions of Romulans who hated him. Me, a man who became a slur on the lips of the most powerful people in the Federation, all because I did what was right and not what was easy.

And here I was, hostage to Erit’s whims, his holodeck schedule, his three-cocktail “braintrust” sessions with blowhards, which had neither brains nor much trust.

If this in itself was not an indictment of Janeway, what was? The corrupt powers of the Federation had empowered men like Erit and forced decent, justice-loving people like me to delicately help them preen, like an Egyptian plover cleaning between the teeth of a crocodile sitting in the afternoon sun.

After two weeks of patient waiting, I had not yet decided whether I was intentionally being stonewalled by a man who feared disrupting the peace with an inquiry into Voyager or Erit simply had forgotten the whole thing after an afternoon bender or a sex party with some Federation judge.

So I called Sielox.

“Hello, Jason,” she said guardedly. She was obviously not happy to see me.

I didn’t care. “Listen, Sielox, you owe me and you owe me big. I don’t know if you played me with Lena or not, and it doesn’t matter anymore--the harm was done. And now I’m going to collect.”

“Collect how?”

“You need to get me the address of this family.” I sent all of the details I had on file.

“Last known location--Ktaris?” she said incredulously. “You want me to get personal information about a Ktarian citizen? Do you have any idea how difficult that is?”

“Difficult, yes, illegal, no,” I said. “You’re a journalist and you like traveling to other worlds. This sounds like a great assignment.”

She sighed. She knew she owed me. “Okay, I’ll try,” she said, clear resignation in her voice.

That was not good enough.

“Don’t remember, Sielox, I know you brought Lena to me, and I have the records to prove it.”

Then I went for the jugular. No I don’t regret it; I had to do it. For Tuvix.

“If you don’t really try to get this address, and I mean really, really try, I’ll see to it that you’re arrested for conspiring with a drug smuggler.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits; it was her turn to feel fury. “How dare you!”

“I am doing what is right,” I insisted. “No, you don’t know everything and I can’t tell you everything.” How could I trust her not to compromise my investigation? I couldn’t explain about Tuvix--sure, if I did, she’d understand the need to get the Wildmans, she’d be on my side fully, she’d help me as much as she could. Because it was the right thing to do. But I couldn’t tell her in case it compromised the case. Things were too sensitive now, too precarious.

“I’ll report back soon,” she said.

Chapter 34

A full month had gone by and Erit still clearly had no interest in pursuing justice, lazy git that he was. Fine--let him pickle himself in martinis in his office with the beautiful view while I fixed the goddamn Federation.

Sielox’s message came in the morning just after I’d gulped down my second cup of replicated double espresso. It was pre-recorded--she clearly didn’t want to talk to me. That was fine.

“I’ve found them,” she said. “The coordinates are attached. They live south of the Arpasian Range, just outside of the farming town of Lower Kerrik. Godspeed, and don’t contact me again. We’re even.”

I immediately beamed to the Americas transport station, booked a flight to Ktaris. There was a flight that day with an open seat, much to my dismay. It was a pretty short trip; I’d be back soon enough, no one would have time to miss me.

Chapter 35

An aquamarine farmhouse, approximately 12 meters by 20 meters, at the base of a massive snow-capped mountain that gave a sublime and stark contrast to the house’s humble, traditional human architecture. It was connected to 5 hectares of moba crops, apparently imported from Bajor. Around those crops was a light forest of massive trees, the size of redwoods, spread apart; blue and red flowers carpeted the ground between them.

I had taken a traditional klecknat, a kind of crudely motorized groundbound vehicle that was reminiscent of the motor vehicles of the late 21st century; they were commonly still used on Ktaris, a planet that concentrated on agriculture, tourism, and nature. It was rare in the Federation as a world with no industrial manufacturing at all; no computers, ships, or engines were made here. Replicators were rare, with the majority engaging in a kind of old-world early-stage capitalism in which farmers met at local markets to trade wares.

Of course, much of this was theatre; Ktaris was a very advanced civilization and part of the post-scarcity Federation economy, with the credits and rights to space travel, land, food, healthcare, and so on therein. Many Ktarians went to Starfleet, as it was the most science-focused institution in the Federation, and such pursuits were not available on Ktaris.

Many saw Ktaris as an idyllic paradise, a more innocent and chaste Risa.

And colder.

While the southern hemisphere was not so chilly, Lower Kerrik was in an area with a climate similar to upstate New York. I had spent little time in such climes, and was not fond of them. My jacket protected me from the cold, but it still was a bit of a shock.

As it was still early morning here, I decided to take a walk to Lower Kerrik, both to get my blood circulating and to think through how I would approach the Wildmans. This required delicacy and care.

It was a little over a kilometer on a winding road to town, fortunately only slightly downhill, so the trip back would not be too exhausting. The cold air urged me to a brisk pace, though I’d never been a slow walker. The speed kickstarted my mind, and I thought through every word I would use with the Wildmans, careful not to frighten or upset them.

Lower Kerrik looked like a traditional Ktarian village, with curved roofs made of black needles stitched together over local adobe, which on this planet tended to be slate or grey. In Kerrik it was slate, but green timbers framing the house gave it some color, while abundant grass between buildings and over the surrounding meadows made the village more virescent, save for pale yellow flowers dotting the fields.

As I approached the town I felt I was too early; no one was here or, if they were, they were still asleep. The only sign of life I saw was from a building to my left, this built of white stone that had gone grey over the years from the elements. Dull, dirty white smoke came out of the chimney, but it seemed to come out too slow, as if defying the laws of physics. Or so was my human perception; perhaps the wood here burned differently.

The house’s front door was ajar, and I heard fumbling inside. I was compelled to knock, but I don’t know why. A man yelled for me to come, and I opened the door just enough to let me in.

Inside oil lamps lit up the dark room; three small windows on two sides were not enough to fully illuminate the place. An old man was hunched over a pile of quartered wooden logs, the light yellow fibers looking eerily familiar. The man wore a heavy dark blue sweater and had a full head of white hair. I could not see his face at first, but in profile as he hunched over I could see the Ktarian ridges.

“Sir, forgive me, I saw the smoke and thought to say hello,” I said.

“No problem at all, none at all,” he said, his voice broken and cracking, yet strong and confident. He didn’t bother to look at me, still throwing wood into his hearth. To the side of the hearth was a collection of tools, including some very large hammers, a large anvil and a bucket.

“Please, fill that bucket, if you could,” he said, nodding towards a large trough of water at the back of the room.

I walked to the back of the room, the creaking of the floor panels muffled by layers of thick wool rugs, and saw a small bucket with a rope handle at its top inside the trough.

And so I began pulling water, pouring it into one bucket so that I could pour it into another. Several rounds of this in silence as the man continued to throw wood into the fire.

Finally, my arms sore from the labor, the large bucket was full. I walked back towards the front of the room, closer to the front door, feeling somehow out of place at the back of the shop. I sat down on a bench near the front--a bench made of iron covered in layers of wool blankets. It still felt hard, causing me to shift in place.

The man threw two thick slabs of wood into the fire, causing a loud pop as the fire met with a pocket of sap. “There,” he said, pleased, as the orange flames licked the wood.

My face was hot with the fire, but I did not turn away. I looked at the man as he stood up completely and, still without looking at me, turned to another corner of the room. “Tea?” he asked, as if he knew me, as if this was routine.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

The old man lifted an iron kettle that had Ktarian symbols etched into its sides. I assumed he had made this kettle himself, but long ago; it was fully black with notable scorch marks where the fire had been too hot in places, the wooden handle worn and scorched too.

He poured tea into two small cups--I saw the water was already hot. The cups had thick ridges at the top and thinner ridges along the bottom.

He took one and handed it to me; it had no handle, and the hot cup burned my hand at first. As I held it carefully near the lip of the cup my hands cooled, then warmed again from the radiant heat of the tea.

He sat down opposite me at his workbench, sipping his tea. I sipped mine; it tasted of puh-er, a memory from childhood.

“You are human,” he said.

“Yes, sir. My name is Jason.” My rank seemed unimportant now. Starfleet seemed unimportant now.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, and did not offer his own name. I did not ask. “What brings you to Ktaris?”

I did not know how to reply. “I am here to meet a friend.”

“Good,” he said, nodding, closing his eyes. “It is good to see Ktarians make alien friends.” He drank more deeply of his tea, a feat I could not do. It was still too hot.

“I have met humans before,” he continued, “some friends of my grandson. He’s in Starfleet, you know.”

“So am I,” I said.

“Rekvis,” the blacksmith replied. “Commander Rekvis.”

“I must admit, I don’t know him.”

“Oh that’s alright,” he said with a chuckle. “Starfleet is a very big place, as my grandson has told me.”

Had he been human, the blacksmith would be in his mid-70s perhaps. A weathered, spotted face, his wrinkles looked like ridges of a tree.

“He visits me often, tells me stories of space. Many hard to imagine stories, it seems crazy things happen in Starfleet,” the blacksmith continued. “So many alien species out there, so many different voices. I can’t imagine keeping track of them all.”

“I don’t think anyone does.”

“Fortunately I cannot hear any of them in my smithy. Here there is just the work, and my friends in the village.”

“Your friends?”

“Everyone in the village is my friend,” he continued. “Some of us have known each other since we were children. I was born and raised here, and I shall die here. It is a blessed life to be from Kerrik. But I am proud of my grandson--very, very proud. Not many Ktarians have the nerve to leave the planet, let alone become a commander of Starfleet! And Rekvis has been all across the sector, even fighting against the Borg at Wolf 359. An explorer and a hero, not like his old grandfather. And yet he still comes to visit me whenever he can, and he always helps out with the shop. It’s important, you know, to honor your ancestors. It’s all we have, and without them we are nothing. My father was a blacksmith, as was his father; his father was a farmer, as were their fathers going back at least ten generations. All in Kerrik, all right here. But Rekvis always looked at the stars--he’d made a star map of the sector from eye observations alone by the age of 10. Just an incredible mind--a mind that my family has gifted the universe with.” He paused, smiled to himself. “They should thank me, you know.”

I smiled, nodded.

“Tell me, young Jason, what gifts did your father give you?”

I thought briefly. “When I was ten years old, my father gave me a programmable block set--it was made of a liquid metal alloy attached to a computer, so I could design plans and the alloy would turn into different shapes. At first I made simple things like bowls or cubes, but I played with that thing for years, eventually making houses and rocketships.” I smiled. “I loved that toy.”

“Your father must have loved you for giving it to you.”

“He definitely did,” I replied. “He taught me a lot. When he first gave it to me I was so excited, I played with it for days on end. I remember when I opened the box at my birthday party I was so proud of it, I immediately went to show it off to my cousin. And my father immediately chastised me. He took me aside, leaned over so we were looking eye to eye, and he said, ‘Jason, never feel proud of what you own, because nothing that can be owned has any true value.’”

The blacksmith chuckled again, looking down at the leaves in his tea. “Your father sounds like a wise man.”

“Yes, sir, he is.”

“So what did he say has true value?”

I thought for a long moment, staring into the tea as if it could help kickstart my memory.

“I don’t remember.”

Suddenly the fire felt too hot on my right cheek, and I covered my face with my hand. The light of the fire was too bright. I’d only had half of my tea and worried it might be rude to not finish it, so I said, “sir, I must thank you for the tea, but I feel I’m getting in the way of your work.”

“Work gets in the way of people, not the other way around. Stay a while longer.”

And I obliged him, slowly sipping my still hot tea.